Evindeldan

Port Victoria, Lower City, Wilson District. The street bustled with pedestrians. Fishmongers hawked their catch, devotees of the Sea Queen chanted prayers, bare-chested dockers hauled cargo, and gang members gathered in roving packs... Blending among them were the players, whom the locals of Port Victoria called "Immortals"—and surprisingly, they did not look out of place at all. "Spawning in Victoria is so brutal. The Upper City won't even let players inside, and the factions down here in the Lower City are a complete mess of scum and villainy." "If I'd known, I would've chosen the Cinder Empire. They jumped straight into a demon war right after spawn, and some guys have already grinded to level six." "Tell me about it. Last time, I finished a quest without a hitch, and that damn gang turned around and silenced me anyway! Tied a rock to my corpse and chucked me to the bottom of the sea. Zero ethics." "Dog eat dog, man. Why do you think people call this Elezerg's 'Sin City'? That gritty chaos is the whole point." "Haha, my buddy already climbed his way up to bishop in some underground cult. If I can't make it out here, I'm just gonna go crash at his place." "Wait, is he the guy who founded that 'Cult of the Undying'? The one claiming anyone who follows him can become an Immortal?" "Damn, people actually fell for that bullshit?" Several players chatted as they walked, heading toward a tall tower that stood starkly out of place among the surrounding dilapidated buildings—their destination, the Tower of the Coast. "Out of all the factions in Port Victoria, the Tower of the Coast gives the best rewards." "Yeah, and everyone says that mysterious NPC has a crazy background. Word is he single-handedly wiped out both the Black Hand Gang and the Blood Sea Cult." "We gotta farm his favor while we have the chance. Who knows, maybe we can join the Tower of the Coast." Outside the tower, players gathered in noisy crowds, trading rumors while obediently clearing the main thoroughfare as the servants requested, waiting outside to turn in their quests. A servant opened the front doors and called out, "Next." "Me first, I was here first!" A burly player elbowed his way through the crowd and burst into the tower. Facing the mysterious, gray-robed NPC with an enigmatic half-smile, the player delivered a crisp ninety-degree bow. "Lord Hermit, we've uncovered some clues regarding the Cult of the God of Dominion. Please take a look!" He pulled a dripping, foul-smelling parcel from his inventory bag and presented it with both hands. Inside was the head of Joel Nathan, the tavern owner who had vanished days earlier. Having soaked in moisture for so long, it was already rotting and crawling with maggots. Yet the player treated it like a prized treasure, having decapitated the corpse just to offer the head as proof of completion. *Classic players...* Cassius, disguised as the Hermit, sighed inwardly, though his face remained an unreadable mask as he accepted the head. "Well done, Immortal. You have completed my task, and you deserve a reward." *Clink.* With an offhand flick of the Hermit's fingers, several gold coins appeared on the wooden table before the player. Looking at the gleaming gold and the prompts flashing across his interface—*Favorability +5*, *EXP +500*—the player's eyes lit up. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, wailing theatrically, "Thank you, Lord Hermit! You're like a father to me! I've been an orphan since childhood, uncared for and drifting through Port Victoria, but your Tower of the Coast has shown me the warmth of home..." "Shoo, shoo! Don't waste his time!" In the face of the player's passionate, heart-wrenching sob story, a maid holding a broom chased him out without the slightest hesitation. Over the past few days, she had seen far too many Immortals trying to worm their way into the Tower of the Coast. Making up tragic stories was tame; some of them put on full-blown stage plays. "Next." Another player pushed through the doors. Flashing a fawning grin, he scurried up to the Hermit and offered a burlap sack. "Lord Hermit, after going through untold hardships, I finally found Joel Nathan's hand!" The player opened the sack, revealing a bloody, rotting severed hand. Staring at this so-called "clue," Cassius's mouth twitched. He thought to himself, *Are you serious? You guys chopped Joel Nathan into pieces so you could turn them in one by one for separate rewards? You trying to exploit bugs on me?* The Hermit's face darkened. He fixed his gaze on the player and spoke in a low, heavy voice: "Your companion has already turned in this quest. "Immortal, do not try your cheap tricks on me." "Yes, yes, my lord!" The player apologized profusely, looking close to tears as he silently cursed his teammate for screwing him over. *Heh...* *My arrangements in Port Victoria are nearly complete.* Watching the steady stream of players at the entrance of the Tower of the Coast, the corners of Cassius's mouth curled slightly upward. As the fame of *Elezerg* grew, players had spread across the entire continent of Feanso. By a conservative estimate, their numbers had already surpassed ten million. Those few players just now had even been famous professional competitors in his past life, known together as the "Gag Squad." In his previous life, that squad had stirred up chaos all over Feanso, stopping at nothing. The incident where a sacred relic venerated by the Church of Amaunator was disjoined, bringing down divine wrath, had been the work of that squad's wizard. Cassius planned to use Port Victoria as a foothold, establishing a new organization through these Immortals to gradually build an intelligence network to counter the mind flayers' schemes. The Chosen of the Dead Three had stolen the Crown of Karsus from the Hells and split the three Netherstones among themselves, using their power to control a mind flayer elder brain. They sought to combine the power of Netherese magic with the elder brain, naming the abomination the "God of Dominion" in an attempt to reach the pinnacle of the world. Yet the mind flayers were not merely pawns. They intended to exploit the Crown of Karsus in return, searching for an opportunity to break free and restore the ancient glory of the illithid empire. Meanwhile, the Goddess of Magic, the God of Justice, the Sun God, and even the Archdevils of the Hells had all intervened with their own power, seeking to reap benefits from the turmoil. Amid such an intricate, volatile web of forces, revealing his true form would be sheer folly. What the Hermit—or rather, Cassius—needed to do was use the players to disrupt their plans, stir the waters into chaos, and fish for gain, snatching the Crown of Karsus at the final moment. By his calculations, when that time came, the Cinder Empire would have also completed its conquest of the Kingdom of Thrace. He could then push westward under the banner of "resisting the mind flayer invasion" and seize Port Victoria. *The Crown of Karsus, Port Victoria, the legacy of the illithid empire... I want it all.* With that thought, the Hermit gripped the bronze staff in his hand, a faint gleam of avarice surfacing within his pale green eyes. *** In the northeastern reaches of the continent of Feanso stood Blackrock Mountain. This mountain range at the edge of the world stretched for thousands of li, resembling a slumbering colossus from ancient myth. It was the heart of the Mountain Kingdom and the ancestral home of the dwarves. The mountains were forged from countless slabs of hard black stone, beneath which lay untold veins of precious ore—hence the name "Blackrock Mountain." Amid biting gales and howling blizzards, a magnificent fortress loomed deep within the winding peaks. It was the capital of the Mountain Kingdom, the greatest stronghold of the northern shield dwarves—Evindeldan, meaning "The City That Never Falls." Its outer walls were built from weathered megaliths, rugged and enduring. Moss crept through the stone crevices, and the passage of ages had left its mark on every single block. The fortress gates were forged of iron-hard oak and tempered steel, their massive twin leaves emblazoned with the dwarven royal crest—a shield crossed with a warhammer. Flanking the gates, heroic tales of dwarven ancestors were carved into the cliff faces, and the door knockers were shaped like two massive iron fists clenched tight. At the peak of the fortress stood a statue of Moradin nearly a hundred meters tall. The dwarven deity was sculpted so lifelike that he seemed to gaze down upon every traveler who approached. The interior of the stronghold was a labyrinthine warren built with the bold, rugged aesthetic of dwarven craftsmanship. Stone corridors linked countless chambers, while high torches blazed bright, casting warm light across the flagstones. The bustling figures of dwarves came alive in the firelight, and the crisp, rhythmic ringing of hammers echoed without pause. Up on the tower atop the fortress, a dwarf in a heavy fur coat and a mithral crown looked down at his subjects passing below, his expression grim. His name was Ed Klein, ruler of Evindeldan and King of the Mountain Kingdom, revered by dwarves across the realm as "King Ed." Behind him, an elderly dwarf let out a heavy sigh. "Your Majesty, the messengers sent across the land have all returned. The three kingdoms are locked in endless strife; they have no time to care whether we live or die. "And the elders of Therenia treat the sacred covenant made thousands of years ago as nothing more than a joke. Gruumsh's foul brood is poised to sweep down once more, and we..." His name was Bjorn Reilly. Over three hundred years old, he was a veteran minister of the Mountain Kingdom. Ed's face darkened with rage. His voice boomed like thunder, his thick beard bristled, and the hand gripping his steel warhammer trembled. "Those arrogant, rotting elves dare do this?! Have they no fear of divine punishment?! "If we dwarves hadn't held the north with our own flesh and blood to turn back the orcs' repeated southward invasions, would they be enjoying their peaceful days today?!" Bjorn stepped forward and offered a letter written in elegant handwriting. "Your Majesty, though the elders of Therenia refuse to send aid, their Queen is willing to dispatch troops. She only asks that we wait..." "The Elven Queen?" The dwarven king snorted with disdain. "What good is a letter written in her own hand? She is nothing more than a puppet propped up by their elder council." Bjorn reminded him in a low voice, "Your Majesty, the Twilight Blade, who slew a red dragon single-handedly, is a staunch supporter of the Queen. She is a formidable legendary paladin. "If we can win her over, she would be a tremendous asset to us." Only then did Ed's anger subside slightly, and he nodded. "Fair enough. Send a reply to that caged canary of a queen, saying we require the Twilight Blade's aid. "Still, even a legendary paladin is just one person. She cannot alter the greater tide of war. "What's more... the orc host is nearly here. Before half a day has passed, they will be at our gates." Ed looked north. Across the desolate plateau, speckled dark torrents were already coming into view—the orc legions. Over the millennia, Evindeldan had weathered more than a dozen orc invasions, yet it had never once fallen, only painting its walls red with enemy blood time and time again. Now, however, the continent of Feanso was plunged into chaos. For the first time, the Mountain Kingdom fought alone, devoid of aid from human or elven allies. King Ed tightened his grip on his steel hammer, his voice resolute and ringing: "Since things have come to this... we can rely only on ourselves. "Bjorn, muster our warriors. Have them assemble at the foot of the mountain." "Yes, Your Majesty." Moments later, the dwarven king took his place atop the towering battlements of Evindeldan. At the foot of the mountain, beneath the solemn gaze of Moradin's statue, dwarf warriors clad in heavy plate and armed with warhammers stood packed in tight formation. Many of them were mounted on sturdy rams. This was the elite force of the Mountain Kingdom—the Shieldguard. The dwarves of this host wore impenetrable armor forged by the hands of master dwarven smiths, gleaming brightly beneath the cold sky. They hefted heavy, masterwork warhammers. Nearly every soldier was a battle-hardened classed individual, a loyal follower of King Ed, and a devout worshipper of Moradin. The dwarven king looked down at the army before him. After a long moment of composure, his voice boomed across the valley: "My people! "For thousands of years, our Mountain Kingdom has repelled thirteen orc invasions, driving those vile followers of Gruumsh back to the barren north time and time again! "Now, as you all know, those bastards have returned! They wish to seize our stronghold, enslave our kin and brothers-in-arms, and make slaves of all dwarves! "Do you—consent to this?!" "No!" "Kill them all!" "Drive those gray-skinned mongrels back to the north!" The dwarf warriors thrust their warhammers into the air and raised their oak shields, a roar of collective fury erupting from the ranks. Ed's expression turned intensely solemn. His eyes swept over every rage-filled face. Leveling his warhammer toward the horizon, he spoke in a heavy, ringing voice: "Thousands of years ago, the great dwarven god Moradin fought alongside the elven deities to defeat Gruumsh. Therenia forged a sacred covenant with us, swearing to stand united against any invasion from the north. "Yet now, those haughty elves have betrayed our alliance! And the humans of Fadlan have long since descended into chaos! "We must prove to the world that the great Mountain Kingdom needs no help from them! Even fighting alone, we dwarves can drive these orc bastards back!" Ed's voice grew even more impassioned. He swung his warhammer overhead and shouted with everything he had: "My people, behind you stands Evindeldan! Behind you stand your kin and your friends! If you will not be slaves to orc bastards—drive them out!" "Drive them out!" "Crush the orc bastards!" The dwarven warriors roared in a fever pitch of zeal. Their voices shook the heavens and earth, rolling like crashing waves against the sheer cliffs, reverberating on and on. Meanwhile, just several kilometers away, the orc vanguard had arrived. The devotees of Gruumsh unleashed frenzied battle cries, casting their hungry, covetous eyes upon the great fortress nestled amid the crags.