Chapter 647: The Beginning of War
"Woo—"
At the peak of the Dwarven Royal Palace, the horn—forged from the tibia of a Giant Beast—sounded once more, its aura-laden, thunderous blast echoing across the mountains like a call from the earth itself.
"Enemy Ambush! Enemy Ambush!"
A Dwarven messenger, riding a mountain goat, darted through jagged cliffs, relaying the alarm to Dwarven Warriors scattered across the land. Instantly, every Dwarf who heard the horn’s cry felt a jolt in their chest. Without hesitation, they turned toward the palace, their feet pounding the stone paths in unison.
—It has finally come. The Army of the Ember Empire.
The Dwarf Warrior, previously slumped against a wall, hammer in hand and eyes closed in sleep, snapped awake with a sudden curse. He spat on the ground, then swiftly donned his meticulously crafted armor with practiced ease.
In the mine shafts, a Dwarf miner wiped sweat from his brow, paused for a heartbeat, then turned back the way he came—leaving the gold veins behind.
In the blacksmith shop, the Dwarven Artisans abandoned their red-hot blades, plunging them into water. The cold liquid erupted instantly, hissing and boiling in violent bursts.
"The Empire of Ashen... truly a towering force," Aid murmured, staring at the horizon. "No wonder they crushed the Northern Aether Conquest with such ease."
He let out a wry chuckle, glancing down at his hands. "I was once afraid that ordering Zhen to retreat was a mistake. Now... I see our chances of victory are indeed slim."
A lifetime of centuries had passed, and Aid had never witnessed an army like this.
Behind him, the old Dwarven noble Biyao stepped forward at a leisurely pace, his voice calm and reassuring. "Your Majesty, why burden yourself with worry? We have prepared for this moment. Now, all we can do is give our best. As for what comes after—let it be for our children."
Aid smiled faintly. "Still, I’d like to see just how far we can push. Let them know—Dwarves are no easy prey. We are hard bones, and they will break their teeth on us."
He paused, then asked, "Has contact been reestablished with the Dwarf Altar and the Father God?"
Biyao shook his head, sighing. "No response. It’s said that after the Battle of Black Stone Mountain, the Ogre Pantheon launched an attack on our own. They severed every passage between the Divine Realm and the Material Plane."
Aid looked up at the sky, his face etched with resignation. "So this time... we must rely solely on ourselves."
The famed "Mountain Lord" clenched his war hammer, feeling the power thrumming through his veins. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, blazed with resolve.
Unnoticed, Dwarven Warriors—drawn by the horn’s call—had poured in from Aivendeldan, from the High Mountain Kingdom’s farthest reaches, gathering in the vast square where the towering Mora Top Statue stood.
The elderly, the women, and the children had already retreated under Prince Zhen’s command. Now, only the elite remained—the bravest, the most hardened warriors of the High Mountain Kingdom.
"An Evil Dragon’s army is coming?"
"Where? My axe is hungry—let me smash their skulls!"
"Filthy Ogres! They’ve ruined my dream! Can’t a Dwarf get a decent nap in peace?"
"Just great. I was just finishing a longsword, and now my work’s ruined by that blasted horn!"
The square buzzed with loud, chaotic chatter—Dwarves arguing, laughing, trading stories of home and hearth. No tension. No fear. Only the raw, unfiltered life of the mountain folk.
Aid lowered his head, scanning the faces before him—bearded, weathered, each one familiar. He knew them all by name. These were his people. His warriors. His brothers in arms.
Like most Dwarves, they were crude, fierce, and bold. Yet beneath their rough exteriors beat hearts as unyielding as stone, as pure and bright as gemstones.
For over a century, Aid had stood as King, defending his people against every invader—Sacred Fedran, Hill Giant clans, Orc hordes. No force had broken them.
And now, he would lead them into a battle that seemed destined to end in ruin.
After a long silence, he raised his voice, solemn and commanding.
"Children of stone and mountain, heirs of the High Mountain Kingdom—War has come!"
He raised his war hammer, pointing toward the distant sky—where dark clouds now gathered like a storm.
"Look! There lies our enemy—the Dragon’s Favored from the North. They swept through the Northern Aether with ruthless speed. Now, they seek to conquer us! They want to seize our fortress, trample our homeland, plunder our wealth, and enslave our people. Tell me—can we allow such a thing?"
"No!"
"Smash their heads!"
"Ogre bastards! They dare attack our home? We’ll make them regret it!"
The Dwarves roared, their fury boiling over. They hurled curses and threats, their voices a thunderous tide of defiance.
Aid gazed at their fiery faces, then pointed to the ground beneath their feet.
"Blackstone Mountain—this is our homeland. Our ancestral home, where generations have lived and died. We’ve carved ore from these cliffs, forged weapons in these halls. Mountains are our greatest wealth. And now... we must give everything to protect them."
Finally, the Mountain Lord raised his hammer high. His eyes blazed with the fury of ancient mountains. His voice, deep and resonant, split the air:
"For Aivendeldan!"
"For Aivendeldan!"
"By Father God Moradin—fight for the Shield Dwarves! Fight for Aivendeldan!"
The Dwarves roared in unison, raising their war hammers, great axes, and anvils—shouting so loudly it shook the very earth, like a mountain’s deep, thunderous groan.
At the same time, the Empire’s army roared in unison—cheering for the Ember Empire, for their Emperor. They surged forward, marching toward Aivendeldan.
One side, the invaded. The other, the invaders. And yet, in this moment, both armies stood in eerie, grim harmony.
"Quick—set up all the fortifications! Let them pay for their arrogance!"
"Everyone—have the ballistae been mounted?"
"Who moved the boulders from the bunker? You, Ogre bastard!"
"..."
Dwarves swarmed the southern edge of Aivendeldan, building walls, installing traps, and loading weapons. They worked with feverish energy.
For millennia, the greatest threat had come from the north—Ogre tribes. So their defenses were strongest on the northern walls. Over time, the southern ramparts grew weaker, less maintained.
But Aivendeldan was built into the mountains. Its terrain was naturally steep, narrow, and defensible—nearly impregnable.
And to the south, like the north, there was a long, narrow valley—known as the "Glory Path"—before one could reach the city walls.
Most invaders were stopped here. They never even made it past the outer defenses.
But then—out on the plains—the earth trembled.
A deep, rolling boom. A roar like thunder. A cacophony of metal and movement.
"What in Moradin’s name is that?"
"Quick—look!"
"Leave me alone! I’m trying to get this trebuchet mounted!"
Old Master Artificer Koda, deep in concentration over a trap mechanism, was suddenly jolted by a slap on the shoulder.
He snapped, irritated. "What now? Can’t you see I’m—"
But the Dwarf beside him was pale, trembling, his voice cracking with fear. "Is that... the Army of the Ember Empire? Are those the Dragon’s Followers?"
Koda finally looked up.
His jaw dropped.
Before him, across the valley, the earth shuddered. Iron Beasts—massive, steam-powered war machines—rumbled forward, kicking up dust clouds that blotted out the sun. In the sky, two-headed dragons soared, their wings beating like a stormfront, forming a dense, shadowy swarm that nearly swallowed half the sky.
"By Father God Moradin!" Koda gasped.
"By Molradin!"
"By the heavens—what are these things? This is our enemy?"
The Dwarves in the Glory Path stared in stunned disbelief. Bearded faces, usually so stoic, now showed shock, fear, and awe.
"Don’t panic! Our gear is unmatched!" Koda forced a brave tone, though his hands trembled.
"Right! No matter what they are, once they step into the Glory Path—they’ll fall to our traps!"
"They can’t capture Aivendeldan!"
These Dwarves had lived deep in the mountains for generations. They knew nothing of the Empire’s Military Industrial System—how it had transformed warfare across the continent.
But soon, they would learn—through blood.
Steam tanks massed at the valley’s mouth, forming a living wall, like a range of mountains. The Glory Path was narrow—barely wide enough for two tanks to pass side by side.
But for the Empire, it was more than enough.
Drool stood atop the "Emperor's Wrath" tank, megaphone in hand, shouting toward Aivendeldan.
"Dwarves! You’d be wise to surrender now. Before the battle begins, Emperor Kai Xiusu of the Ember Empire will grant you mercy. He’ll lead you to a bright future!"
The Great Goblin General’s words were hollow. Though he spoke of surrender, his heart burned with disdain. Conquest was glory. Capturing prisoners? That was mere grunt work.
Still, he continued reading from the Imperial Parliament’s script:
"The Empire of Ashen comes not for war, but for justice. We seek to protect the people of Feanso Continent, to safeguard the Dwarves of Aivendeldan, and to finally eradicate the threat of the Northern Ogres."
Guardianship.
Just days ago, the Empire had issued a formal declaration of war—accusing the High Mountain Dwarf Kingdom of being unable to resist the northern Ogres.
Now, the Empire must step in. Only then could peace be restored. Only then could the continent be safe.
The letter was grand, noble—yet the Dwarven lords were furious. They called it a lie, a mockery. They knew—the Dragon’s Favored wanted only their treasure.
But they did not know... in Kai Xiusu’s heart, the destruction of the High Mountain Dwarves was merely a side task. The true enemy was the Green-Skinned Ogres.
"Silence!"
A deafening roar split the valley.
From the sheer cliff face, a massive, glowing Dwarf face slowly emerged—etched into the rock, as if the mountain itself had awakened.
Thousands of meters away, Aid pressed his hand against the stone. His body glowed ochre-yellow, his spirit and flesh resonating with Blackstone Mountain. He channeled the mountain’s strength, amplifying his voice into a force of nature.
His face was twisted with fury. His beard stood on end.
"Damned Dragon’s Favored! Cease your lies! Your words are so hollow they don’t even deserve the name hypocrisy! They make me laugh!"
He roared, his voice shaking the very earth.
"I say to you—Aivendeldan will never surrender! The High Mountain Dwarf Kingdom will never surrender! And the great Shield Dwarves will never bow!"
The Dwarves erupted in cheers, their spirits soaring. This was their King—the true offspring of the mountains!
"For Mountain Lord!"
"Shield Dwarves never surrender!"
Drool’s eyes narrowed. A cold, satisfied smile spread across his face. He drew his sword, pointing it toward Aivendeldan.
"Then, my Empire’s children—destroy them!"
Instantly, steam hissed from the Iron Beasts. The machines growled like beasts, advancing toward the city. From their machine guns, torrents of fire erupted—flames like a storm.
Bullets rained down like a hurricane, pouring into the Glory Path.
Dwarves hidden in rock caves, armed only with crossbow bolts, were torn apart in an instant—pierced through, turned into sieves of blood and bone.
Dwarves were tough. They were hardy. But they were still flesh and blood.
And they could not survive such fire.
In a single moment, the cost was terrible.
The Dwarves didn’t know the Ember Army. But the Empire knew everything—the tunnels, the hidden passages, the weak points. They knew exactly where to strike.
Koda, the Master Artificer, cowered behind a wall, trembling. His earlier confidence was gone.
"How... how can this be? We’re still hundreds of meters away!"
He could only watch helplessly as his comrades fell—one by one—bodies riddled with bullets, screaming in agony, blood pouring from every wound.
Even the rock walls were pockmarked, shattered, flying apart. The destructive power was beyond anything Koda had ever crafted.
And this... was just the beginning.
In the Empire’s army, such weapons were common.
Koda sank to his knees.
Despair.
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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