Chapter 13 - New

Immediately after, before Gromril-az Thorson could catch his breath from using his skill, he witnessed a scene that made him grit his steel teeth to dust—

It was a group of Night Goblins Fanatics. Although they looked slightly stronger than their kin around them, this was already irrelevant compared to another characteristic.

Instead of attaching wrecking balls to their chains, they had tied living dwarves to those evil chains as substitutes!

These poor dwarves were either caught in traps or wounded and captured by Night Goblins' weapons coated with unknown poisons. In any case, they appeared on the battlefield in such a tragic manner.

"Eight… Peaks… Mountain… Fanatics!" Gromril-az Thorson spat out these words, syllable by syllable, in the most furious and murderous voice he had used since his transmigration.

The Eight Peaks Mountain Fanatics were a unique creation of Skarsnik. To fulfill Skarsnik's will, these despicable Goblins would stop at nothing to achieve victory! If conditions allowed, they would switch to different "iron balls" when facing different races.

Although at this point in time, Skarsnik had not yet occupied the upper levels of Eight Peaks Mountain, and they were not yet known by this moniker, no one present was in the mood to care if Gromril-az Thorson's words had any flaws.

Every dwarf around Gromril-az Thorson was filled with endless rage. Two Eternal Hammer Guards even started pulling at their beards! No Son of the Mountains could accept what was unfolding before their eyes!

"Ah ah ah ah!" A dwarf Ranger, overcome with fury, threw down his crossbow, unslung his two-handed battle axe from his back, and charged forward. However, after only a few steps, he was shot down by a volley of arrows from the cackling Night Goblins.

"By Grimnir!" Captain Grenson invoked the name of the God of War. He had to press the head of his warhammer into the ground to try and restrain his impulse to charge.

Those frenzied Fanatics wouldn't give the dwarves much time to brew their anger. They started spinning, and those poor clansmen, already delirious from hunger or poison, were stimulated by the friction with the ground, letting out broken groans of "Ugh…" "Er…"

"May the Ancestor Goddess bless you all! My clansmen! These damned Night Goblins, damn them!" Gromril-az Thorson knew he couldn't let these future Eight Peaks Mountain Fanatics safely accelerate and then use the bodies of his captured clansmen to tear apart the hard-won, thin three-race allied defense line.

"I, Gromril-az Thorson, hereby swear in the name of the Mother Goddess, this greatest and deepest hatred shall be avenged!"

With that, Gromril-az Thorson gripped the ring on his left hand and, with a light swipe, a huge Runic Fireball appeared. "Fire!" With a heavy voice, he closed his eyes and threw the Fireball forward, incinerating two Fanatics.

The peasant archers were also shocked by the atrocities of these Night Goblins, but fortunately for them, the pain had not yet reached them personally, so they reacted relatively quickly. Soon, volleys of flaming arrows rained down into the Night Goblins' formation.

The Night Goblins who hadn't eaten the frenzy-inducing mushrooms hopped to avoid the flames they physiologically abhorred, while those who had eaten the mushrooms, with veins bulging on their faces and blood-red eyes, were already in a frenzy and undisturbed.

"Human cubs, get out of the way!" Captain Grenson pushed aside the human shield wall in front of him with his warhammer. He and several other Eternal Hammer Guards, gripping the middle of their long hammers, spun them like windmills to deflect arrows, while striding towards the remaining four Night Goblins Fanatics.

The weak shots from these Night Goblins were incomparable to the arrows raining down from the Wood Elves at Karak Norn. They couldn't hinder these powerful dwarf warriors in the slightest!

Watching the Eternal Hammer Guards and the spinning abominations of the Night Goblins about to collide in the middle of the mountain path, everyone present held their breath.

These experienced long-bearded dwarves either rolled or jumped to evade the first rotation of the chains. Then, as the chains straightened due to centrifugal force, they powerfully swung their hammers, striking the chains hard. With a flash of runic light from the hammerheads, the Goblins' crudely made chains shattered instantly!

The heavily armored and strong Eternal Hammer Guards were also thrown back a few steps by the powerful recoil, while the weak Night Goblins Fanatics were directly flung away!

"My goodness!" Young Maldini was shocked.

"What strength and skill!" Fatis exclaimed from his horse. Along the way, he had already realized that the ten taciturn dwarves around Gromril-az Thorson were quite extraordinary, but only now did he see their true strength.

"Forgive me, my poor clansmen!" Captain Grenson and his team did not show any signs of satisfaction with their brilliant performance.

Looking at their clansmen, whose bodies were already mangled and bloody from being dragged and spun by the Fanatics, these powerful warriors could only pray to the Mother Goddess, hoping she would redeem their souls.

The Night Goblins were also stunned by the strength shown by the dwarves in breaking the charge of the Eight Peaks Mountain Fanatics. They hesitated for a moment before attacking at the urging of their bosses from behind.

Gromril-az Thorson used the time it took for the previous two waves of Fanatics to appear to direct his allied forces to fall back, setting up their formation at the narrowest point of the mountain path.

The Ogres formed a wall of flesh, human foot soldiers filled the gaps between them, archers in the rear fired in volleys, and the Knights remained mounted as a reserve force for any unforeseen needs.

Due to their movement speed, the first to arrive on the battlefield were the Night Goblins. Under the cover of the Shaman's little Waaagh magic, they launched a charge against the defensive line. Due to the narrow terrain, their numerical advantage was difficult to utilize.

The Ogres' unique resilience made them largely unaffected by the Night Goblins' primitive poisons. A few minutes of high-frequency impact only caused two Ogres to retreat due to injuries, having almost no significant impact on the entire defensive line.

At this juncture, a dozen Trolls were driven closer to the front line. They were indeed evenly matched with the Ogres; one side had some intelligence and armor, while the other possessed innate regeneration.

But Gromril-az Thorson did not want these big creatures to simply pummel each other with crude weapons; that would undoubtedly be a waste of resources.

"Prepare to charge!" Fatis's voice rang out at the opportune moment. The Errant Knights, mounted squires, and adventurers pulled back a few dozen yards.

"Aihetanmu, make way!"

Hearing Gromril-az Thorson's command, several Ogres in the middle of the road swung their weapons, pushing aside their clumsy opponents. With the sound of "Dada!" hooves, the cavalry began their charge.

The potential energy of full plate armor and the kinetic energy of a galloping warhorse combined perfectly, making knights true bane to low-level monsters like Trolls and Goblins, who lacked armor protection.

Maldini charged ahead, his lance directly piercing a Troll's chest. The creature's vomit was still in its mouth, unable to be spewed out, as it closed its mouth forever.

After the knights charged in a wedge formation, the mounted adventurers also began to kill with their weapons, and soon a clear space was created in front of the infantry line.

These individuals then leisurely turned their horses around and returned behind the Ogre. Under Gromril's command, the formation quickly reformed, and the mounted individuals retreated, preparing for a possible next charge.

Time on the battlefield passed very quickly. Skarsnik's several rounds of attacks had not achieved much success – Gromril's line had retreated dozens of meters, and almost all of this was his active concession to gain a narrower, more advantageous terrain!

Gromril could already see the dwarf Lord of Karak-Azgaraz on the shield-bearer platform. These local dwarves from Undermountain Hold were the first of the three-pronged encirclement force to approach the battlefield.

This was partly because their direct distance was the shortest, and partly because their battle spirit for revenge was the highest!

A smile appeared at the corner of Gromril's mouth. He believed he was close to victory. Although Skarsnik's cunning exceeded his imagination, with timely remedies, the Night Goblin warlord, lacking powerful, impactful troop types like Giants or ork Big 'Uns, seemed to have lost the chance to turn the tide.

"Don't let Skarsnik escape! That's a big Night Goblin, with a large meatball following him! Whoever kills him, I will reward with a hundred gold coins!"

Gromril cried out. There were countless Green Skin warbands of all sizes throughout the Old World, but Skarsnik was unique!

Before Gromril finished speaking, a scream suddenly came from behind him!

"Ugh… Ah!"

"Ho… Ho!"

"What's going on?" Gromril turned to look and found that the position of the peasant archers in the rear was enveloped in a cloud of smoke, from which screams emanated.

"This is?" Gromril's mind raced.

"It must be the Sneaky Git. Even the most heinous Green Skin leader would be impressed by the depravity of these Goblins!" Captain Grenson's voice rang out.

"Damn it!" Gromril roared. Yes, he was waiting, and Skarsnik was also waiting. He was waiting for the clansmen from the east, west, and north to arrive and complete the encirclement, while Skarsnik was waiting for the Sneaky Gits to bypass Gromril's defensive line from behind.

"How did these damned things sneak over in broad daylight?" Gromril knew Goblins had this troop type, and he specifically chose to start the battle at noon to ensure these sneaky fellows had nowhere to hide.

His mind was racing, but Gromril's feet didn't stop. He and some dismounted knight attendants rushed into the smoke.

Although from the knights' perspective, the lives of these peasant archers might not be that important, especially since they had almost shot all the arrows they carried.

However, considering they had almost no power to retaliate against the Night Goblins closing in, if they were allowed to be slaughtered, the adventurers and infantry in the front would be next to suffer.

"Thunder Strike!" Gromril's skill had cooled down. He once again slammed his warhammer into the ground, creating a shockwave with electric arcs.

This successfully dispelled the smoke created by the Night Goblins, and Gromril's previous question was immediately answered. The moment the smoke cleared, several green magical missiles flew straight towards his face!

Facing this sudden attack, he did a somersault on the spot, dodged two, and then used his warhammer to block forward, deflecting the last one.

The power of Vengeful Gaze was not great to begin with, and the Night Goblin Shaman had few subordinates around him, all of whom were not very WAAAGH-inclined Sneaky Gits – even by the standards of cunning Goblins, these assassins were generally considered second-rate scum.

They couldn't provide much extra energy to the Night Goblin Shaman, so Gromril's arm only felt slightly numb from the shock.

"Night Shroud!" Seeing the Night Goblin Shaman in front of him, dancing with a mouthful of yellow teeth, Gromril thought of a reasonable explanation for how these bastards appeared behind him!

This was a small WAAAGH! spell, where a Night Goblin Shaman would throw specially cultivated, black-topped Nightshade mushrooms into the air. Upon exploding, they would form a pitch-black cloud, which not only obscured the sun to reduce the Night Goblins' discomfort but also allowed them to conceal themselves within it.

Gromril selected Stormhammer twice in the system and then moved away twice. He finally decided to take a small risk and engage the Shaman in melee, partly to test his own skills, and partly to save his already-recharged skills for Skarsnik.

"Come and die!" Gromril roared, striding forward. He leaped up and slammed down hard. The Night Goblin Shaman had originally intended to dodge, but after being slowed by the previous Thunder Strike, his reaction was half a beat too slow. In a panic, he held his staff horizontally to block.

With a "bang!", Gromril's hammerhead struck the staff. The Night Goblin Shaman staggered back two steps from the heavy Bash. Although Gromril was not considered strong among dwarves, the difference in racial talent meant he was far superior in strength to the Night Goblin in front of him.

"Eh?" Gromril flexed his wrist. He was not satisfied with the power of this blow. Perhaps the Master-grade Throwing Rune's damage amplification was not as good as the Bash Rune or the Shattering Rune,

Or perhaps the shaman's staff had been strengthened by the immersion of WAAAGH! energy and the power of 'I Think So'. In any case, the thing didn't break directly as Gromril had imagined.

"Come on, come on again! You filthy dwarf ghost!" Gromril took a stance, cautiously inching closer to the Night Goblin Shaman. The Night Goblin Shaman also retreated step by step.

"Yah!" Gromril didn't use a skill, directly throwing his hammer at the Shaman. From ten paces away, a throw was faster and more accurate.

"Smack!" The Night Goblin Shaman was also experienced in battle. It lowered its head slightly, and at the same time, used the head of its staff to flick upwards, deflecting Gromril's hammer.

Immediately after, it pulled out a dagger with an unfriendly rusty-green sheen from its bosom and lunged at Gromril, intending to kill him while Gromril was disarmed.

Such a move played right into Gromril's hands. While feigning panic, he activated the runes on his hammer.

Under the influence of Rune Magic, the warhammer in mid-air broke free from Sir Cow's control and flew back at an unusual angle. However, the Night Goblin Shaman reacted very nimbly; hearing the strange sound from behind, it tried to jump to the right to dodge.

Although its movement was fast enough, its left arm was still caught by the meteorite iron warhammer. The Shaman shrieked, its arm twisted into a strange angle, and its dagger fell to the ground.

"Die!" Gromril slightly shifted his body to absorb the impact of the returning hammer, gripped it, and stepped forward.

The Night Goblin Shaman naturally refused to sit and await death. It wielded its staff with one hand, attempting to block Gromril's attack, but without the support of its left hand, the staff was directly smashed away by Gromril.

"Watch out!" Just as Gromril was about to finish off the damned Night Goblin with a single hammer blow, he heard a shout from behind him. Hearing the sound, he rolled on the ground again.

"Screech!" A sharp sound rang out, and Gromril twisted his waist and swung his hammer, smashing the head of a hunched-back, masked Gloom Stalker.

It held a dagger in each hand. Gromril, having been warned, dodged the right-hand dagger, but the left one still tore his cloak, leaving a white scratch on his armor.

Gromril saw the Night Goblin Shaman take the opportunity to scramble away, creating a distance of six or seven steps. He was too lazy to pursue further and directly threw his hammer, flattening its chest.

The Night Goblin Shaman convulsed and breathed its last. Gromril looked up to refocus on the battle and found that the peasant archers had been almost completely wiped out by the surprise attack of these highly lethal dual-wielding Goblins.

Only a few lucky ones, positioned on the flanks and quick on their feet, had saved their lives. Watching them squatting on the ground, trembling, Gromril knew that these humans, who had just witnessed their comrades' deaths, had lost their will to fight. Whether they would suffer psychological trauma later was not within his scope of consideration.

Scanning the scattered human corpses, Gromril noticed their gruesome deaths; many had fatal wounds in the critical areas between their legs, both front and back. Gromril could roughly imagine how the Goblins, with their perfectly suited height and dual weapons, accomplished these actions.

At that moment, his hair stood on end. Perhaps, compared to such a death, being jumped upon and having one's throat slit directly was more merciful.

The morale of the Gloom Stalkers was quite low. After their leader, who also provided magical support, was slain by Gromril, some of them hesitated to advance.

Gromril looked back again; the clansmen of Undermountain Hold had already engaged the rear guard of the Night Goblins, which put even greater pressure on the Ogres. Some humans had already fallen, and several large fat ones lay on the ground, their fate unknown, due to the accumulation of small doses of poison.

Gromril was momentarily in a dilemma. If he continued to confront the Gloom Stalkers, the defensive line might collapse. But if he turned back to support the line, there was no guarantee that these Goblins, who had not completely lost their fighting spirit, would not attack from behind. Gromril believed no one wanted to be perforated from both front and back.

Suddenly, Gromril heard several cannon shots—it was like rain from heaven! Besides the usual three—fireballs, iron bullets, and crossbow bolts—this time there was also the "crackle, crackle!" of grapeshot. Gromril knew that Balin had activated the two Organ Guns.

"Hold on, friends! Victory is at hand!" Gromril shouted in time. Often, war is a test of morale. If one has no heart for battle and only wants to flee, then more numbers only increase casualties from trampling.

"What about you? You despicable hunchbacks! Your Boss is finished! Are you staying here to be reduced to ashes by my cannons?" Gromril threatened the Gloom Stalkers.

This had some effect. Having witnessed the dwarves' firepower, these Goblin scum became unsure of their daggers.

Fatis seized the opportunity to command several cavalrymen to feign a charge, repelling the remaining Gloom Stalkers.

"Hold! Hold!" Gromril quickly ran to the front of the line. He and the remaining fresh knight reinforcements filled the gaps created by battle losses.

Although they had lost the cover of the peasant archers, the convoy's artillery was undoubtedly more effective. The Night Goblins, fighting under the scorching sun, were losing stamina rapidly, and their attacks began to weaken.

"Master Gromril! I'm here!" Johnson Strongshield's booming voice rang out from the west side of the battlefield, accompanied by the sky-high orange topknots of the dwarf Slayers and the bloody storm they stirred up.

"Skarsnik, where are you! Come forward and die!" Roggof the Manticore Butcher switched back to his favorite two-handed great axe. One horizontal sweep from him could cut three or four scrawny Night Goblins in half at the waist!

He remembered Skarsnik, the name of this great enemy of the Mountains who had prompted the Ancestor Goddess to issue a special divine oracle. This Slayer, intent on death, led his companions directly towards Skarsnik's main army.

"Where did this dwarf come from! So brave!" Skarsnik was awestruck by Roggof's heroic bearing. He was not yet the future Eight Peaks Mountain general whose name would terrorize the Badlands and stop children's night crying!

He looked around at the several Goblin leaders, and it was clear that none of them dared to face the brave Slayer.

"You brats! Those who want to keep waaaghing, charge down the mountain for me!"

"Laosha! Don't save your magic! When you get to the Big Green, you'll have plenty of chances to use it. Cast your black mist trick for me!"

"Mozhetian! Raise my battle standard! I'm going to crush those shrimp and big-bellied traitors!"

Skarsnik issued three commands in quick succession. The continuous offensive failures and the gradual arrival of Gromril 's encircling forces finally made this intelligent Night Goblin anxious.

Soon, Gromril saw a black cloud appear above the Night Goblin vanguard. He couldn't see the situation inside, only hearing the Greenskins' strange cries and continuous "waaagh" battle roars.

Brockson, in the rear, clearly noticed this anomaly as well. He once again commanded the artillery to launch another volley. However, due to the black cloud's cover, the artillery crew couldn't aim and could only fire by feel. This round of shelling failed to stop the Goblins' desperate charge.

In an instant, Gromril saw a very tall Goblin Boss emerge from the black cloud. It held a large choppa, typically used by orks, in one hand, and a battle standard in the other.

Under the influence of the crescent-shaped, grinning yellow face on the battle standard, the surrounding Night Goblins became exceptionally frenzied!

"In the name of the Ancestors!" Gromril struck the Hearth and Home Rune, which awakened courage and pride in the hearts of the surrounding allies, allowing them to calmly and coolly face this final charge.

At this moment, Gromril realized the scarcity of runes he possessed. If not for the two active skills and active runes provided by the system, he would have almost been reduced to hand-to-hand combat with the enemy.

Fortunately, Fatis stepped forward. This tall Goblin ignited the Questing Knight's fighting spirit, especially his flag-bearing display, which made Fatis mistakenly believe he was Skarsnik.

He lightly dismounted from Emma's back, swinging his greatsword, intending to engage Mozhetian in close combat.

The tall Goblin did not show weakness. He tossed the Bad Moon Battle Standard to his subordinate, gripping his massive Choppa with both hands. Amidst a chorus of "Waaagh!" he prepared for a duel with Fatis.

The combatants on both sides instinctively cleared a space for their champions to engage in a one-on-one battle. No one wanted to be grazed by the powerful weapons in their hands.

This situation played right into Gromril's hands. As a Goblin, Mozhetian seemed to have allocated all the points meant for intelligence to strength. His choice of a duel at this crucial juncture made the Night Goblins' already narrow attack space even harder to expand.

Even with the blessing of the Bad Moon Battle Standard, the Night Goblins struggled to break through the defensive, delaying allied lines of the three races. Meanwhile, the three dwarf contingents were rapidly breaking through the Night Goblins' rear.

"Master Gromril commands! Regardless of which dwarf clansmen, whoever slays Skarsnik will be rewarded with ten Oathgold!" The voices of Johnson Strongshield and Bulkin echoed from both ends of the battlefield. This was the bounty Gromril had offered before setting out.

Ten Oathgold was a huge sum, even in a place like the Mountains Kingdom, where inflation was rampant. It was enough for a dwarf to purchase a set of standard meteorite iron plate armor or hire a Rune Smith to engrave one or two common runes. This was a great attraction for every dwarf warrior!

Now, this money could be obtained simply by killing a Night Goblin. Although that Night Goblin might be a bit larger, a Goblin was still a Goblin. How could it compare to an ork?

Watching the dwarfs openly put a bounty on his head, Skarsnik was thoroughly enraged. "Damn it, what Gromril! I'll tie that dwarf stub to a chain and play with him like a ball!"

Despite his bravado, seeing the dwarf forces rapidly breaking through under the cover of ranged fire, Skarsnik grew anxious. He now needed to contain the dwarf attack on his forces' rear while simultaneously achieving a frontal breakthrough to escape!

"Gork and Mork above! dwarf, die for me!" Skarsnik let out a strange cry. A ball of red and green intertwined light gathered at the tip of his staff.

When the malevolence from the Great Green accumulated sufficiently, he swung his staff forward, and a green missile, trailing a long comet tail, flew towards Roggof.

"Skarsnik's Stab!" Gromril cursed inwardly. He could only silently pray for his compatriots.

Given that Skarsnik, a legendary lord, possessed only one noteworthy piece of equipment, one could imagine the quality and power of this item. Its might was enough to make the dwarves, who possessed many high-quality items, gasp in awe.

This sharp staff was filled with pulsating magic. It could be used to channel the mighty power of Gork and Mork and unleash it in wild and terrifying forms.

This magic missile traversed half the battlefield at an incredibly fast speed. Roggof the Manticore Butcher reacted with astonishing quickness, dropping to the ground to dodge the fatal blow. Even so, a large chunk of flesh was torn from his back! And he didn't have time to warn his companions.

"Boom!" After an explosion, five or six dwarf Slayers immediately met their demise. These death-seekers didn't even have time to use their Deathblow to make a final stand before returning to the halls of the Ancestor Gods.

"Waaagh!" Witnessing this, the dwarves' fires of vengeance burned even more fiercely. This powerful ranged attack also exposed Skarsnik's position.

Now, every Son of the Mountains knew that the Night Goblin with the tall object on his cloak and the large pink fleshy ball by his side was Skarsnik!

Brockson was the most excited by this. He once again loaded tracer rounds into his double-barreled rifle. Two red streaks cut through the black clouds formed by Waaagh magic, illuminating Skarsnik's head.

Following closely were arrows launched by the Quarrelers and cannonballs from the fastest-loading cannons.

However, Skarsnik was experienced. Seeing the tracer rounds, he immediately moved, avoiding injury from the subsequent shots.

"Follow me! You useless runts! Watch how the great Skarsnik crushes these piles of scrap!" Skarsnik, wielding his staff, personally led a charge, surrounded by a group of warlords and personal guards.

"Waaagh! The Bad Moon shines upon us! Goblins are the greatest!" Skarsnik suddenly howled as he approached Gromril's lines. Frighteningly, with his howl, a circle of strange light waves spread from his body.

"Bad… Bad Moon's Malice!" Gromril frowned. Although Skarsnik did not have the ability to cast minor Waaagh spells, as a chosen of Mork, he undoubtedly possessed unique abilities that other Night Goblin Leaders did not.

The world of Warhammer Fantasy had two moons known as the Twin Moons: Morrsleib and Mannslieb. Morrsleib was called the Evil Moon or Bad Moon, and many evil, blasphemous rituals of the Chaos races were performed during its full moon.

Skarsnik's prayer to the Bad Moon ignited the warlike emotions of his worshippers, the Night Goblins, stimulating them to inflict greater pain on their enemies.

Under the eerie glow, these Night Goblins gained increased strength and agility. Their attacks became more powerful, and they were better able to find weaknesses in their opponents.

The pressure on the defensive line increased once again. The battle was like a scale, with both sides constantly adding and removing weights. Gromril once again struck the Rune of Fury and Destruction to curb the Night Goblins' frenzied assault. After a brief struggle, the dwarf rear guard fully pushed forward.

Skarsnik had no choice but to act himself. This Night Goblin Warlord, renowned for his cunning, was unwilling to display his violence unless absolutely necessary. Now, he had been pushed to a dead end.

"Mork is the greatest!" he roared, and red and green light once again converged at the tip of his staff.

Before he could unleash that deadly light missile, the Ogre mercenaries at the front, led by Ironhead Aykhatam, scattered. They were the tallest and had the clearest view of the incoming light missile's power.

Earning money was important, but having a life to spend it was even more important! Now, all that remained before Skarsnik were exhausted humans and a small number of dwarves!

"Come back! Come back to me! His staff doesn't recharge that fast!" Gromril realized something was wrong; such a powerful skill effect required a long cooldown! This cunning Night Goblin was bluffing!

But it was too late. These filthy creatures were incredibly fast, unwilling to engage in a prolonged fight, and charged directly through the gap left by the Ogres.

Gromril held his breath, knowing the success or failure of the plan now rested on his shoulders!

"Skarsnik, die for me!" To get a good vantage point for an attack and prevent his thrown warhammer from being blocked by the Night Goblin Warlord's bodyguards, he leaped into the air. Mid-flight, he locked onto Skarsnik's conspicuous tall-hatted figure with Stormhammer.

The battlefield was incredibly noisy, and Skarsnik himself was not known for agility or quick reactions. By the time he heard the warhammer tearing through the air and stopped his stabbing motion, the hammer was already flying above his head.

"Ow! Ow!"

"Thud!"

Gromril heard a few unusual sounds, and the entire battlefield seemed to fall silent. After landing, he began to assess what had happened.

It was Gobbla, the massive and loyal Cave squig, who had leaped up to block the fatal hammer for his master.

"Damn beast!" Gromril fiercely punched the air, recalling his warhammer. Seeing that his encirclement force was still a dozen meters away from their position, and considering the difference in movement speeds, he realized his Eliminate plan had failed.

Skarsnik struggled out from under Gobbla. To everyone's surprise, the Night Goblin did not immediately flee in the joy of surviving. Instead, he turned to check on the squig's injuries!

Although Gromril's meteorite iron warhammer was quite heavy, Gobbla was no ordinary squig. Even with the combined effects of a Level 1 Stormhammer and a Master-level Throwing Rune, it was not enough to directly kill the monster. Its fungal body was dented, but it was still alive.

"Boss! Let's go!" This was the voice of Laosha, the Night Goblin Shaman. He had spent a lot of effort shaking off the pursuing dwarves, and after finally reaching his Boss, he found Skarsnik had stopped his breakout.

"No, I'm taking Gobbla with me!" Skarsnik let out a heart-wrenchwrenching howl. For the treacherous and cunning Night Goblins, it was difficult for them to understand the bond between Skarsnik and Gobbla.

For Skarsnik, the squig before him was not just a lifesaver. In the Night Goblin society, filled with schemes and deception, even as a warband Boss, he had to tread carefully. He couldn't trust any of his subordinates.

He constantly suspected that a Night Goblin, perhaps Mozhetian, the strongest fighter, or Laosha, the most skilled spellcaster, might try to take his head in the night and replace him as the warboss.

Such suspicions were not unfounded; wasn't Skarsnik himself a product of such a rise to power? In such an extreme environment, a loyal companion was undoubtedly precious.

Gobbla was Skarsnik's pet, his helper on the battlefield, a friend to confide in, and his guarantee of a peaceful night's sleep! Skarsnik could not bear to lose him.

Under the Boss's threats, a few stronger Night Goblins bodyguards dragged, pulled, and carried Gobbla as they fled, but this undoubtedly slowed down the Night Goblins' escape.

Gromril almost burst out laughing at this hilarious scene. This was truly a pleasant surprise! While the Night Goblins were in a frantic mess, Gromril's eastern army, his Anvil Guard, had already outflanked them from the front.

These dwarf warriors, completely protected by airtight meteorite iron armor, took over the positions of the exhausted human adventurers. They completely blocked the not-so-wide mountain path of Undermountain Hold.

"Blast them! Blast them hard! Tonight, I want to eat fire-roasted green mushrooms!" Gromril breathed a sigh of relief, believing he was once again close to victory. However, he wouldn't relax, and decisively commanded the Iron Drakes to unleash their firepower.

These dwarves, wielding Iron Drake Handcannons, were full of pent-up frustration! They had gotten up early, traversed mountains, and after arriving, started moving stones and building barricades. After half a day of work, they were informed that the plan had changed, and all their previous efforts were for nothing.

Immediately after, they donned their meteorite iron plate armor and began to sprint. Their teammates in front, armed with axes and shields, could at least vent their anger by chopping at the less agile Night Goblins, but they hadn't even had a chance to fire!

Before they could find a firing angle through the gaps in their front-line teammates and aim, those Night Goblins had already vanished!

Now, the flames spewing from the Iron Drake Handcannons seemed to be the physical manifestation of their inner rage, making the Night Goblins wail and scream, wishing they could dig a hole in the ground.

"Hmph! Skarsnik, I'm going to scatter your ashes!" Gromril looked at the sea of fire before him, and tucked his warhammer back into his belt. Although he had the boost from his boots, he was still utterly exhausted from this journey!

Just as Gromril was about to go and confirm Skarsnik's demise, the situation suddenly changed again.

"Waaagh!" Behind him, on the mountain path leading to Bretonnia, the sound of a Waaagh echoed once more.

These sounds were quite deep and rich, incomparable to the sharp shrieks emitted by Goblins!

Gromril looked back and saw a large group of orks emerging from the forest. They wore no armor, only grass skirts covering their lower bodies, and their exposed skin was covered in strangely colored war paint.

"Savage Orcs? How did these bastards show up here?" Gromril felt a headache coming on. These guys were usually found in the jungles of the Southlands.

"Boom! Boom-boom!" The sound of drums with a strange rhythm began to play!

These Savage Orcs were not only barbaric in appearance, but they also beat drums and chanted before battle to ignite their bloodthirsty rage.

Although other orks found their primitive customs strange, they all agreed that Savage Orcs were extremely ferocious warriors.

These guys wielded large clubs, stone axes, and flint spears. Gromril looked down from the slope, and behind them, he could vaguely see some Savage Orc Arrer Boyz with crude bows.

Amidst their strange cries and the rhythmic drumming, these Savage Orcs parted to create a path. A small group of even taller, more heavily painted Big 'Uns, adorned with numerous shrunken heads, bracelets, and other totems, appeared.

They surrounded a giant War Boar, a beast comparable in size to a Griffon, but compared to its rider, the War Boar itself was less surprising.

"I, Wurrzag, Gork and Mork's chosen Greenskin prophet! Mork told me to come and see which one is Skarsnik!"

Gromril gasped as he looked at the group of Savage Orcs.

He was no follower of Tzeentch; as a legitimate creation of the Old Ones, Gromril had no desire to worship the Changer of Ways, nor did he like the uncertainties of its plans.

"The most cunning Mork told me, this little runt can't die, at least, not here and now!" Urzag - Green Prophet, riding on his War Boar, opened his gaping maw.

Gromril couldn't see the expression on his face, as the Savage Orc's large face was covered by a fierce mask.

The mask was painted with red and white colors and adorned with colorful feathers from an unknown bird.

This mask was rumored to have been drawn by Urzag based on his imagination of Mork, but under the influence of the WAAAGH! energy, it seemed to genuinely bestow the wearer with the great power of the Savage Gods, enhancing his defense and spellcasting abilities.

"In the name of Mother Goddess Valaya! Skarsnik's hatred shall be settled today!" Gromril roared, naturally unafraid of a few empty words.

To save someone from his grasp, mere words would never suffice, not even if the arrival was Urzag - Green Prophet, the prophet chosen by Gork and Mork and the strongest spellcaster among the current Green Skins!

"Ohoho! dwarf, it seems you are determined to block my path, eh?" Urzag gesticulated wildly on his War Boar.

"Watch out!" Gromril shouted loudly, seeing this.

Every movement of this legendary Green Skin Shaman, known as the Badlands Dance King, could almost channel the surrounding WAAAGH! energy, producing highly destructive effects.

"Gork, stomp him!"

Urzag raised his arms, making wild gestures to the sky.

Accompanying his roar, a ghostly green Big Foot descended from the sky, stomping towards Gromril and the dwarfs around him, accompanied by a loud squelching sound.

Urzag - Green Prophet might have been on very good terms with Gork, as his great WAAAGH! spellcasting speed was incredibly fast.

Gromril's warning had almost no effect, although even if the warning had been timely enough, he and his subordinates would have had nowhere to hide on the narrow mountain path.

Although this Gork's Big Foot did not cause much damage to the heavily armored Anvil Guards, the powerful impact sent the dwarfs who were directly stomped flying, breaking their previously dense formation.

Skarsnik keenly seized this opportunity, rushing out with his swiftest personal guards.

"Die!" Although Gromril was also knocked to the ground, he still refused to give up.

With a raise of his left hand, a Rune Fireball shot directly towards Skarsnik!

"What a troublesome dwarf! But I must heed Mork's words!" Urzag's eyes lit up, and the deepest malice from Mork converged into green beams of light that shot from his eyes, not at Gromril himself, but at the fireball he had launched.

With a "poof!", Gromril's Rune Fireball was neutralized in mid-air, and the green beam even had enough power left to strike the plate armor on his back.

Gromril grunted and rolled two or three times.

He turned his head to look at the two dents on his plate armor, realizing the disparity in strength between himself and the Green Skin Shaman before him.

Gromril knew that this Hate Gaze was not cast by Urzag himself, but was a skill attached to the strange mask on his face.

If it had been a spell cast by the Green Skin Prophet after a bout of his awkward dancing, Gromril would most likely not have been able to withstand it.

Skarsnik scrambled and crawled behind Urzag.

Although he didn't know why this strange fellow Green Skin was saving him—yes, orks and Goblins were both Green Skins, but they were at most kin, not considering each other to be of the same tribe.

But Skarsnik could only choose to trust this mad yet powerful Savage Orc, who constantly spoke of Gork and Mork.

During this time, the dwarfs were not idle; the three groups had converged and formed the dwarves' favorite formation: melee front-liners holding the line, and ranged attackers in the back.

Seeing that there was no opportunity left on the dwarf side, Urzag, who had only come to rescue the Goblin, also had no desire to prolong the fight.

He turned his War Boar around, preparing to leave.

Just as Gromril's dwarfs were sighing in exasperation that their great enemy of the Mountains had been snatched away at the last moment by an uninvited guest, they suddenly heard Gromril's voice.

"Hey! Urzag, I suspect you've got the wrong guy, I think I'm also a Chosen of Gork and Mork!" Gromril suddenly spoke.

These words left the dwarfs present dumbfounded; no one understood what was wrong with this Chosen of the Goddess.

Perhaps? Perhaps he had just taken a large dose of the fresh, bewildering mushrooms they had just confiscated?

Urzag - Green Prophet turned around upon hearing this.

He scrutinized Gromril from head to toe, then burst into maniacal laughter.

"Hahahaha! dwarf, are you trying to make me laugh so hard I can't cast my tricks anymore?

If so, you've certainly succeeded!"

"What are you laughing at, you poor fool misled by appearances!

How dare you call yourself a Green Prophet with that attitude?

You should just step aside for me!" Gromril said dismissively, mocking him lightly.

"Hahahaha! To be a Chosen of Gork and Mork, you first have to be a Green Skin, don't you?" Urzag and the Savage Orcs behind him roared with laughter, bending over backward.

"Here, give me a cloak!" Gromril commanded a Ranger.

He took a green cloak, draped it over himself, and asked, "Now what?"

"dwarf, what are you doing?" Urzag was stunned; Gromril's abstract behavior had him baffled.

He decided to set aside the question of the Green Skin's appearance definition for now, lest this mad dwarf find a bucket of green paint or a dyeing squig to literally dye himself "Green Skin."

"I reckon, I reckon you at least need to be WAAAGH! enough, right?" Urzag changed the subject.

"Am I not WAAAGH! enough?

Are my lads and I not WAAAGH! enough?" Gromril spun the hammer in his hand, mimicking the Green Skins' way of speaking, and gestured with his chin towards the Night Goblins' corpses on the ground behind him.

"Hmm, well, I admit, ever since I received the grace of Gork and Mork, you're one of the more WAAAGH! guys I've seen." Urzag was quite respectful of the facts, affirming Gromril's battle results.

"But, I reckon, we Green Skins are both cruel and cunning, and both cunning and cruel!

How can a stubby dwarf like you, with a head full of mud, compare to us?"

Urzag continued to mock, and hearing his words, the Green Skins once again howled, even the small group of Night Goblins who had just escaped began to act tough on borrowed prestige.

Gromril put his hands behind his back and waved them repeatedly to suppress the anger of his clansmen behind him, "Cruel?

What a joke!

Am I not cruel enough?"

Gromril once again looked at the scattered limbs of the Night Goblins. For Urzag - Green Prophet, who had just started out and had been wandering in the Southlands and Badlands, the efficiency of the dwarves' slaughter, relying on muskets, cannons, and flamethrowers, was something he had never seen before.

The Southlands were either full of skeletons with rusty weapons or Lizardmen in the jungle. The Savage Orcs, bare-chested and wielding crude weapons, were evenly matched with these guys, but facing the already industrialized dwarves, they could only call it cruel.

"Alright, I reckon you're cruel enough, but what about cunning? Kicking me hard in the butt isn't proof of your cunning, is it?" Urzag's face was hidden behind a fierce mask, so Gromril couldn't tell what his expression was.

"Cunning? Come here, I'll show you!" Gromril raised his left hand, seemingly holding something in his palm, and at the same time, his right hand became restless behind his back again.

"What? I can't see it!" Urzag mumbled, nudging the war pig beneath him. The massive war pig, named "Raging Ripper" by its owner, grunted twice and carried him closer to Gromril.

"Watch closely!" Gromril waited until Urzag had moved three or four body-lengths closer before suddenly throwing his warhammer at him with his right hand.

"Wahahaha! I knew it! You want to sneak attack my great Green Prophet, but your stone head isn't good enough!" Urzag seemed to have truly anticipated it. He half-turned on his war pig and knocked Gromril's warhammer away with the bone-wood staff in his left hand.

On one hand, Gromril's Stormhammer was still on cooldown. Although he trained frequently, the warhammer he threw himself lacked a bit of power.

On the other hand, Urzag himself was incredibly strong. Although he was a spellcaster, he was also a powerful ork favored by Gork and Mork. The quality of his staff, covered in magic talismans and adorned with a pile of strange pendants, was at least as good as, if not better than, Gromril's warhammer.

Suddenly, Urzag, who was laughing maniacally, realized something was wrong. The warhammer he had deflected from Gromril had made a dull thud, but he seemed to have heard another sound?

Urzag quickly turned his head. What he saw was Skarsnik's headless corpse; to ensure he was thoroughly dead, there was also a large hole in his chest.

"Well done!" Gromril smiled at Brockson behind him. The young engineer was gently blowing smoke from the barrel of his double-barreled rifle.

Just now, Gromril, in a moment of quick thinking, used his courage and wisdom to attract the curiosity of Urzag - Green Prophet. When he was lured forward, Skarsnik, who had been blocked by his war pig, was revealed.

Although Brockson now had space to shoot, Gromril felt it wasn't enough. Gromril didn't know how fast this legendary Green Prophet Shaman's reactions were, or if he had more hidden cards.

To ensure nothing went wrong, he attacked first again, attracting attention and creating an opportunity for Brockson to make the kill!

"Gulu Gulu!" A string of muddled words came out of Urzag's throat. No one knew if he was giving orders, talking to himself, or communicating with the great Green Prophet gods he served.

After a moment of silence, Urzag lifted his head. His crimson eyes stared at Gromril through his mask.

"That little runt being taken out by you just means he's no good! I reckon I really found the wrong one!" Urzag said somewhat indistinctly, his mouth wide open.

"You are, indeed, cunning and cruel, dwarf. I heard Them call your name! I'll remember this debt!" Urzag left a menacing threat, rode his war pig over Skarsnik's remains, and disappeared into the dense forest.

"Phew!" Gromril let out a long breath and collapsed onto the ground. This battle was full of twists and turns, but fortunately, he finally achieved his goal.

"Clean up the battlefield! I, no, I need to rest!" Gromril struggled to his feet again. Although after repeated battles of wits and physical exertion, he was literally physically and mentally exhausted.

But having just successfully executed the Ancestor Goddess's divine oracle, he, the Chosen of the Goddess, couldn't just collapse on the ground unconcerned with his appearance.

"Thank you to every one of us here for fighting to the death! I believe that through these victories, we will eventually settle every deeply ingrained hatred and restore the glory of the Mountains Kingdom!"

Gromril made a few perfunctory remarks, but he knew what was more important right now was to deliver the goods—shiny dwarf gold coins.

"Brim Brockson, son of Brokk, the Guild Master of the Engineers Guild of Zhufbar, he commanded the artillery brilliantly today, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy, and finally personally killed the great enemy designated by the Mother Goddess! I will honor my promise and reward him with ten Oath Gold coins!"

Gromril began the commendations on the spot. As for the pursuit, well, after Urzag - Green Prophet displayed his formidable strength, neither Gromril's subordinates nor the dwarves of Undermountain Hold had any such idea.

Gromril's subordinates protected the convoy out of duty, supported Karak-Azgaraz out of kinship, and fought to kill Skarsnik for the Mother Goddess's oracle.

And while the dwarves of Undermountain Hold had the idea of continuing the chase, on one hand, they couldn't catch up, and on the other hand, after a long siege battle, they were already nearing their limits. As for the Ogre mercenaries and human troops, there was even less to say.

"Come on, warriors, claim your deserved rewards, then clean up the battlefield so green mushrooms don't sprout next year!" Gromril pulled out ten Oath Gold coins and placed them in Brockson's hand, then continued.

Upon hearing this, Johnson Strongshield and his teammates took out their money bags and began distributing dwarf gold coins. Gromril had long understood the principle that heavy rewards attract brave warriors. Compared to words, the clinking of gold coins was undoubtedly more effective in boosting morale.

Every human received their due amount, and for a time, praises for Gromril's generous actions echoed through the sky. In contrast, Gromril's subordinates felt that every gold coin given out was as painful as if an equal volume of flesh had been cut from their own bodies.

Watching his wealth being distributed, Gromril felt no discomfort. He then realized that he had gradually overcome the gold-lust inherent in his bloodline. Before he could savor the joy of overcoming himself, Ironhead Aykhatam approached him.

"Boss, my, my wages?" He scratched his helmeted head, looking up at Gromril's expression despite lowering his head.

"Grimnir's fury! Do you even dare to mention that?" Gromril glared at Aihe Tanmu.

Gromril's angry words sent a shiver down Ironhead Aykhatam's spine, but he still wasn't ready to give up on the gold that might be his. To some extent, Ogres' craving for gold was no less than that of dwarves.

"Uh, Boss, I heard you dwarves are the most trustworthy race in the entire Old World! You wouldn't go back on your word, would you?" Aihetanmu's mind raced, and he decided to try to negotiate further.

"That's right, we Sons of the Mountains always keep our promises!" Gromril replied with a smile.

"Gold? Do these shameless fellows deserve it?" Captain Grenson cursed from behind Gromril.

"Come, take the money!" Gromril remained unmoved, taking two full coin purses and counting out five hundred pieces, placing them in front of the Ogres.

"The remaining two hundred and fifty pieces agreed upon when I hired you, plus the extra fee I promised when I came down the Mountains, let's make it two hundred and fifty pieces as well!" Gromril said loudly amidst the clansmen's whispers.

"Wahahaha, thank you, Boss! Thank you, Boss! You truly are the most generous and trustworthy dwarf I've ever seen!" Aihetanmu beamed, reaching out his two large hands to gather the gold coins into his arms.

"Not so fast, my Grom the Paunch friend!" Gromril stepped forward, pressing his warhammer on one of Aihetanmu's hands.

"My side of the bill is settled, shouldn't yours be too?" Gromril said with a fake smile. He had no intention of letting this outwardly simple-minded but inwardly cunning Ogre off the hook so easily.

"When the cannon fired, you and your people didn't act immediately!"

"That, that was, I said, I was asleep and didn't hear it!"

"Oh? Is that so? Then I'll pull the cannon closer later so you can hear it clearly!" Gromril had been too eager for help earlier to bother, but now was a good time to settle accounts.

"Another thing, that green skin, you ran away when he waved his scepter? That's not what we agreed on!" Gromril pressed on; the Ogres' retreat had almost caused him to fail.

"That, I, I was scared. Its glowing orb was too waaagh!" This time, Aihetanmu couldn't find a good excuse either; he could only hang his head.

"Oh! You can be scared? How about it, isn't my warhammer scary?"

"Scary, scary!" This clever Ogre quickly gave in. He and his people were now surrounded by nearly a thousand dwarves.

If Gromril wanted to, he could annihilate these large fellows, who lacked armor and relied only on their natural abilities in combat, at a very small cost.

"I, I don't want the extra gold anymore!" Aihetanmu pushed half of the gold back towards Gromril.

"Hehe, wishful thinking! You wouldn't think your job was done, would you? Extra gold? I'm going to deduct some!" Gromril shook his hammer.

"Alright, alright! Boss, you call the shots!" Under the pressure of the dwarves, Aihetanmu pushed half of the remaining gold back towards Gromril.

"This time, that's all. Consider it a lesson for you! If there's a chance, maybe we can cooperate again!" Gromril thought highly of this somewhat intelligent Ogre; he didn't want to push him too hard.

Aihetanmu left dejectedly with less profit than originally agreed. Before they left, they took many Goblin corpses. The reason was self-evident, but this also helped the dwarves clean up the battlefield, so Gromril did not stop them.

After sending off the Ogres, Gromril entered the not-too-large dwarf fortress through the main gate, amidst the enthusiastic welcome of the Lord of Karak-Azgaraz.

"Respected Chosen of the Goddess, I am immensely grateful for your generous support!" In the hall of Undermountain Hold, Gromril was once again seated in the guest of honor's position.

"Please forgive our inadequate hospitality!" With that, the dwarf lord in front of him took off his helmet. Gromril was surprised to find that this dwarf was very young, not much older than Big Brother Grom, and possibly even similar in age to Tomi.

"Please don't take offense, my father, Lord Steadfast, returned to the Ancestor Gods' halls earlier this year in the war against Grom the Paunch. I was urgently appointed by the fortress elders to take charge of the situation and haven't had time to go to Everpeak to meet His Majesty Thorgrim, your father. On the other hand, I still lack considerable experience as a lord."

The dwarf in front of him spoke at length, partly because he saw the surprise on Gromril's face regarding his youth, and partly to explain his previous and potentially future shortcomings in hospitality.

"The Ancestor Goddess blesses every Son of the Mountains, my condolences!" Gromril proclaimed a divine name. He understood that the young lord, who had taken on this responsibility in a crisis, bore a heavy burden.

As they spoke, the chefs of Undermountain Hold first brought out beer and cold dishes.

"Please!"

"Please!"

The two dwarves exchanged courtesies, and Gromril drained the beer in his cup.

Suddenly, he noticed something was off, trying his best to control his expression.

The dwarf beer he tasted was not the rich and smooth kind he had drunk along the way; instead, it was rather thin, lacked punch, and had a bitter taste.

Gromril realized that the top-quality beer and wine he had consumed on his journey had spoiled his palate. After all, he usually didn't like to drink; when he did, it was for social occasions at banquets, and the quality of the alcohol was naturally good.

"Good wine, good wine!" However, Gromril showed no emotion and still praised it loudly.

"Hahaha! I'm glad you can get used to it. This is our Undermountain Hold's self-produced fine wine. I believe she is not much worse than Bergman's excellent brew!" The young dwarf lord smiled upon hearing Gromril's praise.

"I was too excited to see you just now and forgot to introduce myself. I am Savaak. Well, currently, I don't have a title worthy of the Lord of Undermountain Hold. But I believe I will soon! I swear by the ancestors of Undermountain Hold!" Savaak suddenly remembered and introduced himself to Gromril.

Halfway through the meal, a local Iron Hammer Guard ran over. He whispered a few words into Lord Savaak's ear and then retreated to the side.

"Respected Chosen of the Goddess, I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself. There are still some remnants of the black Groms underground that I need to deal with!" Savaak cupped his hands at Gromril, finished his bread in two bites, put on his helmet, and left the table.

This was not a formal celebration or welcome banquet, but merely a post-war feast. After eating, Gromril was led by two dwarves to a guest room on the upper level of the fortress to rest.

Along the way, Gromril noticed that many parts of Undermountain Hold's walls were damaged and unrepaired. Many male clansmen had bandages on them, and the number of shops open for business in the streets was not large. These observations gave him a certain understanding of Undermountain Hold's current situation.

Gromril first washed away the blood and fatigue with hot water, then used the rune communicator on his hand to send a long-short-long signal to Lord Borok, who was far away in Karak Norn, informing him of the successful lifting of the siege.

After he finished all this and briefly maintained his armor and weapons, he lay on the bed to rest. But what he didn't know was that the recent great battle had also caused ripples in the warp.

In the illusory fortress, spitting out an eerie blue flame, the Raven God sat behind the Eternal Well, whose gloomy depths were said to hold the answers to all questions.

The Great Deceiver and God of Magic gazed into the surface of the well countless times through twisted time and space, intently searching for clues that would enable Him to implement His unspeakable plan.

Suddenly, He noticed a ripple in the Eternal Well. "Oh? That interesting little dwarf!" The Demon Bird God muttered to Himself after observing for a moment.

"My loyal servant, come to Me!" He said to the surrounding void, without context.

As soon as He finished speaking, a twisted portal opened in the void. From within a blue-pink halo, a blue, bird-like demon stepped out. He was a huge, feathered creature with a carrion bird's head perched on a tottering, long neck.

This was a Lord of Change, a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch. In principle, a Lord of Change does not consider it necessary to maintain consistency in their color, appearance, or even shape, but out of respect for the god they serve, they habitually appear in this form.

"My God, Zarok, the Fate Weaver, has answered your summons. How may I serve you?" The Lord of Change bowed in Rei.

As he lowered his head, a pure red feather on his back was revealed, and as his wings fluttered, four eye-patterned feathers, resembling peacock tail feathers, appeared on each of his left and right wings.

He held a staff and dagger that appeared to be made of liquid mercury. The top of the staff was a large golden clock with countless twisted hands, and the dagger was shaped like an enlarged clock hand.

Lords of Change are capricious and skilled in numerology. Beneath their gaze lie strange and formidable thoughts, profound wisdom, but they are indifferent to reality, as if everything is their own illusion.

Lords of Change are like children playing with a giant anthill, poking its inhabitants with sticks and then laughing at their strange and feeble resistance.

To them, nothing is more amusing than destroying and rebuilding a world, changing the trajectory of a life or history itself, or dashing the hopes of some while elevating others to supreme power.

"I previously discovered an interesting little fellow in the world where the losers of the Heaven War are hiding," Tzeentch's voice slowly rang out.

"Kill him?" Zarok made a throat-slitting gesture.

"No, not yet! Keep an eye on him for Me. Just now, this kid took out a guy favored by those crazy, messing-around green things, which caused a ripple in fate."

Tzeentch's voice echoed through space as He patiently explained to His subordinate, Zarok, the Fate Weaver. From his title to his feathers, which were interspersed with gold and iridescent colors, it was evident that this Greater Daemon was extraordinary.

Tzeentch's sacred number is nine, and Lords of Change are also divided into nine ranks, each with a grand title. However, unlike Khorne or Slaanesh, because Tzeentch is unpredictable, even the most favored Greater Daemon can fall out of favor in the blink of an eye.

Undoubtedly, Tzeentch's ranking criteria are inexplicable, often appearing baseless even to His most intelligent servants. Currently, Zarok enjoys the favor of the Chaos God.

"Report any new interesting changes to Me in a timely manner!"

"As you wish, O Omniscient and Omnipotent Holy Tzeentch!"

Zarok gently flapped his wings and flew out of the illusory fortress. He would descend to the mortal world to carry out his master's mission, though Gromril was unaware of any of this.

By dusk, Gromril was once again awakened by a knock on the door. He tidied his clothes while tugging at his beard.

The slight pain from his chin told him it was all real; he had truly killed Skarsnik, the future warlord of Eight Peaks Mountain.

With the joy of victory, Gromril opened the door. Guided by two local dwarves, he once again headed to the previous fortress hall.

After an afternoon, Gromril found that the hall had been thoroughly cleaned and new festive decorations added. Clearly, for this fortress, which had just endured two sieges and the death of its old lord, the recent victory was something worth celebrating.

Gromril waved to the clansmen along the way as he walked towards the stage. He noticed that the Knights of Bretonnia and several leading humans from the caravan were also invited, and these humans occupied two tables by themselves.

This indicated that Karak-Azgaraz, as a fortress in the Grey Mountains, was more open than the dwarf cities in the World's Edge Mountains.

"clansmen and human friends! Let us all raise our glasses and celebrate today's victory!" The young Lord Savaak was quite emotional; this could be said to be the first commendable joyous event since he took office.

Undermountain Hold was not a very large dwarf fortress, and being a lord here was not easy. With the rising power of Chaos, more and more dwarves living outside the Mountains or in smaller settlements smelled an ominous scent.

Those with strong resolve actively abandoned their original livelihoods, bringing their families back to the Mountains for their safety. Others were forced to return for refuge after their settlements were disturbed or even directly conquered.

For large Karaks with abundant resources like Everpeak and Hornburg, this influx of foreign dwarves brought more labor, accelerating their own development.

But for smaller Karaks already plagued by resource scarcity, it brought more pressure. The foundation of dwarf existence is mining and forging, but undoubtedly, the content of underground mineral deposits is limited.

As for craftsmanship, with no significant increase in the purchasing power of surrounding order races, an increase in practitioners would only lead to more competition.

To further develop agriculture, the Grey Mountains had barren land, and arable land was limited and mostly already developed, with the newly arrived foreign dwarves even causing food shortages.

Gromril's feeling that the local beer tasted poor at noon was also affected by this. Original wort concentration is an indicator affecting the nutrition and taste of beer, which is closely related to the amount of malt added during brewing.

How could the dwarves of Undermountain Hold, already suffering from food shortages, have sufficient malt for brewing? Gromril analyzed a lot from a simple glass of beer, combined with his observations and understanding along the way.

Young Lord Savaak, facing the predicament of Undermountain Hold, lacked both the experience and methods to solve problems, as well as the prestige to suppress conflicts.

Grumm the Great Belly King's Waaagh exacerbated the influx of foreign Dwarves. Undermountain Hold's former king, Lord Wayfinder, out of a sense of duty, took in many clansmen, but unfortunately died in the subsequent battles, leaving the population pressure to his young son.

As Lord Savaak concluded his opening remarks, Gromril was invited to speak. He naturally displayed his 'Silver-Tongued Leader' trait, praising every local dwarf and caravan member present without missing a beat, and finally, he lauded the Mother Goddess's grace.

Although Gromril couldn't see the degree of corruption outside of his High King faction in the system, he understood that after this banquet and his speech, the cohesion of Undermountain Hold's clansmen had undoubtedly strengthened.

After winning the battle, Gromril immediately dispatched Rangers and a small contingent of troops to rendezvous with the merchants who were still waiting for news at their original camp.

With the help of local carriages and surplus labor, they successfully arrived at Karak-Azgaraz before the banquet, avoiding spending the night in the wild where residual Greenskins might not have been cleared.

Upon learning that the local wine reserves were insufficient, Gromril decisively paid out of his own pocket to purchase a portion of the Bergman's fine brew carried by the caravan for the Dwarves present to drink freely, which undoubtedly led many clansmen to cheer for his generosity.

Gromril fell into thought upon hearing such cheers; he suddenly felt that giving himself a title related to moral quality might be a good idea.

The moment he led his troops to slay Skarsnik, the system prompted him that he had gained the title 'Trickery Unveiled,' which also confirmed that the Night Goblin was thoroughly dead.

According to the system's description, this trait would increase his ambush success rate and his chance of detecting ambushes, but for now, Gromril himself hadn't figured out how this mechanism worked.

After the banquet, Gromril and Lord Savaak agreed on a meeting time for the next day and returned to his guest room.

The caravan would stop at Undermountain Hold for a week. According to the original plan, there was no need to stay too long in such a small city, but Gromril now believed a short rest was necessary.

This was the last dwarf fortress before reaching Karak-Zfirin, and the closer Gromril got to his destination, the less he rushed. After all, besides ensuring the caravan's safe arrival, he also had two personal matters for himself and his elder brother to attend to, and these clearly couldn't be rushed.

That night, Gromril once again put on the fake beard he had used earlier in Hornburg. He blended into Undermountain Hold's bar, hoping to gain a more comprehensive understanding of the difficulties facing Undermountain Hold from this traditional information exchange center of the Dwarf race.

In the long run, Undermountain Hold was an important part of the Mountains Kingdom; in the short term, Gromril would pass through here again on his return journey after the New Year, and he did not want to fight another major war.

Gromril sat from about eight in the evening until late at night. After pretending to be an outside merchant exploring potential markets and buying a few rounds of beer for the local regulars, he even figured out which girl Lord Savaak was interested in.

With a clear understanding, Gromril left the tavern to rest. He was scheduled to have lunch with Lord Savaak the next day at noon.

Early the next morning, Gromril first went to visit the caravan's wounded soldiers. The Dwarves who came with Gromril suffered minimal losses in the previous major battle, as the real pressure was concentrated on the Ogre and human contingents.

Bulkin planned to return today with the troops supported by Karak Norn. On one hand, the Underway network leading to Barren Fort had been cleared by the caravan on its way here, so returning while no new Chaos creatures had appeared was the safest option.

On the other hand, due to the war started by Lord Arik Luferson, every dwarf from Barren Fort was also worried about the safety of their homeland.

The Bretonnians would also depart today. The survivors had already received the rewards Gromril promised, and many of them even spent some of it on the spot.

Gromril entrusted the compensation for the fallen to dwarf merchants who were going to various knightly domains to sell goods and purchase local products, asking them to deliver it on his behalf.

This would at least ensure that the gold coins were delivered directly into the hands of the poor families of the fallen, without being siphoned off at various levels. However, whether they could keep the money their loved ones had paid with their lives, Gromril did not know, but that was also beyond his purview.

At noon, Gromril arrived at the Lord's chambers in the upper part of Undermountain Hold; this was a private banquet for two.

"Heh, Gromril, I truly envy your life!" After exchanging a few pleasantries, Lord Savaak got to the point.

"How I wish I could be like you, traveling throughout the Old World, gaining knowledge, and honing my skills!" Lord Savaak took a sip of beer from his cup.

"But before I could put it into practice, my father returned to the Ancestor Gods' hall. Alas, at my age, the elders are always telling me what to do, and the foreign clansmen are also…"

"Bang!"

"Let's not talk about it!" Lord Savaak had been rambling for a long time. He drained his beer, slammed the mug down, and ended his complaints with this classic phrase.

In the young Lord's view, Gromril was the only person he could confide in at the moment, simply because Gromril's status matched his own, and their ages were not too far apart.

"I understand, I understand, who isn't like that?" Looking at the young dwarf, who appeared somewhat haggard from internal and external troubles, Gromril offered words of comfort.

Lord Savaak, feeling empathy, began another round of complaints. This time, he spoke of external threats. Karak-Azgaraz, located in the Grey Mountains, was a natural dividing line between Bretonnia and the Imperium of Man.

Therefore, in addition to the usual troubles with Greenskins and rats, whenever the human factions on both sides of the Mountains had minor or major conflicts arising from territory, trade, and so on, Undermountain Hold, caught in the middle, always found it difficult. Her strength was not great enough, making it hard to remain neutral.

"I think perhaps I can offer you some help!" Gromril said, gently tapping the table. He had already thought about what he could provide last night.

"First, the population pressure! You can announce that clansmen willing to seek development in the World's Edge Mountains should pack their bags, and I can take them along when the caravan returns!"

Gromril proposed this first. He knew that Karaz-A-Karak once had a population of five hundred thousand during the Golden Age, but now it was far from that number. Many halls and chambers were empty, and many mines lacked workers to exploit them.

"That would be a great help! Cheers!" Lord Savaak poured Gromril a drink.

Savaak beamed with joy that the internal conflicts had been alleviated, but that wasn't the end of it; Gromril was about to give him more good news.

"Did you happen to see the two Organ Guns I brought with the convoy?" Gromril posed a new question.

"I did notice them; they cut down those filthy dwarf-goblins like harvesting wheat. What about them?" Lord Savaak was very cooperative.

"Well, I'm looking for a suitable buyer for them. Are you interested? I can offer a discounted price!" Gromril directly put forward his suggestion. In his opinion, acquiring artillery was undoubtedly the best and most convenient way to enhance Karak-Azgaraz's self-defense capabilities.

"Discounted price?" Lord Savaak stroked his black beard, which was not much longer than Gromril's, pondering the benefits and potential information it contained.

"I'm personally very interested, but I'll have to discuss it with the Elders of the Hold!" It was evident that Lord Savaak was tempted, but he couldn't make a unilateral decision on an expenditure of this magnitude.

"It seems you are quite constrained by those Longbeard Elders, aren't you?" Gromril prepared to give the young Lord in front of him a push.

"Alas! Those fellows, they nominally respect me, but behind my back, they scheme and conspire, only looking out for their own clan!" These words struck a chord with Lord Savaak, and he began another lengthy complaint.

"Do you have any advice? I believe the High King has a lot of experience in dealing with such issues!" Lord Savaak glanced around, then lowered his voice to inquire, ensuring no one was eavesdropping.

In fact, Thorgrim Grudgebearer did have a lot of relevant experience; he was not the son of the previous High King, Auricsson, and was nominated by his clan to run for election after all his cousins had died in battle.

He was later crowned King at the King-making Assembly based on diplomatic achievements, such as restoring contact with the Norscan Dwarfs after thousands of years of separation.

Thorgrim himself came from a mining background; his personal combat strength was decent but far from outstanding, and his Drazklad Clan also suffered heavy losses during the Chaos invasion, only gradually recovering in recent years.

Being able to maintain internal stability in the Everpeak under such circumstances, while constantly employing military and diplomatic means externally to settle grudges big and small, undoubtedly proved his superb political skills.

"Hmm, I'll give you three pieces of advice for now!" Gromril took a sip of beer and began his lecture.

"First, maintain humility and respect!" Gromril decided to start with the most easily accepted point.

"Indeed, as their beards grow, so does their experience and wisdom. In many cases, the advice of Elders is very valuable." Gromril recalled the help he had received from his elders since his transmigration; this was something he felt personally.

"I think, sometimes it's best not to use your status to forcibly suppress them, especially since, well, your succession was, to some extent, so smooth because you had their support."

Gromril analyzed Lord Savaak's specific situation, of course, also trying to make his advice softer and easier to accept.

"Of course, I know you may have heard similar things many times. My second suggestion is that you might consider promoting and appointing new people!" Gromril directly ended the first commonplace topic.

"New people?" Lord Savaak pondered, not quite fully grasping the term.

"Capable clansmen who are loyal to you! Of course, 'new people' doesn't necessarily mean young in age; those who were previously overlooked and frustrated can also be included." Gromril briefly explained.

This was Thorgrim Grudgebearer's approach; he seized various opportunities to promote his cousin Longhammer and his younger sister Sonia into the clan's Elder Council, and they undoubtedly provided strong support to Thorgrim.

He also vigorously supported the Gromril brothers in improving their skills and making a name for themselves. It was foreseeable that these two brothers would become capable lieutenants for their father.

"Injecting fresh blood into the management, besides ensuring you have people available when needed, might also stimulate the stagnant Elders to strive for improvement. If that truly happens, it would be an unexpected bonus." Gromril continued to analyze the potential effects.

"Brilliant, truly brilliant!" Lord Savaak listened with great interest; he was already eager to experience the taste of wielding great power.

"However, if I may be so bold! How do I create opportunities to promote my own people? You know, Karak-Azgaraz isn't a very large Hold, and management positions are limited!" Lord Savaak hit the nail on the head, which made Gromril a little awkward.

Previously, Balin at Barren Fort was not very keen on suggesting competition among dwarf Lords, and now Gromril also did not want to directly intervene in the internal power struggles of Undermountain Hold.

"I once heard a proverb: 'Man is the city, man is the wall, man is the moat.'" Gromril frowned; he decided to let Lord Savaak ponder it himself first.

"City, wall, moat?" Lord Savaak knew the meaning of these three words; they all represented defensive structures. Although moats were uncommon on the surface of dwarf Holds, they still often used them to hinder Greenskins and Skaven, who also had tunneling abilities.

"Do you mean that as long as the internal unity is strong enough, it can form an impregnable fortress?" Lord Savaak's knowledge as a dwarf was adequate, but his comprehension was still a bit lacking.

"And then? How is that related to what we were talking about?"

"There are many ways to strengthen the internal unity of your Hold!" Gromril finally understood how Balin must have felt then.

"Such as? Drinking more with everyone?" Lord Savaak began to recall his father's practices during his lifetime.

"Ah! You can find a way to separate the centrifugal forces, that is, those stubborn, unwilling-to-unite fellows, understand?" Gromril tried to put it more subtly; he threw out a word from his previous life, but immediately realized and made a correction.

Thorgrim indeed had such operations; for example, Lord Lauren the Timelord, whom Gromril met in Karak-Drazh, was deliberately exiled by Thorgrim.

With the words put so plainly, the young dwarf Lord finally understood. However, how to implement it specifically was his own business; Gromril would not and could not interfere in such matters.

Although he hoped Undermountain Hold could change and revive, at least not face the threat of falling again after some time, Gromril's identity was sensitive, and he could not directly help with internal issues. Giving a few pointers on the approach was already his limit.

Lord Savaak was extremely grateful for Gromril's help. There was no doubt that this assistance directly alleviated Karak-Azgaraz's most immediate difficulties and illuminated the future direction of Lord Savaak's rule.

"Honorable Chosen of the Goddess, words alone are far from enough to express my gratitude for your generous assistance! You hail from Everpeak, and I do not know if there is anything in this desolate land that would catch your eye. How about you go to my treasury and pick out an item for yourself?" Lord Savaak decisively offered his repayment.

"Hahaha, you really don't have to be so polite; this is a mutually beneficial matter! We Sons of the Mountains should help each other!" Gromril immediately declined.

After two more rounds of polite refusal, Gromril nodded in agreement under Lord Savaak's earnest invitation. In Gromril's perception, Undermountain Hold probably didn't have too many rare items.

The truly high-quality equipment here was likely already on Lord Savaak himself and the other high-ranking officials. The treasury probably only contained strategic reserves slightly above average. Moreover, the initiative to choose was in Gromril's hands, so he could advance or retreat freely once inside.

Seeing Gromril agree, Lord Savaak wasted no time. The two quickly finished the remaining food and then headed to the lower levels of the Mountain Stronghold.

Along the way, Gromril noticed that the joy of victory and the arrival of the merchant caravan had injected some vitality into the fortress. The small city had a bustling, crowded appearance.

Soon, the group arrived at the entrance to Undermountain Hold's treasury, guarded by a small mixed squad of Iron Hammer Guard and Ironbreakers.

Lord Savaak stepped forward to explain their purpose. Some of the guards immediately bowed and stepped aside upon hearing him, while others required the young lord to expend quite a bit of effort to persuade them before granting passage.

Such a situation occurring in front of the Chosen of the Goddess made Lord Savaak's face flush and gave Gromril a very direct understanding of the instability of his rule. It seemed this young man still had a long way to go.

After Lord Savaak opened the door, he gestured for Gromril to enter alone, which was undoubtedly a sign of trust. Gromril did not stand on ceremony and stepped through the warehouse door, which was inscribed with protective runes.

Although he had anticipated it, Gromril still couldn't help but frown upon seeing Undermountain Hold's collection. In his opinion, the value and quality of the items inside were even inferior to the raw material storage he had entered during his Rune Smith Guild assessment.

One must remember, that was not the Rune Smith Guild's true treasury at the time; it was merely a raw material storage room!

The items displayed here could be seen to the end at a glance. First, there were some meteorite iron equipment inscribed with common runes. They could be considered rare treasures, and in the Dwarf race's combat hierarchy, only elites like the Eternal Hammer Guard were equipped with them.

But that was the extent of it. Gromril did not see any exquisitely crafted weapons inscribed with master-level runes, let alone more precious legendary equipment.

Other items included some local specialty ores and raw materials of decent rarity, such as furs, some finely crafted jewelry and artifacts, and bags of gold coins and oath gold.

Gromril looked around, feeling uninspired. After all, he came from nobility, and these things didn't quite catch his eye. To be honest, the value of his battle boots, ring, and warhammer combined was almost equivalent to all the assorted items in this room.

He began to consider whether to take a decent plate armor as a temporary measure or simply take a bag of oath gold to replenish his wallet, which had shrunk considerably due to the large distribution of war bonuses.

Just then, he noticed several sundry boxes in the corner. These usually contained items of unknown purpose but potentially useful. Given the Dwarves' love of wealth, they would not abandon any potential riches unless there was absolutely no space to store them.

"Let's just rummage through them! It'll be a learning experience!" Gromril shook his head and walked to the boxes. As he brushed away the dust that had settled on the box lids from being unopened for so long, a system prompt suddenly appeared.

"spur gear detected!"

Gromril's heart skipped a beat. Well, the second artifact fragment had appeared. It seemed this trip was truly worthwhile!

Gromril's spirits lifted, and he quickly rummaged through the clutter in the box. Soon, he retrieved a heavy gear, made of an unknown material, with slight traces of rust.

"Congratulations, Host, on acquiring the spur gear!"

Hearing this prompt, Gromril knew he had found the right thing.

The spur gear is one of two fragments that combine to form the artifact Mogrim's War Gears from the Vault. Legend has it that under the guidance of Mogrim, the engineer God, the Ancestors built the first war machines—ballista, Grudge Throwers, and Bolt Throwers—using a series of gears.

Gears can transmit power, change the speed and direction of movement, and have advantages such as high transmission efficiency and a large transmission ratio, as well as a long working life.

With these initial war machines, the Dwarf race completed its expansion. Groups of powerful enemies were slain or driven out, and Mountain Strongholds were successfully built. Many traditional strongholds still use them today.

The production standards for dwarf gears were set by Mogrim using this set of artifacts. As they and the Ancestor Gods disappeared without a trace, the production standards of different Karaks gradually diverged, which led to a decline in product performance.

If Gromril finds the other pentagonal gear and reforges this set of artifacts, he will be able to perform a unique Mogrim ritual, standardize production processes, greatly increase the range, power, and ammunition capacity of ballista, crossbows, and Grudge Throwers, and reduce reloading time.

As Gromril walked out of the treasury door holding this unassuming gear, he saw several long-bearded Dwarves whose beards reached the ground arguing with Lord Savaak.

When they saw Gromril emerge, most of them fell silent, but one old dwarf jumped out.

"Let me see what this outsider, young'un, has swindled from Karak-Azgaraz?" he shouted disrespectfully at Gromril.

When Gromril magnanimously showed them the spur gear, these fellows were dumbfounded.

"This, this is...?" The old dwarf in front of him was stunned. He didn't even know such an item existed in the treasury.

Gromril wouldn't explain the gear's miraculous uses to them. He simply maintained a faint smile, looking at these "country bumpkin" Dwarves with a hint of disdain!

After a brief exchange of glances, the clansmen's old faces turned red. They became increasingly embarrassed. Gromril's smile, coupled with the gear in his hand, felt like loud slaps across their faces.