Translator: AnubisTL
When sensing danger, Garos's first instinct was to eliminate the source.
His initial thought was to strike under the cover of darkness that very night, launching a swift assault like he had against the goblin tribe. He wanted to wipe out the Blackrock Principality's oilfield garrison—this "potential threat"—without a moment's delay.
Alas.
Garos was confident he couldn't match the Blackrock Legion in open battle. A direct assault would be suicide. He had to find other ways to mitigate the risk.
Relocating their camp, for example.
Or burning the hills to erase their tracks.
Garos wondered if he was becoming paranoid, valuing his life too much. But he reasoned that extra caution couldn't hurt. In this perilous wilderness, prudence was essential.
Walking on thin ice was merely a means to reach the other side.
One day, when I grow strong enough, I won't need to live so cautiously.
Then, even if the entire world turns against me, I won't flinch. I'll burn it to ashes, reduce it to dust.
Garos glanced back at the Hemlock Hills, now ablaze like a colossal torch in the night. With no lingering sentiment, he spread his dragon wings and soared after Samantha and Mobel.
Seeing Mobel carrying the Earth-Rending Centipede, Garos considered for a moment, then instructed him to put it down and completely destroy it.
Though somewhat regrettable, he couldn't be certain if the creature had a tracking system. Rather than risk taking it with them, he decided to destroy it outright.
Time passed slowly.
Three days later, the morning sun cast its rays upon the scorched earth of Hemlock Hills.
Along with the dawn came uninvited guests.
The iron hooves of Rock Armor War Rams crushed the charred ground, their armored flanks bearing the warhammer emblem of the Blackrock Principality's Third Cavalry Regiment, which gleamed with a chilling metallic light.
Led by an alchemy golem, the Blackrock Cavalry halted.
At the vanguard of the cavalry stood the alchemy golem, towering eight meters tall and nearly as wide. Humanoid in form, it was roughly the same height as a Giant-Arm Miner, but its armor was far thicker and more robust. Intricate, vein-like runes covered its entire body, glowing with a deep blue energy that pulsed through the runes like blood, driven by the roar of its internal alchemy engine.
Etched in ancient dwarven script on the golem's shoulder was its model name:
Earth Fury
At first glance, it resembled a colossal dwarf—sturdy, heavy, and unyielding. Compared to it, even a Giant-Arm Miner seemed as fragile as a reed.
The true difference in strength between them was dozens of times greater than their size disparity. An Earth Fury could easily contend with a young dragon.
Only one had come here.
Many Earth Fury Golems remained stationed at the oil field, along with other models.
Crack! Crack! The ground buckled and split open as several Earth-Rending Centipedes emerged. One of them, though repaired, still bore visible scars from a previous battle.
It was the very Earth-Rending Centipede that had fought Garos at Hemlock Hills and narrowly escaped by burrowing underground.
The centipede raised its triangular head and swayed it a few times in the direction of Hemlock Hills.
"This is the place," a dwarf sorcerer said, patting the centipede's head. "The young dragon that stole our oil soil, causing us to lose black oil, and destroyed two Earth-Rending Centipedes."
The sorcerer stood about 1.4 meters tall, his bronze beard reaching his chest and bound by an iron ring. His bare arms were incredibly muscular, the bulging muscles resembling jagged rocks.
This was Groni, the Fire Tongs, a dwarf alchemist.
The cavalry leader removed his helmet, revealing half his face scarred by burns—a badge of honor earned five years ago in a battle against a ferocious beast.
Olaf the Warhammer, a dwarf knight, spat, leaving a small pit in the scorched earth. His copper bell-like eyes swept across the charred landscape.
"This wasn't caused by wildfire."
"That little dragon whelp burned this place cleaner than Inferno Ale from the Deep Furnace Tavern!"
Standing at about 1.6 meters tall, Olaf was even more powerfully built than a dwarf sorcerer. He wore rune-etched heavy armor forged from steel and iron, yet his breathing remained steady. Beneath the armor, his muscles bulged like they were packed with tar and oil, his veins crisscrossing like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, his life force burning as fiercely as a furnace.
Dwarves.
This race possessed exceptional strength and resilience, their muscle and bone density far surpassing that of humans.
Though generally shorter in stature, a dwarf warrior of equal rank would almost always prevail in combat against a human warrior.
As Olaf spoke, he casually drew his flask from his belt and tilted it back to drink.
But an invisible force sealed the flask's mouth, preventing a single drop from flowing out.
The dwarf sorcerer Groni glanced at the drunkard and said:
"Olaf, last night at camp you drained three whole barrels of rye ale and gambled away your entire month's wages. We're here on official business today, so save your drinking for later."
Stroking his beard, Groni mused, "According to the Earth-Rending Centipede's reports, there are two young dragons here—one red dragon and another that appears to be a red-iron dragon hybrid."
"Most naturally wicked young dragons are arrogant and overconfident. I never expected this one to be so cautious and wary."
Olaf chuckled, scratching the scar on his face.
"Red dragon testicles can be brewed into potent liquor that enhances virility and promotes secondary development. The hybrid should work too. I've never tasted it before. If we catch a young dragon this time, I'm definitely trying it!"
The dwarf sorcerer shook his head.
"It won't be that simple."
With a flick of his beard, a swarm of tiny, bee-like creatures emerged from its dense strands. Buzzing loudly, they dispersed in all directions, circling and searching the scorched earth and ash-covered Hemlock Hills.
The cavalry and golems also moved out, their hooves and metal feet trampling the charred ground as they scoured for traces of dragonkind.
Guarding the oil fields earned them a fixed wage from the principality. But capturing a young dragon would bring an unexpected windfall—enough to buy an unimaginable quantity of potent liquor.
Time ticked by, but by evening, as moonlight cascaded like liquid silver, the dwarves had found nothing of value.
"Call off the search and let's go back for drinks," Olaf said. "This trip was a waste."
"Wait, you're too impatient," the dwarf sorcerer countered, extending his palm.
Several bees hovered, gently placing a tiny, dark gray scale fragment into the dwarf sorcerer's palm.
"It's cautious, but even a mountain-scorching fire can't erase all traces. This scale fragment might at least give me a rough direction."
Olaf roared with laughter, pulled out a crude copper mug, filled it with rye ale, and splashed the contents onto the scorched earth.
"To you, cunning little dragon! This drink celebrates your bones becoming my new pipe! And your testicles becoming my potent aphrodisiac brew!"
Offering a toast to the enemy before battle was an ancient tradition of the Blackrock Principality.
Turning to the dwarf sorcerer, Olaf exclaimed eagerly, "Quick, pinpoint its location! I can't wait any longer!"
The dwarf sorcerer shook his head, his voice dripping with disdain. "The dragon whelp burned the Hemlock Hills to ashes, leaving only this tiny scale fragment behind. Do you really think this is a reliable medium? I said 'might,' do you understand? Not 'certainly'! I need time to prepare, and even then, success isn't guaranteed."
Olaf spat again, rolling his eyes at the sorcerer.
"Then why even mention it, you hammerhead! You're wasting my rye ale!"
"Let's go, lads! Back to camp!"
After a fruitless day of labor, the dwarves retreated to their oilfield garrison under the moonlight.
The scolded dwarf sorcerer didn't argue. He examined the scale fragment for a few moments before tucking it into his chest pocket.
(End of the Chapter)
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