The dwarven king spread his arms and cried out warmly, “Hahaha! Come up, guests from afar! You could not have arrived at a better time!”
A small wicket gate, sized for dwarves and scarcely waist-high, opened in the walls of Evindeldan, and the elves stooped low to pass through.
Assisted by magical power, the pegasi and unicorns trod upon the sky, circling a few times before alighting atop the wall towers.
Before long, Rhea led the elves onto the ramparts of Evindeldan.
The dwarven king came forward to greet them, extending a rough, broad hand still stained with traces of blood, seemingly intending to offer a handshake of friendship.
“I am Ed Klein, Lord of the Mountain Kingdom. Give my regards to your queen.”
The half-elf hesitated for a moment and did not take his hand, merely inclining slightly with downcast eyes.
“Greetings, King Ed. I am Rhea Nero, general of the Silvermoon Followers, personally appointed by Her Majesty Iserin to lead this relief effort.”
Behind her, the tall, finely featured moon elves bowed in unison, greeting the high ruler of the shield dwarves.
“Ah, very well.”
Ed withdrew his hand with a touch of embarrassment. Rubbing his palms together, he mimicked the elves' gesture and nodded in greeting.
Aside from having the orcs as a common enemy, dwarves and elves rarely got along and found it hard to see eye to eye.
The dwarves considered the elves arrogant, self-important, and full of airs; the elves, on the other hand, viewed the dwarves as coarse, stubborn, and boorish. The two races had clashed several times throughout history, though none of those disputes had ever escalated into outright war.
Yet now, with Evindeldan facing an unprecedented orc invasion, such petty grievances were no longer of any consequence.
The dwarven king gave a hearty laugh. “Hahaha! So you are the renowned Twilight Blade!
“I've heard of you. You slew a red dragon alone in the Northlands, defeated a spawn of Bhaal, and banished an archdevil back to the Nine Hells when it descended upon the mortal realm.
“For a half-elf to earn the respect of those proud elves says everything about your strength.”
Rhea looked at the dwarf before her. Her silver eyes were like still water, and her voice remained cool and collected.
“Thank you for the praise, King Ed. My past deeds pale in comparison before the Lord of the Mountain and high ruler of the shield dwarves.
“Now, I am merely a guard captain loyal to the queen. Her Majesty Catherine's will is my guiding light.”
Under normal circumstances, the dwarven king would likely have grumbled under his breath: *Typical of someone with long-ear blood—still arrogant, rude, and full of airs.*
At this moment, however, Ed suppressed the urge to speak and silently wiped the bloodstains from his hands.
The half-elf looked up at the colossal gold dragon perched atop the wall tower and asked softly, “King Ed, who might this be...?”
“This is Lord Titus, a friend of the Mountain Kingdom.
“As you can see, he is a powerful and ancient gold dragon. It was he who drove back the orcs at the critical hour and saved Evindeldan.
“Not only that, Lord Titus is also a master spellcaster. Just moments ago, he foretold your arrival.”
Ed spoke with immense warmth, clearly holding Lord Titus in the highest esteem—after all, to him, this dragon was the savior who had just rescued Evindeldan.
Rhea looked up fearlessly, meeting the gold dragon's gaze, and declared in a clear voice, “Lord Titus, it is an honor to fight alongside you.
“With the help of a powerful ancient gold dragon like yourself, this war should prove far easier.”
Hearing her words, the gold dragon lowered his head and studied the half-elf below. His pale gold pupils gleamed, and the whisker-like barbels around his jaws drifted on the breeze.
He murmured softly, “A half-elf who managed to become a Chosen... How intriguing.”
Rhea's eyes narrowed slightly, her brow furrowing. She felt that the gold dragon's look was not that of a stranger meeting her for the first time, but of someone who knew her intimately.
*So this is a divination wizard...*
As Iserin's most loyal and formidable follower, the half-elf harbored many secrets, and she despised the sensation of being seen through.
Rhea could never have guessed that the gold dragon before her was the very wyrmling she had spared more than a decade ago, nor that he was the Cinder Emperor of Anzeta.
To cross paths again after all these years in such a manner carried a strange, dramatic irony.
For reasons she could not grasp, a biting chill brushed across her face, only to vanish an instant later, as if it had never been there at all.
*Was it an illusion?*
Rhea rested her hand on the silver sword at her waist, her gaze darkening thoughtfully.
Meanwhile, Cassius—disguised as Titus—wiped at his scales and stroked his barbels with a claw, musing to himself.
*Heh... now is not the time.
*Once Rhea helps Iserin reclaim Therenia, I will tear off this mask and make my move against her. Only then can I reap the greatest reward.*
He buried the fleeting urge for vengeance deep within, continuing to maintain the elegant, haughty bearing of a gold dragon.
Cassius twirled his barbels, offering a meaningful smile. “It is my pleasure to fight alongside someone of your caliber, Lady Rhea.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
The outspoken and simple-minded Ed noticed nothing amiss. He laughed heartily, resting his warhammer across his shoulder.
“Thousands of years ago, the ancestors of the Mountain Kingdom and Therenia forged a sacred alliance just like this. And today, we gather in Evindeldan to face our foes together!
“With your aid, I have no reason to fear the orc invasion!”
The dwarven king summoned his guards, ordering them to bring up several casks of their strongest ale. Presenting them before his allies, he raised his cup and drained it in a single gulp.
“For justice!”
The elves cared little for the dwarves' fiery liquor, preferring light, elegant fruit wines. Yet out of respect for the dwarven king, they reluctantly raised their cups.
Rhea offered no objections. The half-elf paladin stepped forward and raised her cup without hesitation.
Even the gold dragon received a brim-full cask. He pinched the handles between his talons, lifting it with deliberate care.
“For justice!”
Wooden cups rose high, clinking together as alcohol splashed over the rims, and the cheers of dwarves and elves echoed through the air.
Thus, the dwarves, elves, and the gold dragon sealed their alliance, uniting to protect justice and order against the orc horde descending from the north.
Yet none could have imagined that nestled within this "sacred alliance" was a red dragon cloaked in gold scales—the monster known to the people of Feanso as the Tyrant of Anzeta.
With war looming close at hand, Ed downed his strong drink and summoned Bjorn to plan their strategy alongside the reinforcements from Therenia.
***
Meanwhile, in the leather command tents north of Evindeldan, the chieftains of the various orc clans were locked in a ferocious dispute.
Covered in grim tattoos of worgs, vultures, and lions, the orcs glared at one another, spitting curses, on the verge of coming to blows.
“Gattuso, are you truly that terrified of a gold-skinned reptile?
“I say we shoot it out of the sky and offer its severed head as a blood sacrifice to the All-Father! Mighty orc warriors fear no enemy!”
“Bullshit! That is a damned gold dragon! Throwing ordinary clan warriors against it is nothing short of suicide!”
“Hmph! A coward deserves to have his chest pierced by a blood spear! A true follower of Gruumsh does not cower like you! It seems all the orcs of your Jackdaw Clan are spineless cowards!”
“True bravery is proven in enemy blood, not blabbered in a tent! Come, then—I challenge you to a sacred duel! Let us settle this on the field!
“Let's see whether your spear pierces my chest first, or my scimitar takes your head!”
Two massive orcs lunged to their feet, eyes blazing with fury and unvarnished murderous intent.
Before Batu Skullsplitter unified the Ugo Steppe, hundreds of tribes had waged endless wars against one another. Many harbored blood feuds that could never be erased, maintaining only a fragile peace—and the Jackdaw Clan and Black Wolf Tribe were prime examples.
Fifty years ago, the Jackdaws had raided the Black Wolf settlement, killed their chieftain, and dragged off more than a hundred captives into slavery. Twenty years later, the Black Wolves ambushed a Jackdaw hunting party and carved drinking bowls from every last one of their skulls.
Such cycles of revenge, slaughter, and conquest were everyday occurrences among the clans of the Ugo Steppe.
The Red Fang Tribe's own rivals had been wiped out by Batu long ago; their adult males were slaughtered, and the women and children were enslaved, denied even the dignity of being assimilated.
The "Great Orc Realm" Batu had founded was less a true nation than a sprawling conglomerate of clans bound together by the religious authority of the All-Father, Gruumsh.
*Smack!*
With a sharp crack, the table inside the tent shattered to pieces under a heavy palm.
“Enough!”
Seated at the highest dais, Batu Skullsplitter looked grim, his lone remaining eye burning with rage, a growl of deep fury rumbling in his throat.
“I brought you together under the orders of our great All-Father, not to watch you squabble like dogs!”
The chaotic tent instantly fell silent. The orc chieftains, who had just been screaming at the tops of their lungs, shut their mouths at once.
Batu glared menacingly around the room. Only after seeing the chieftains thoroughly cowed did he lift his bloodstained battleaxe from the dirt.
“Gattuso, Quett, you need not worry about that gold-skinned reptile. I will deal with him myself!”
A bloody light swirled in the orc chieftain's lone eye. A sinister grin split his rough, ugly, yellow-green face, his tongue licking over the tusks protruding from his lips.
*Hah. If it were the Silver Wings of Melvold—the one blessed by Bahamut—I might be wary.*
Batu ran a finger along the axe's razor edge, letting beads of dark blood well up on his palm. “But a mere gold dragon crawling out of nowhere... and he thinks he can halt the march of orc conquest? What a joke!”
In truth, the annihilation of the vanguard had gone according to Batu's plans; it had merely collapsed faster than he had anticipated.
Even Monk's heroic sacrifice fell within his expectations. In Batu's eyes, Monk was meant to give everything for the All-Father and the clan.
Moreover, Monk had been his younger brother—ambitious, driven, a warrior who had once gouged out his own left eye without uttering a sound. His demise was hardly a bad thing for Batu Skullsplitter, who had only recently consolidated his rule as grand chieftain.
The Mountain Kingdom possessed thousands of years of heritage and deep foundations. The vanguard had served only to probe their strength and deplete the dwarves' traps and fortifications; the true assault was yet to come.
When the time came, he would lead the main host in person, conquer Evindeldan, and become the greatest orc hero in a thousand years, basking in the All-Father's favor.
Just then, an elderly shaman shuffled forward. “Lord Batu, there is news... not entirely favorable for our people.”
Batu raised an eyebrow. “What news?”
The old shaman drew a polished skull talisman from his robes, holding it aloft with trembling hands.
Upon the smooth surface of the skull, a blurry image slowly materialized.
First came the battered walls of Evindeldan, followed by ranks of sharp-eared elves, along with numerous pegasi and unicorns.
The orc chieftain's expression darkened. “What is this...?”
The old shaman sighed, his voice raspy and dry like wind rustling through withered grass.
“My lord, as you can see, the elves of Therenia sent reinforcements after all. Among them is a formidable legendary figure... the half-elf known as the Twilight Blade.”
Batu ground his teeth in fury. “Damn it! Didn't the Council of Elders tear up that treaty long ago? Why are elven reinforcements here?!”
The old shaman shook his head, his tone sullen. “I do not know, Lord Batu.
“Yet one thing is certain—we must take Evindeldan within seven days. That is an absolute command from the All-Father.
“Otherwise, once the crimson mist clears and the hosts of Mount Celestia descend, not even the All-Father will be able to stop the gods of the Morndinsamman from bestowing their might upon the dwarves. When that happens, we will...”
“Nasu, I know,” Batu said, his lone eye narrowing with vicious resolve.
“I will not fail the All-Father's expectations. I will lead the horde to conquer Evindeldan within seven days—whatever the cost.”
***
In the sky above, the giant eagles and vultures tamed by the orcs circled like a swarm of black specks, screeching harshly.
“Praise be to the All-Father, Gruumsh...”
“He struck the earth with his spear, carving out caves, blighted clearings, and barren wastes for his children to dwell...”
“We shall fashion cups from our enemies' skulls, drink their blood as wine, and wear their skins as raiment, offering all to your glory...”
The orc shamans raised their bone staves, chanting the ancient rites passed down since antiquity in long, resonant cries.
In the valley, orcs piled the butchered remains of dwarves into altars, fashioning bone fetishes and drinking their enemies' fresh blood.
Darkness fell across the sky as a crimson mist billowed from the totems constructed of dwarven skulls, rolling across the valley.
The bloody vapor surged rapidly to the north. Every creature that caught its scent—worgs, manticoras, owlbears, and hyenas alike—became rabid with madness.
Driven to frenzy, these beasts gathered in throngs and charged south, wielded as living siege engines for the orc horde.
Even the orcs enveloped within the haze grew glassy-eyed, brandishing their weapons and roaring, “Blood sacrifice for the All-Father!”
In the distant gloom, a colossal one-eyed rune ignited, glowing with bloody luminescence like a living eye glaring greedily toward Evindeldan.
Across the earth, fanatical orcs screamed the name of the All-Father, driving the ferocious beasts forward like a relentless tide, sweeping across the land toward Evindeldan.
Chapter 575