https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-658-The-Beginning-of-the-Divine-War/13677523/
Chapter 657: Dumason's Descent
"Boom—"
A blinding column of white fire tore through the sky, blazing with the light of ten thousand zhang, descending like divine punishment straight toward the chest of the King of the Dwarves.
"For the glory of the Shield Dwarves!" Aid roared, his voice raw with agony, swinging his war hammer as he poured every last shred of his life force into the strike.
"Rumble—"
The earth trembled violently. Dust and stone debris erupted into the air, and a small mountain surged upward from the ground in an instant—rising like a colossal shield, blocking the path of the fiery onslaught before the Dwarf king.
"Boom!"
The flame column struck the rocky barrier. The极致 of fire clashed violently with the raw power of earth—two opposing forces colliding, entwining, detonating in a cataclysmic explosion that shook the very foundations of the world.
Misha—more accurately, Kai Xiusu, channeling through her—had unleashed a flame column so intense it felt like a red-hot blade slicing through butter. The molten rock was instantly pierced, the lava oozing out in slow, glowing rivulets, crackling like snapping bones.
In the aftermath, thick gunsmoke and blinding flames swallowed everything within hundreds of meters. Not even the most hardened dwarf warrior defending the fortress or the imperial soldiers and officers could see clearly. All they could do was stare in awe, their voices trembling with disbelief.
"By Molradin!"
"Gods above… this is divine retribution!"
"No—Aid His Majesty cannot be dead! We Shield Dwarves were forged in the furnace! Even this explosion cannot destroy us!"
The dwarves clenched their fists, eyes locked on the raging inferno. While holding their ground against the imperial assault, they argued fiercely—afraid, desperate, unwilling to accept the unthinkable.
"Misha-sama!"
"This is the might of King Kai Xiusu! Dwarves—your king is dead. Surrender while you still can!"
"Long live the Empire!"
From within the imperial formation, a thunderous cheer erupted. Soldiers raised their weapons high, taunting the fallen, basking in the glory of their inevitable victory. They had witnessed this scene too many times before—fools who dared stand before the Empire were reduced to ash, without mercy.
As the molten lava cooled, it cracked with a dry, brittle creak. The wind swept through the dust, clearing the smoke. Where the mountain had risen, there now stood a massive, gaping hole—several meters wide, as if blasted open by a crude cannon. Beyond it, the King of the Dwarves knelt motionless on the ground, his stone body blackened and shattered, a ruin resembling a scorched statue.
And where his heart should be—on the left side of his chest—there was only a hollow, smoking crater. The flame column had torn through him completely.
"Whooosh…"
The wind howled through the empty space in the chest, a mournful wail echoing across the battlefield.
On the Aivendeldan Wall, iron hammers and axes slipped from dwarf hands, clattering to the ground with sharp, hollow clangs. The dwarves stared, stunned. Their minds went blank. Their hearts felt like strings snapped under unbearable tension.
Aid His Majesty… dead?
Some stood frozen in silence. Others shook their heads. A few whispered, trembling:
"No… no… Aid His Majesty…"
"This can’t be…"
"He can’t be gone…"
Then, as the reality sank in, a wave of despair crashed over them. They began to tremble, then howled in grief—some collapsing to their knees, banging their foreheads against the stone, staining the wall with blood.
Dwarves were never ones to hide their emotions. And now, the crushing weight of sorrow pressed down on their hearts. They could not believe it—this mighty king, undefeated in battle, had fallen to the fire of an evil dragon.
"No—!"
"Aid His Majesty!"
"He won’t die! He’s the Mountain Lord!"
It took several long minutes before the remaining shield dwarves finally accepted the truth: their beloved Mountain Lord—the guardian of Aivendeldan, the king they had followed and trusted—Aid Klein… had died beneath the fire of the evil dragon.
At that moment, the dwarves lost their strongest pillar.
"Damned Dragon’s favorite!"
"I’ll avenge Aid His Majesty! I’ll take you all with me!"
"For Aid His Majesty!"
The remaining dwarven warriors, eyes bloodshot with fury, let out wild battle cries. They charged forward like madmen, some leaping from the city walls, desperate to reclaim their king’s corpse.
"Bang!"
"Bang! Bang!"
"Hahahaha! Go to hell with your stone king!"
But the imperial soldiers met them with cold, calculated fire. Their rifles spat bullets without mercy. The dwarves fell one after another, cut down like grass.
Even as they died, their last gaze was fixed on Aid’s body. With trembling, blood-streaked hands, they reached out, tears streaming down their faces.
"His Majesty…"
"Aid His Majesty…"
As the king’s body lay utterly still, the dragon phantom in the sky began to fade—its image dissolving into flowing flame.
Misha exhaled softly, her body relaxing. Her pupils returned to their normal golden hue. The overwhelming aura of the dragon vanished, as if it had never been.
Kai Xiusu had withdrawn. Misha had reclaimed full control of her body.
Wyvern watched this with envious eyes—deeply jealous. As an elder of Ashen Hollow, he had far greater experience than Misha. He should have been the one chosen to bind with the Master. Yet here he stood, watching Misha bask in the Master’s favor.
Still, Smaug could not contain his awe. He inched closer, his dragon face twisted into a fawning grin, drool dripping from his jaws.
"Misha-sama, you truly are the Master’s worthy representative."
"You’re mistaken," Misha said gently, shaking her head. "This was not my doing. It was the Master’s grace."
She gestured toward the sky.
Now that she had regained control, her heart pounded with exhilaration. To be touched by the Emperor of the Ashen Flame—this was an honor beyond measure. A triumph she would never forget.
After a moment, she turned to the ruins beyond. Her voice carried a mix of reverence and awe.
"This is the might of my master. Even a single thought descending from the heavens… can unleash such terror."
"Yes," Smaug rumbled, flapping his wings and swaying his tail beside her. "Good. Clean up the battlefield. Prepare for entry into the city."
Misha glanced toward Aivendeldan’s interior. The imperial advance was proceeding smoothly. Soldiers marched in disciplined formation, their rifles firing with deadly precision, cutting down the desperate dwarf warriors one by one. The final phase of conquest was almost complete.
Then, a mournful lament echoed across the sky—raw, broken, filled with sorrow.
"When you no longer open your sacred eyes, when silence claims your voice…"
The imperial soldiers looked up, curious. Atop the palace’s highest point stood an ancient dwarf, his face gaunt, his clothes tattered, his body marked by war burns. His gaze, however, burned with unwavering resolve.
This was Biyao Rilai—the elder who had served three generations of Mountain Lords, the living fossil of the dwarf race.
He stood there, trembling, yet resolute. A follower of Dumason, the Keeper of Silence. In their tradition, the funeral of a fallen warrior was sacred. The priest had to compose a song to honor the life and deeds of the dead, a song never sung aloud, but whispered in reverence to the eternal silence of Dumason.
And now, Biyao sang softly—his final tribute to Aid.
In tradition, a warrior’s personal emblem, clan sigil, and faith were woven into his beard. But surrounded by enemies, Biyao had no time. He could only clutch his staff and continue:
"O holy hero, you gave your spiritual soul to your people, your body to the earth."
An imperial officer turned to his men. "Captain, should we take care of that old relic?"
The officer made a slashing motion across his throat. "Kill him. These priests have strange rituals. We must eliminate them before they cause trouble."
Elsewhere across the city, the same orders echoed.
The soldiers obeyed. Rifles rose in unison. Muzzles aimed at the old dwarf on the palace roof.
"Bang!"
"Bang! Bang!"
The shots rang out, chaotic and brutal. Biyao staggered, his chest erupting in crimson blossoms. Then, wounds opened across his head, abdomen, and legs. Blood poured out as he collapsed, his body sinking into a pool of red.
Yet even in death, his lips curled into a faint smile. A final, rasping whisper escaped:
"To the guardian of the kingdom… the mountains shall be your tomb… all things shall weep for you."
His voice faded, trembling into silence.
Until the very end, Biyao did not close his eyes. His head tilted slightly—his bloodied face turned toward Aid’s remains. His mouth hung open, as if still trying to speak, still carrying words unspoken.
On the city walls, Great Goblin Drool crossed his arms, surveying the devastation with a satisfied grin.
"Finally… it’s over. This place…"
But then—cold wind swept across the remains of the King of the Dwarves. It passed through the crack in the chest, echoing with a mournful, chilling tone.
"Whooosh…"
"O hero who gave everything… mountains shall be your grave… all things shall weep for you…"
The melody—identical to Biyao’s lament.
Drool’s face turned pale. He spun around, eyes wide, staring at the stone statue.
Smaug let out a confused roar, wings flaring, ready to fight.
Misha narrowed her eyes, her gaze locked on the shattered form. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Could it be…"
"Shhh—"
A deep, earth-colored light descended from the heavens, engulfing Aid Klein’s remains.
In an instant, shattered stone flew through the air. Dust swirled. Rock and stone surged together, reshaping, reforming—growing taller, more massive.
An aura of overwhelming dread spread across the battlefield. Even Misha felt as though a mountain had settled on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground, making flight impossible.
"Damn it… what in the abyss is that?"
"Is the Mountain Lord… resurrected?"
"That’s impossible! Misha-sama burned him to ash! I saw it myself—he had no heart left!"
When the light faded, a new figure stood on the earth, emerging from the storm.
A broad-shouldered dwarf, his hair and beard carved from gray stone, his skin the color of weathered earth, his eyes glowing with silver flame. His shoulders were as wide as a barn. His arms, taut with muscle, bulged like ancient roots. Even his war hammer had transformed—now forged from solidified magma, a hammer of molten lava.
Though his face bore the faint traces of Aid’s features, his aura had changed utterly—something ancient, primordial, and terrifying.
"He’s… alive!"
"By Kai Xiusu!"
"Big deal. Misha-sama killed him once—she can do it again!"
"These cursed dwarves are like stone—should’ve been burned to dust!"
The imperial soldiers and officers murmured in shock, their faces filled with surprise—but not fear. Not yet.
But Misha, Drool, and the other elite imperial minds turned grave. Their expressions hardened. Cold sweat trickled down their necks.
Drool swallowed hard, his voice trembling.
"That… is not Aid Klein."
"That is Dumason."
"The Keeper of Silence."
"The Guardian beneath the mountains."
"The Shield of the Shield Dwarves."
In dwarf legend, Molradin had appointed Dumason as their guardian. Beneath the peaks, he had shaped a paradise—a cavern of breathtaking beauty, veins of glittering metal and radiant crystal gems woven into the stone. When he saw the dwarves crafting magnificent artifacts from their ore, he felt joy… and honor.
Dumason rarely spoke. He communicated through gestures. No mortal had ever seen him do more than grunt or sigh.
And yet, when the Shield Dwarves were threatened—massacred—his wrath was absolute.
As he surveyed the battlefield, his gaze sweeping across the mountain of dead dwarf corpses, the earth trembled. Wherever his eyes fell, sandstorms erupted, tearing through the land.
"Whooosh…"
Dumason let out a deep, sorrowful sigh. His face was etched with grief—for the earth, for his people.
Then—his head snapped up. His silver eyes blazed with fury.
"By Kai Xiusu—run!"
The imperial soldiers who met his gaze felt their breath freeze. Their hearts stopped.
"Boom—"
A deep, earth-shaking rumble erupted from below. The ground convulsed violently. The mountain itself trembled.
Though Dumason had not spoken, the earth and the peaks answered his rage.
Blackstone Mountain shook—true earthquake tremors. Buildings in Aivendeldan collapsed. Bricks and stone rained down upon the imperial soldiers, crushing them beneath the weight of the falling sky.
Their screams filled the air.
(End of Chapter)
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