Chapter 0. The Appearance of Vince
The northern mountains greeted the dwarves with cold and silence.
Deep snow crunched beneath heavy boots, while a piercing wind drove icy needles between the trees.
"How much farther, Derik?" one of the dwarves asked between heavy breaths. "And why are we searching for metal in a place like this?"
Derik, master of the White Hammer forge, didn't even turn around.
"Three hundred meters," he said calmly. "There should be an old mine ahead. If we're lucky, we'll find something rare."
I hope so…
Too long a journey. Too few guarantees.
Soon, a dark opening appeared between the trees.
"If we had more mages…" Gilson muttered. "They could've lifted us up here in a minute."
Bern, Derik's apprentice, stepped forward.
"No mages means no discussion."
No one argued. They were too exhausted.
"Set up camp," Derik ordered once they reached the mine.
Everyone moved to their usual positions.
Twelve dwarves — veteran smiths and warriors, a team proven by years together.
Dinner passed as it always did.
Jokes. Laughter. Light mockery.
They were family, bound by one dream — to forge a legend.
Work began at dawn.
Stone flew aside.
Metal vanished into the magical crystal [Inventory].
The clang of pickaxes, the scent of dust, muffled voices — everything was familiar.
Then one dwarf froze.
His pickaxe struck ice.
"Ice…? Here?" he muttered, crouching near the crack.
The ice began to crack.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then a human hand burst out of the fissure.
"Ghk—!"
The dwarf didn't even have time to scream — fingers closed around his throat.
Stone and ice began to melt as if exposed to unbearable heat.
The passage split open.
A man stepped out.
The dwarves instinctively staggered back.
White hair obscured part of his face.
From beneath the strands glowed crimson eyes.
His body was slim, almost fragile.
Yet he held the dwarf in the air with one hand. Effortlessly.
"Kh…" the stranger coughed, as if unused to speaking.
"You don't look like Grondal."
His voice was quiet — yet a vibration rippled through the tunnel.
Invisible pressure crashed down on the dwarves.
Their legs trembled.
The air grew heavy, like the moment before a storm.
The hand loosened.
The dwarf collapsed onto the stone floor.
The pressure vanished — as if it had never existed.
"You… bastard…" Gilson was the first to recover. Rage twisted his face as he grabbed his pickaxe and charged.
The stranger didn't even turn his head.
He raised a finger.
"Spark."
A violet flash flickered faster than the eye could follow.
Gilson fell forward.
A hole gaped in his chest.
"No!" Bern screamed, rushing to him.
The stranger raised his hand again.
"P-please!" Derik dropped to his knees. "Forgive us! Don't kill us!"
The hand lowered.
"Who are you?" the man asked calmly.
"We're… smiths. The White Hammer. From the capital of Dorian…"
"What year is it?"
"1132…"
The crimson eyes narrowed slightly.
"What is Dorian? This should be the Empire of Nimbus."
"The Empire…?" Derik looked up in confusion. "This is the Kingdom of Dorian. I've never heard of such an empire."
The man said nothing.
He turned toward the exit.
No one dared to stop him.
Just before disappearing into the darkness, he paused.
"Reverse."
Gilson's body twitched.
Time flowed backward.
The wound closed.
The blood vanished into the stone.
The dwarf gasped sharply and sat up, eyes wide.
"I… I'm alive?"
"For your leader's answers," the stranger said, "I decided to return your life."
"Praise Grondal…" someone whispered.
The man's expression twisted.
A pure, unrestrained killing intent poured from him.
The joy vanished from the dwarves' faces.
Without realizing it, they began to retreat.
Gilson collapsed to his knees, screaming in terror, unable to stop shaking.
"Do not offer prayers to a dead god," the man said coldly.
And vanished.
No trace.
No presence.
Only the dwarves remained in the tunnel,
trembling in silence.
End of Chapter 0