Chapter 26: The Kingdom in the Mountains

After a year of construction, Sakavi’s wizard tower was finally completed. To prevent any foolish kin from raiding it mid-build, Sakavi personally ventured into the Black Forest to invite Reithna.

Reithna said a friend’s matter was her own, and immediately ordered a hundred griffons to assist Sakavi in transporting goods, personally overseeing the convoy. With a demigod’s aid, no chromatic dragon dared trouble them along the way. Yet shadowy figures lingered nearby, never retreating, until every last shipment arrived safely.

Normally, Sakavi wouldn’t care about one or two kin—he was the only dragon in this land to have broken through to legend. Though dragons were innate magical beings, they couldn’t automatically reach legend upon reaching adulthood; breakthrough required finding one’s own opportunity.

Sakavi had only broken through to legend in his wizardry; in his true dragon form, he remained at master level. Normally, only young dragons could reach master level. But Sakavi’s path had been fraught with hardship, and his traumatic experiences had awakened his inner potential—or his body’s instinct for self-preservation.

Such premature development severely shortened lifespan. By the time he reached old age—between two and four hundred years—his body would age rapidly. Of course, if his body later broke through to legend, that would be another matter.

A normal dragon’s lifespan, even at its fullest, was only about six hundred years. To extend it, one must break through to legend. A dragon who achieved legend could live around fifteen hundred years—long enough to outlive most enemies. To go further, one must ascend to demigodhood, extending life to three thousand years.

Ignoring these unambitious kin, Sakavi decided to properly plan his domain. First, he notified all races to swear fealty and sign vassal contracts, dividing their territories.

“Lords, you are fortunate to have encountered me, the mighty one. From now on, this land follows only my rules. Submit to me—it is my grace to you. Those loyal and worthy shall have the honor of becoming my… uh, brother dwarf, we’re in a meeting. Why don’t you speak with my grand steward?”

“My lord, I come from the Mountain Kingdom to attend your investiture.”

“Cough, well… you’re too kind. Stay here for now; I’ll visit your king in Morreda in a few days. Grap, you’ll entertain this dwarf envoy.”

“You, the weak, are not yet worthy to be my vassals—but that’s no problem. I shall give you the chance to pledge loyalty.”

“Those who seize this opportunity shall have wealth and power beyond measure. Those who dare defy the mighty Sakavi shall face the harshest punishment. Now, make your choice.”

These subhumans, at most mid-tier, dared not stir trouble now; all voiced no objections. Since there were no objections, they would now follow the new rules.

From now on, all tribes with over five hundred people shall be organized into towns; those over one thousand, into cities. Each must be garrisoned by drow elves. Any settlement with more than two inhabitants shall be a village.

All adult males of every race must report to the Bohe Plains to join the new city of Agrik—named in draconic, meaning “Dragon’s Gathering Place.” Sakavi hoped this name would draw fledgling dragons, like his former self, forced from home—and he welcomed adult dragons too.

The name didn’t attract dragons, but it drew Klausuna. Hearing of Sakavi’s new city, she rushed over to join. With severe manpower shortages, Sakavi had no choice but to appoint her as Red Patriarch of the War Church.

Normally, a patriarch could only be appointed by the church—but Sakavi had no intention of reasoning with the War Church. He had repeatedly refused their demands for the corpse of the devil Dius, claiming ignorance. The Burning Hells were pressing hard.

A normal devil had vanished without warning, leaving the War Church deeply troubled. Without proof of his collusion with demons, they couldn’t just kill him. To die like this—with no corpse—left them unable to answer to the Burning Hells.

The church had planned to catch him red-handed—or have Sakavi do it—to shift blame onto him. That way, they’d teach the Burning Hells a lesson without ruining relations. Sakavi replied: “I’ll take the blame, but the benefits must be delivered.”

Thus, Klausuna, who didn’t even know the church’s doctrines, became the Red Patriarch of the entire Western Continent. Whether she could read the doctrines meant nothing to Sakavi—he only needed his subjects to know the War Church was his.

After settling this, Sakavi assigned Grap to handle domain disputes and Verna to oversee Agrik’s construction, then departed for Morreda, the dwarf kingdom.

Sakavi greatly approved of Verna’s aesthetics—she was genuine nobility, from a lineage thousands of years old. Entrusting her with the city’s construction was a wise choice.

Sakavi waved his hand and gifted the former War Cry tribe’s stronghold, Fang Fortress, to the gray dwarves. As a people-friendly lord, how could he live in such a fortified place? Besides, no common folk dared challenge him—and those who did couldn’t be stopped by terrain.

After the last meeting, he summoned the Morreda envoy and questioned him in detail, receiving an utterly absurd answer.

Morreda’s kingdom had completely failed to get along with the orcs; relations were icy. The War Cry tribe coveted the iron mines of the Antlathus Mountains and demanded their territory extend all the way to the Endless Sea coast.

Naturally, the Luo Sen Court delighted in this nuisance to the dwarves. Thus, armed with the new map, the War Cry tribe and Morreda plunged into a three-hundred-year war.

The war-ravaged dwarf kingdom, facing a new black dragon, refused further conflict and acknowledged itself as part of the duke’s domain.

Flying above Morreda’s entrance, the first sight was two colossal stone gates, dozens of meters tall, forged from solid obsidian inlaid with steel, carved with the likenesses of dwarf kings and clan totems.

Beside the gates stood two dwarf warrior statues taller than the gates themselves, wielding axes and great hammers, their stone eyes eternally fixed on the horizon, guarding the realm behind.

Soon, the mountain-sized obsidian gates groaned open with the deep rumble of countless gears and chains, parting just enough. Warm, dry air surged out, thick with the scent of forges, aged barley wine, and stone.

A dwarf stepped from the shadow of the gap, alone. He wore a deep purple velvet robe, over which lay a ceremonial tunic embroidered with gold thread depicting mountains and anvils. His steps were slow, each one heavy and grounded, as if rooted to the earth.

He lifted his rugged face, his gray eyes—forged like tempered steel—fixed precisely on the darkening shadow approaching overhead. The wind grew sharp, carrying sulfur and swamp stench, tugging at his robes, yet he stood unmoved, his gaze free of fear or flattery.

“Lord of Agrik, Morreda’s gates are always open to you. Mog Ironshield pays homage!”

“King Mog, no formalities. I come without a declaration of war. I wish to know Morreda’s stance: submission or resistance.”

“We wish to be your loyal ally, your strongest shield. We do not seek war, nor do we wish to be anyone’s slave or pawn.”

“Name your price, dwarf.”

“You misunderstand, my lord. We’ve made ourselves clear: we fight only for ourselves and our allies—not for any master.”

“So you choose war?”

“If a choice must be made, yes.”

Dwarves, famed for their stubbornness, rarely change their decisions. They are the most faithful allies. But don’t think they won’t lie—they excel at manipulating conditions to mislead negotiators.

“Then do you believe you can win this war?”

“No. We know your strength. But we will not submit to anyone.”

“Oh? Your stubbornness won’t earn any concession from me. You understand me, yes?”

“Legendary warrior Mog Ironshield, five master-tier warriors, and twenty high-tier warriors stand ready to serve you!”

“Not enough, Mog. Fighters unwilling to leave their homeland are worth half.”

“We can supply you with ten thousand sets of orc-standard armor, plus one thousand bows and crossbows, and one hundred thousand bolts.”

“Add twenty enchanted weapons.”

“Agreed, Dragon Lord. Morreda welcomes you.”

“Call me Sakavi, my ally. I need you to send manpower to help build Agrik—you know I’m short on hands, especially craftsmen. I’ll pay you well.”

“No, no, no. Morreda does not accept payment from allies. Helping allies is our duty. We shall send fifty blacksmiths and three hundred stonemasons.”

“How many adult dwarves remain in Morreda?”

“One hundred fifty males, three hundred females. Sakavi, you must know: dwarves have low birthrates. We’ve been at war for years; our economy is dire. In such hardship, our females struggle to conceive, and our males keep dying in battle.”

“Hard times are over, my friend. I am building order on this land.”

“Evil creatures lurking in dark corners are stirring. You must prepare, my friend. I await the new order you will establish.”

“Relax. They’re merely minor nuisances. I’ll handle them.”

After concluding matters, Mog invited Sakavi to tour the Hearth Hall, to demonstrate Morreda’s strength as an ally. Here lay the kingdom’s heart: a vast, naturally formed cavern.

Its ceiling vanished into shadow. At its center stood the “Eternal Forge,” burning ceaselessly, bathing the hall in flickering orange-red light.

The forge’s glow illuminated countless tiers, corridors, and structures carved into the walls, as if a hollowed mountain had been lit by ten thousand lanterns.

Next came the Hall of Gold and Stone: the king’s throne room. The throne was carved from a single block of raw mountain stone; behind it, a frozen waterfall of molten gold cascaded downward.

The hall’s pillars were massive crystal clusters or gold veins, shimmering with blinding brilliance in the firelight. This was not merely a seat of power—it was the ultimate display of dwarf wealth and craftsmanship.

Gazing upon this dwarf city, older than ten thousand years, Sakavi felt profound reverence for this ancient race. History’s wheel had crushed countless civilizations. Now, the dwarves’ living space shrank ever further.

Perhaps one day, the children of Moradin will vanish entirely, and only bards’ songs or dusty history books’ fragmented lines will recall their glorious past.