Chapter 48: Black Rock Dwarves, Earthrage Golems

When sensing danger.

Garos’s first instinct was to eliminate the source of danger.

What he most wanted was to strike tonight under cover of darkness, launching a night raid just as he had against the goblin tribe, erasing the Black Rock Kingdom’s oilfield garrison—a “potential threat”—in a single uninterrupted night.

Too bad.

Garos was confident he was no match for the Black Rock forces; attacking them directly would be suicide, so he could only seek other ways to reduce the risk.

For example, relocating his position.

For example, burning the mountains to erase traces.

Garos felt he might be suffering from paranoia, overly valuing his own life—but he believed caution never hurt, especially in this perilous wilderness.

Walking on thin ice was merely to reach the other shore.

“One day, when I grow strong enough, I won’t need to live so cautiously.”

“When that day comes, even if the entire world stands against me, I will not retreat—I will burn it to ash, reduce it to dust.”

Glancing back at the hillside blazing like a giant torch in the night, Garos silently thought, then felt no further attachment, flaring his Long Yi to chase after Samantha and Mobel.

Seeing Mobel carrying the Rift-Hundred-Foot, Garos considered it, then ordered it to be set down and utterly destroyed.

Though somewhat regrettable, he wasn’t sure if the device had a tracking system; he couldn’t take it, so he destroyed it.

Time passed slowly.

Three days later, morning light spilled over the charred earth of Iron Fir Hills.

Arriving with the dawn light were uninvited guests.

Iron-plated war goats’ hooves crushed the blackened ground; their armor bore the hammer insignia of the Black Rock Kingdom’s Third Heavy Cavalry Regiment, gleaming with icy metallic sheen.

Led by an alchemical golem, the Black Rock cavalry halted.

At the front of the cavalry stood the alchemical golem, eight meters tall and nearly as wide, humanoid in form, roughly the same height as the Giant Arm Miner, but its armor was thick and hardened, etched with intricate, vein-like runes. As its internal alchemical engine roared, azure energy flowed like blood through the runes, spreading across its entire body.

On the golem’s shoulders, its model name was carved in ancient dwarf tongue.

【Earthrage】

At first glance, it resembled a giant dwarf.

Stout, heavy, unyielding.

Compared to it, the Giant Arm Miner looked as slender as a twig.

Yet the true gap in strength was dozens of times greater than their size difference—Earthrage could stand against a young dragon.

Only one had come here.

Many other Earthrage golems remained stationed at the oilfield, along with other models.

Crackling, the ground split open; several Rift-Hundred-Foots emerged, one of which, though repaired, still bore faint scars from its prior battle.

It was unmistakably the Rift-Hundred-Foot that had fought Garos at Iron Fir Hills and barely escaped by burrowing underground.

The Rift-Hundred-Foot lifted its triangular head and swayed it several times toward Iron Fir Hills.

“This is the place. The thief stole oil-soil, causing us to lose some black oil and destroying two Rift-Hundred-Foots.”

Slapping the Rift-Hundred-Foot’s head, a dwarf alchemist said.

He stood about one meter forty tall, his copper beard grown down to his chest, bound by an iron ring; his exposed arms were immensely thick, muscles bulging like boulders.

【Firetongs】 Groni, dwarf alchemist.

The lead cavalryman removed his helmet, revealing a face half-scarred by fire.

It was a medal earned five years ago in battle against a fierce beast.

【Hammer】 Olaf, dwarf knight.

Olaf spat, leaving a small crater on the ground; his copper-bell eyes scanned the charred earth.

“Not caused by wildfire.”

“This little dragon cub burned it cleaner than the Flame Ale at Deep Furnace Bar!”

Olaf stood about one meter sixty tall, stronger even than the dwarf alchemist; clad in rune-etched steel armor, he breathed steadily, his muscles beneath the armor packed like asphalt and oil, veins and tendons knotted like ancient tree roots, his life force blazing like a furnace.

Dwarf.

This race possessed immense strength and robust bodies, with higher muscle and bone density than humans.

Though generally short, a dwarf warrior of equal rank always had the upper hand against a human warrior.

Olaf spoke, then casually drew a flask from his belt and upended it into his mouth.

But the flask’s mouth was sealed by invisible force; not a single drop fell.

The dwarf alchemist Groni glanced at the drunkard and said:

“Olaf, you drained three whole barrels of dark barley ale at camp last night—and lost this month’s pay. Today we’re here for business. Save your thirst.”

Rubbing his beard, Groni mused: “According to the Rift-Hundred-Foot’s reports, there were two young dragons here—one red dragon, the other a red-iron hybrid.”

“Most naturally evil young dragons are arrogant and conceited; I didn’t expect this one to be so cautious.”

Olaf chuckled, scratching his facial scar.

“Red dragon testicles brew a potent liquor that rekindles virility—I’ve never tasted it. If we catch this young dragon, I’ll drink it!”

The dwarf alchemist shook his head.

“It won’t be that simple.”

He shook his beard, and from its thick strands emerged a swarm of bee-like creatures, buzzing as they scattered in all directions, circling and searching the charred, ash-covered Iron Fir Hills.

The cavalry and golems moved as well, stepping onto the charred earth, searching for traces of the dragons.

Stationed at the oilfield, they received fixed pay from the kingdom.

But catching a young dragon meant unexpected wealth—enough to buy countless barrels of strong ale.

Time dripped away, yet by evening, as moonlight poured like water, the dwarves found nothing of value.

“Call it off, back to drink. This trip was wasted.”

Olaf said.

“Wait, you’re too hasty.”

The dwarf alchemist opened his palm.

Several bees hovered, placing a tiny sliver of black-gray scale into his palm.

“It’s cautious, but even fire cannot erase all traces. At least this fragment—perhaps I can use it to trace its general direction.”

Olaf burst into laughter, pulled out a coarse copper cup, filled it with dark barley ale, and poured it onto the charred earth.

“To you, cunning little dragon! This toast celebrates your bones becoming my new pipe! Your steel scales becoming my virility liquor!”

Toasting an enemy before battle was an ancient tradition of the Black Rock Kingdom.

Turning to the dwarf alchemist, Olaf eagerly said: “Quickly pinpoint its location! I can’t wait!”

The dwarf alchemist shook his head, sneering: “The dragon cub burned the hills, leaving only this tiny scale fragment. Do you think it’s a reliable medium? I said ‘perhaps’—do you understand ‘perhaps’? Not ‘certainly’! I need time to prepare, and there’s no guarantee of success.”

Olaf spat again, rolling his eyes at the alchemist.

“Then what the hell good are you? Wasting my dark barley ale!”

“Come on, boys, back to camp!”

Exhausted and empty-handed, the dwarves returned under moonlight to their oilfield post.

The scolded dwarf alchemist said nothing, studied the scale fragment for a moment, then tucked it into his chest.

(End of Chapter)