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Chapter 579: Sacred Alliance – King of the Dwarves
The King of the Dwarves threw his arms wide and laughed heartily. “Hahaha! Come on in, honored guests from afar—your timing couldn’t be better!”
A small, chicken-wing-high gate opened in the City Wall of Aivendeldan, allowing only Dwarves to pass through. The Elves, bending low, stepped through one by one.
Pegasus and Unicorns, however, used their magical strength to soar into the sky, circling the City Tower before descending gracefully upon its summit.
Not long after, Ria led her Elven forces up the wall and onto the city’s ramparts.
The Dwarf King strode forward, extending his broad, calloused hand—still stained with dried blood—as if to offer a gesture of friendship.
“I am Aid Klein, Lord of the High Mountain Kingdom. Greetings to you—please convey my respects to your queen.”
The Half-Elf hesitated for a moment, then declined the handshake. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, eyes lowered in respectful silence.
“Your Majesty, I am Ria Nai Luo, General of the Silver Moon Followers, appointed by Queen Iserlin herself as commander of this relief mission.”
Behind him, the tall, elegant Moon Elves bowed in unison, each paying their respects to the co-ruler of the Shield Dwarves.
“Ah, splendid,” Aid said, somewhat awkwardly withdrawing his hand. He rubbed his palms together and, mimicking the Elves’ gesture, gave a polite nod.
Though Dwarves and Elves had long been uneasy allies—Dwarves saw Elves as prideful and aloof, while Elves viewed Dwarves as crude and stubborn—their mutual enmity had never escalated into war. But now, with Aivendeldan facing an unprecedented invasion by Ogres, such petty grievances were forgotten.
The King of the Dwarves laughed again, booming with warmth. “Hahaha! So you’re the famed ‘Dawnblade’ herself! I’ve heard of you—slaying the Red Dragon in the Northern Wastes, defeating the son of Balor, and banishing a fallen Devil Lord back to the Nine Hells. A Half-Elf recognized by the proud Elves? That speaks volumes of your strength.”
Ria looked up at the Dwarf, her silver eyes as calm and clear as still water. “Your Majesty’s praise is too kind. My past deeds mean nothing before the mighty ruler of the High Mountain Kingdom, co-king of the Shield Dwarves. Now, I am merely a loyal captain of the guard, bound by Queen Iserlin’s will—Catherine’s command is my guiding principle.”
In another time, Aid might have muttered under his breath: “No surprise—half-Elf blood, still full of that arrogant pride, playing at dignity.” But now, he swallowed his instinct, merely wiping the bloodstains from his hands with quiet resolve.
Ria lifted her gaze, staring at the massive Gold Dragon seated atop the City Tower. “Your Majesty, I am honored to stand beside you in battle. With a warrior of such ancient and mighty power at our side, this war may yet be won with far less bloodshed.”
The Gold Dragon lowered his head, his pale golden eyes flickering with quiet interest. His gill whiskers fluttered in the wind as he regarded the Half-Elf.
“A Half-Elf chosen by the Divine… how intriguing.”
Ria narrowed her eyes, her brow faintly furrowed. There was something unsettling in the Dragon’s gaze—not like a first meeting, but as if he already knew her.
“The Prophecy Mage…”
As Iserlin’s most loyal and powerful follower, Ria bore many hidden truths. She hated the sensation of being seen through.
She never imagined that this Gold Dragon—this magnificent, ancient creature—was the very Dragonling she had once spared over a decade ago… the Emperor of the Ashen Flame of Anzeta.
And now, after all these years, they met again—under such dramatic circumstances. Fate was indeed full of irony.
A sudden chill prickled her spine, sharp and fleeting, as if a ghost had brushed past her. It vanished instantly, leaving no trace.
“A trick of the mind?” Ria placed a hand on the hilt of her Silver Sword, her gaze lowering. She wondered, silently.
Meanwhile, the Avatar known as “Titus”—Kai Xiusu—gently stroked his scales, using a claw to delicately brush the gill whiskers. Inwardly, he smiled.
“Hmph. Not yet. When Ria helps Iserlin reclaim Serrynia, then I shall tear off this disguise and strike. Only then will I gain the greatest reward.”
He buried the flicker of retribution deep within, maintaining the noble, aloof demeanor of a true Ancient Gold Dragon.
Kai Xiusu continued to smooth his whiskers, his voice smooth and layered with meaning. “It is a privilege to fight alongside a warrior such as yourself, Lady Ria.”
“Your kindness is noted,” she replied.
Aid, ever straightforward and unperceptive, laughed heartily, slinging his war hammer over his shoulder. “Thousands of years ago, the ancestors of the High Mountain Kingdom and Serrynia forged this Sacred Alliance. And today, here in Aivendeldan, we gather once more to plan our defense! With your aid, I need not fear the Ogre onslaught!”
He signaled to his guards, who brought forth several barrels of the strongest, most potent mead. He raised his cup, drained it in one gulp, and roared, “To Justice!”
The Elves, who preferred delicate fruit wines over the Dwarves’ fiery brew, reluctantly raised their cups. But Ria—unhesitating—stepped forward, lifted her cup without hesitation, and drank.
Even the Gold Dragon received a barrel, filled to the brim. With a claw, he lifted it carefully, as if handling a sacred relic.
“To Justice!”
Wooden cups clashed high in the air, splashing liquid. Cheers erupted from Dwarves and Elves alike, echoing through the sky.
Thus, the alliance was sealed—Dwarf, Elf, and Gold Dragon united under one banner, bound by duty to defend justice and order against the northern tide of Ogre invasion.
But none could foresee that within this so-called “Sacred Alliance” was a creature disguised in golden scales—a Red Dragon known to the people of Feanso as the Tyrant of Anzeta.
With the mead consumed and the spirit high, Aid called for Biyao, summoning the Serrynian relief forces to discuss strategy.
Meanwhile, deep in the northern reaches of Aivendeldan, within a hide-tent of the Ogres’ command camp, the chieftains of various clans were locked in furious argument.
Ogres covered in jagged, grotesque tattoos of dire wolves, vultures, and lions glared at one another, spittle flying, their voices rising to the point of violence.
“Gatuso! Are you truly afraid of that golden-skinned crawler? I say we shoot it down! Let its head-blood sacrifice to Father God! True Ogres should fear no enemy!”
“You fool! That’s a damned Gold Dragon! Sending common clan warriors against it is suicide!”
“Hmph! Cowards deserve to be pierced through the chest with a blood spear! True Gush devotees aren’t timid wretches like you! It’s clear—your Raven Clan is made of nothing but frightened ghosts!”
“True courage is proven in blood, not words! Come, let us settle this in a sacred duel—face to face on the battlefield! Let us see whose spear pierces first, or whose head is severed!”
Two massive Ogres stood at once, eyes blazing with fury, their bodies radiating unhidden murderous intent.
In the days before Batu Skullcrusher unified the Ugo Grasslands, hundreds of clans had clashed in endless conquests. Blood feuds ran deep. The Raven and Black Wolf clans were among the worst.
Fifty years ago, the Raven Clan had attacked the Black Wolf encampment, killed their chieftain, and enslaved over a hundred warriors. Twenty years later, the Black Wolves ambushed the Raven hunting party—every skull was shattered and turned into a drinking bowl.
Such brutal cycles of vengeance were common across the Grasslands.
And the Redfang Clan? Their enemies had been utterly wiped out—every adult male slaughtered, women and children enslaved, no chance of annexation. Their very name erased.
Now, Batu’s “Great Ogre Kingdom” was less a nation and more a vast conglomerate of clans bound by the divine authority of Father God Gush.
“Crack!”
A sharp, thunderous snap split the silence—the command tent’s table shattered into splinters.
“Enough!”
Batu Skullcrusher sat at the highest seat, his single eye burning with fury. His voice was like grinding stone.
“I gathered you here under the will of the Great Father God—not to hear you bicker like children!”
Silence fell instantly. The once-shouting chieftains fell utterly still.
Batu’s aura swept across the tent. Once the Ogres had calmed, he lifted his blood-stained battle axe from the ground.
“Gatuso, Quet. The golden crawler is mine. I will deal with it myself.”
His single eye flared with crimson light. The yellow-green, grotesque face twisted into a feral grin, his tongue lapping at jagged fangs.
“If it were Melward’s ‘Silver Wings’—the one favored by Bahamut—I might hesitate. But a mere Gold Dragon, crawling out of nowhere? Trying to block our march? How laughable.”
In truth, the destruction of the advance force had been part of his plan—only, it had fallen faster than expected. And Monke’s sacrifice? That too was within his calculations. To Batu, Monke was meant to give his life for Father God and the clan. As his younger brother, Monke had once removed his own left eye without a word—ambitious, fanatical. His death was no loss, but a relief.
The High Mountain Kingdom had stood for millennia. The advance force was merely a probe—meant to test Dwarven defenses, wear down their traps and structures. The real offensive would come later.
Then, Batu would lead his army in person, conquer Aivendeldan, and become the greatest Ogre hero in a thousand years—worthy of Father God’s favor.
At that moment, the Old Shaman stepped forward slowly.
“Batu-sama… there is news. Not good news for us.”
Batu raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
The Shaman drew from his cloak a ritual artifact—a skull, polished to a mirror sheen. He held it trembling in both hands.
On its smooth surface, a faint image began to form.
First, the battered walls of Aivendeldan. Then, Elves with pointed ears. Pegasus and Unicorns in flight.
The Ogres’ faces darkened.
“This is…” the Shaman murmured, his voice low and dry, like wind over dead grass.
“Lord, as you see… the Serenian Elves have sent reinforcements. Among them—a powerful Legendary Being. The one known as Dawnblade—the Half-Elf.”
Batu clenched his jaw. “Damn it! The Elders’ Council tore up the treaty ages ago! How dare the Elves send aid now?”
The Shaman shook his head. “I do not know, Batu-sama. But one thing is certain—Father God’s command is clear. We must capture Aivendeldan within seven days. Or when the Crimson Mist clears, the Relief Forces from Heaven’s Mountain will descend. Even Father God cannot stop the Gods of Morindasman from unleashing their might upon us.”
Batu’s single eye narrowed. “Nasu… I know.”
He spoke slowly, each word like a blade.
“I will not fail the Father God. I will take Aivendeldan within seven days—at all costs.”
Above, the Ogres’ giant eagles and vultures circled in the sky, dark specks against the clouds, cawing in discordant chorus.
“Praise Father God Gwush!”
“He shattered the earth with his spear, cleaved caves, withered forests, barren lands—for his children to dwell!”
“We shall wear our enemies’ skulls as bracelets, drink their blood as wine, clothe ourselves in their skins—offering them all to you!”
Orc shamans raised their bone staves, chanting ancient hymns passed down through ages.
In the valley below, the Ogres piled Dwarf corpses into a crude altar. They carved ritual artifacts from bones and drank deep from the blood of their enemies.
The sky grew dark. Crimson mist seeped from the bone statue, spreading through the valley like a living tide.
Then, the mist surged northward. Any creature that inhaled its stench—dire wolves, scorpion lions, owlbears, hyenas—went mad with bloodlust.
The beasts poured southward in frenzied hordes, becoming tools of war for the Ogres.
Even the Ogres themselves grew dazed, their eyes clouded, swinging weapons wildly as they screamed, “Blood sacrifice to Father God!”
And from the distant haze, a colossal rune shaped like an eye emerged—pulsing with bloodlight, glowing like a living gaze, fixed upon Aivendeldan, radiating endless hunger.
On the earth, the frenzied Ogres roared the name of Father God, driving their monstrous beasts forward—like a flood, a tide of destruction, swallowing everything in their path.
(End of Chapter)
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