"His power is as vast as the ocean, yet he never demands anything from his followers!" Gromril repeated. This was no deity; he was clearly a great philanthropist. With the previous conversation as a prelude, he had a good impression of the Scholar before him.
"So, who is he?" On a whim, Gromril asked this question. Although everyone knew he was the Chosen of the Goddess, deep down he knew he relied on the system and hadn't truly given his faith to anyone.
"Hahaha, time is almost up. Let's talk next time we meet!" Puterke surprisingly stopped talking. He stood up, pulled on his hood, pushed open the door, and went downstairs, leaving Gromril alone in the room, still wanting more.
"Who exactly is he?" The unknown always sparked curiosity, and Dwarves were no exception. "This person is truly something, hiding things at the crucial moment!" Gromril looked at the rising sun, grumbled, and climbed back into bed.
Upon waking, he went to the Duke's castle to inform Constantine of the news he had just received. The young man, still recovering from the shock of The Lady of the Lake's manifestation, was immediately shocked again.
Considering that the Dwarf race currently had little influence in Bretonnia, Gromril did not intervene in the subsequent power struggles. Constantine had his own helpers and loyalists to assist him in eliminating potential competitors.
As the only remaining legitimate son, he was already the primary candidate for the succession, and he had received the news in advance. If he still couldn't seize the opportunity, he could only blame his own incompetence.
As agreed, Gromril assisted in the defense of Bordeleaux city until the Duke returned. When the middle-aged Duke stepped off the ship, those in the know said he looked ten years older than when he departed.
The Duke, having tragically lost his eldest son but being powerless to prevent it, naturally named Constantine as his heir, hoping to appease the Sea God's wrath. Rumors also circulated in the court that once the power transition was smooth, the Duke would take the Questing Vow to seek the Holy Grail, and whether successful or not, he would no longer concern himself with worldly affairs.
Gromril kept a low profile, observing all of this unfold. Before leaving, he and Constantine reached the same agreement as with the Duke of Bastonne – to send troops to the Badlands in the future to reclaim Karak-Eight-Peaks, and then jointly develop the Badlands.
In addition, Stringer, on behalf of Karak-Zfirin, signed some more in-depth trade agreements with Constantine to allow Breezehold's high-end goods to flow out through the port of Bordeleaux.
Cousin Tomi was not idle during the siege. As one of the few who knew the exact return time of the Duke's fleet, even without cargo on hand, he still earned a considerable sum for himself and Gromril by short-selling, leveraging the information asymmetry.
The Dwarves, laden with spoils, set off on their journey back to Breezehold. Lord Rorick's progress at Blackstone Stronghold was also smooth. He had defeated the Vampires and, like his Ancestors, sought to further occupy the Gint Mountain mines. The spoils brought back this time also served to replenish his military funds.
For the next two months, Gromril was not entirely idle. Although he did not engage in any further conflict, he personally visited the nearby duchies of Gisoreux and Montfort, gaining insight into their customs and reaching similar verbal agreements.
The Duchy of Montfort, located along the Grey Mountains, had infertile land. The Duchy of Gisoreux, apart from a small plain, was mostly unusable forests and mountains.
Their lords all had a strong desire for expansion, and reaching an agreement with the Dwarves, known for keeping their promises, that required no immediate outlay, was not a difficult decision.
Gromril's diplomatic journey was made even smoother by his heroic exploits in relieving Bordeleaux city, where he bravely and strategically defeated the enemy, and by the intentionally circulated, exaggerated "Knightly Epic" about him.
"Chosen of the Goddess, Emissary of the God of War, High Prince, Rune Master, Stormhammer, the Generous" – these were the more valuable titles Gromril had acquired so far. Lesser titles obtained from events, such as Savior of Helmgart or Leviathan Slayer, were not worth mentioning.
In the blink of an eye, it was time for the caravan to return. Carriages were ready, and besides dwarf merchants, some humans also wished to travel with them. To avoid the taxes at Helmgart fortress, they were willing to cross mountains and valleys to join the tax-exempt caravan.
Three small clans from Breezehold and its surrounding settlements were also to accompany the caravan to the World's Edge Mountains for development. Gromril's population migration strategy, bolstered by his personal prestige, achieved good results.
Gromril sat on the anvil of doom, inspecting his troops. The burden on him had not lightened for the return journey. Sister-in-law Pamela, in addition to her own carriage, carried her dowry and a considerable amount of private money.
Prince Stringer, somehow, convinced his parents and was also to depart with the team to the Rune Smith Guild at Everpeak. He intended to complete his professional certification and, incidentally, seek opportunities to learn more.
Lord Rorick arranged twenty Iron Hammer Guards to personally protect his two children, in addition to their handmaidens and advisors. This was normal; the children of dwarf great nobles always needed capable individuals to command when traveling abroad.
A formal Rune Smith and twenty strong Dwarves undoubtedly enhanced the caravan's strength. A significant proportion of the five hundred clansmen from the three clans were also qualified warriors.
Gromril successfully passed Axe Bite Pass and, a few months later, re-entered Helmgart fortress. It had already recovered from the Skaven invasion. Former Witch Hunter Sir Monk was very vigilant. After repelling a Skaven sneak attack, he evaded an assassination attempt by Clan Eshin and diligently carried out his duties.
After a few days' stop to take in human merchants, Gromril continued to Undermountain Hold. Here too, there was a completely new atmosphere. City walls were being rebuilt in a hurry, and the young Lord Savaak had initiated sweeping reforms.
His methods were somewhat radical, but in the long run, they might be effective. This small fortress had reached a point where a complete overhaul was needed. Many clans who had lost power in the reforms joined Gromril's caravan, also hoping to find opportunities at Everpeak.
Knowing that Savaak had once pursued his sister-in-law, meeting again would inevitably be awkward. Gromril did not linger, and after a brief rest, urged the caravan forward. This time, his group had swelled considerably, and the added elderly, weak, women, and children greatly slowed their pace.
"I wonder how Lord Ruferson's revenge mission at Hornburg is going!" Gromril sat on his rock ram, stroking his beard as he looked at the scenery, lost in thought. This section of the road had just thawed, and no news had come through before.
"Master Gromril, a clansmen wishes to see you!" When they made camp in the evening, a scouting ranger suddenly came in to report. "He, he doesn't look very presentable. Do you wish to see him?"
"Why not? Please, let him come in and warm up; there's always enough stew for one more bowl!" Gromril chuckled as he sat by the fire.
He considered himself a man who respected the wise and humble, at least when he wasn't busy.
Just think, if he didn't meet that Clansman, in this wild, mountainous place, he would just be listening to his compatriots chat and boast, passing the time until he could crawl into his tent to sleep.
Soon, an old dwarf, simply dressed, even a bit shabbily, approached Gromril. His long beard was dusty grey, tied with a simple rope belt, and he wore no decent ornaments at all.
"May the Ancestor Goddess be with you, Master Gromril!" The old dwarf bowed slightly.
"Please, sit, my compatriot!" Gromril understood why the Ranger thought he was undignified; at his age, not having accumulated enough wealth was generally a sign of a less capable dwarf.
But since he had come, Gromril wouldn't turn him away; there was always enough hot soup.
"I am a traveler, searching for ore veins in this area, and I also earn a few coins with my tools and wisdom. Do you need me to maintain your equipment? Or perhaps I can offer some advice?"
The old dwarf sat down beside Gromril, pulling his backpack from his back to use as a cushion. It looked heavy, bulging with what seemed to be his work tools.
"Hmph! Master Gromril and I are both Rune Smiths! What need do we have for your maintenance? Don't even..." Gromril hadn't answered yet when Stringer exclaimed.
The young man, freed from the suppression of his teacher and family, was inevitably a bit unrestrained.
"For now, not really. Let's eat first. Since you came from Karak Norn, tell me about the situation there, and I can offer you some compensation." Gromril politely declined the offer to maintain weapons.
The old dwarf spoke of what he had seen and heard while eating. "Not too good, not too bad!" The old dwarf gulped down half a bowl of soup and began.
"This story starts with Arik of Karak-Heorn. In winter, when everything in the Athel Loren Forest withered, he marched out for revenge. Everything went smoothly for the first few days, but after destroying several of the Pointy-ears' settlements, he ran into a large group of hooved creatures."
The old dwarf's words seemed to carry a deep hatred for the Elves, though this was common among the elders.
"Beastmen, those mutated abominations of Chaos, they aligned with Arik. I don't know whether he should be ashamed or proud of that."
"And then? A three-way battle?" Gromril guided the old dwarf to complain less and get back to the main topic.
"Indeed, a chaotic battle. That was the Pointy-ears' stronghold, and the Beastmen were as numerous as rats in a burrow.
Arik managed to pull back in time, but he still paid a considerable price." Seemingly grieving for the fallen clansmen, the old dwarf sighed before taking a puff from his pipe.
"And now? Is the road ahead to Barren Fort safe?" Gromril asked the question he truly cared about.
"Winter has passed, and all things are reviving. The Pointy-ears have once again received help from the forest spirits, and they will soon drive the Beastmen out of Athel Loren."
"Old man, why are you talking about all this irrelevant stuff! Just answer what Master Gromril asks you!"
Stringer interrupted the old dwarf. Born of nobility, and accomplished at a young age, he had put in much effort to escape the nagging of his parents and teachers.
How could he tolerate listening to a down-on-his-luck, unfamiliar Clansman babble in this mountain hollow?
"Don't be so impatient, young'un," the old dwarf said unhurriedly, unfazed by Stringer. "In the old days, whether humble or noble, all Dwarves had to set aside time to learn."
"You..." The young Rune Smith grew anxious.
"Ah, just let him finish, or you can go sit over there!" Gromril stepped in to mediate; he wanted to see through to the end what he had started.
"Hmph, huff!" Stringer stood up and moved to another campfire, and Gromril gestured for the stranger to continue.
"It was safe when I came through, but that doesn't mean it will be safe when you go!" The old dwarf puffed out a cloud of smoke.
"Isn't that just stating the obvious?" Gromril thought to himself. His clansmen around him were not as good-tempered as he was, and they immediately started grumbling.
"I can give you some advice: a qualified leader must discern the opinions of those around him. If they tell you to go west, you should go east; if they tell you to go north, you must go south; if they tell you to stop, you should keep moving forward." The old dwarf spoke in riddles.
"What nonsense are you spouting, old man! Master Gromril is a Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess, a messenger of the God of War Grimnir! The Ancestor Gods guide his path, he doesn't need you to spout empty words here!"
Before Gromril could respond, Captain Grenson couldn't hold back.
"I'm not saying these words for him, but for all of you!" The old dwarf's tone remained flat.
He leaned in and whispered another sentence into Gromril's ear before shouldering his pack and stepping into the wind and snow.
"His warning is as unconvincing as his empty purse." Brockson muttered, watching the old dwarf's retreating figure. He, too, was a young man who disliked being lectured.
Only Gromril watched the disappearing figure, deep in thought. The sentence whispered into his ear was: "Those fellows, what's in your head might not be enough to deal with them!"
This was almost Gromril's biggest secret.
Carrying the confusion that could only be buried deep in his heart, Gromril set off again early the next morning.
Along the way, the Dwarves encountered some Gorehorns. These creatures are the basic components of Beastmen warbeast packs, and encountering them was not a good omen.
Gorehorns are visually a hybrid mixture of beast and human. Their basic form is a goat's head and goat's legs with a human's upper body, covered in fur, reeking, and wandering around with crude weapons and strong bodies.
These basic troops are comparable in combat power to the low-level troops of human factions, and when not in large numbers, they caused little trouble for the Dwarves.
Gromril successfully arrived at Karak-Grig, a small settlement between Barren Fort and Undermountain Hold.
It was built on a small iron mine, where about a thousand clansmen from several clans had made their home.
They informed Gromril that traces of higher-tier Beastmen, such as Great Horned Beasts and Centigors, had been found nearby.
This settlement was only a little over a day's journey from Barren Fort, and although there was the threat of Beastmen, Gromril was forced to depart the next morning.
His party, including warriors, merchants, and migrating clansmen, already numbered over three thousand, and Karak-Grig simply could not accommodate so many people.
Gromril urged the convoy eastward in the early morning mist, deploying as many scouts as possible due to the potential Beastmen threat, and ensuring that the combat-ready clansmen migrating with the group were prepared for battle.
Adult dwarves are basically all competent warriors; with their pure steel armor and weapons, they can easily deal with three or four human professional soldiers. But the problem is that the dwarf population is simply too small compared to humans.
No dwarf Lord, unless pushed to the brink, would allow clansmen without professional combat training to step onto the battlefield. Against the various monsters of this world, they lack the power to resist, and the losses would be unacceptably high.
Gromril wanted to speed up the march, but he found he couldn't. The old, weak, women, and children, along with the heavily loaded wagons, kept the pace agonizingly slow.
It was then that Gromril finally began to regret. He now understood why, despite their difficult lives, those clansmen had been unwilling to relocate before. In this era where dark forces were gradually rising, safety in the wilderness was too hard to guarantee.
In the morning, they only encountered scattered Gorehorns and Ungors. By lunchtime, the Rangers brought back worse news.
"Master Gromril, we've found Harpies!" With that, they brought a disgusting corpse before Gromril.
It was a winged creature, with the upper body of a human female and the lower body of a raptor. Unlike human lips, their lips were twisted and slanted, extending to the sides to reveal sharp fangs stained with blood and saliva.
"This is trouble!" Gromril thought. What he hated most was the enemy gaining air superiority. This meant his every move would be under the control of hidden enemies.
"There are Centaurs following us!" Brockson also rushed from the rear to report. Although the mountain paths carved by the ancestors were quite wide, the three-thousand-strong convoy still stretched for over a thousand meters.
Centaurs, also known as Half-men, have the body of a horse combined with the upper body of a human. These four-legged beast-human hybrids possess both speed and strength, and can wield savage weapons, making them natural mobile units and scouts.
"When night falls, we'll be in trouble!" The dwarf leaders reached a consensus. The appearance of these creatures meant the war-beast horde was not small.
"How about we turn back to Karak-Grung?" Prince Stringer was a little worried.
"That means, go west?" Gromril mumbled. The Grey Mountains run east-west, so going back meant going west. He recalled the advice of the old dwarf: when others tell you to go west, you should go east.
"No! We must keep going!" Gromril shook his head and said.
"I say, you don't actually believe that old dwarf, do you?" Stringer wasn't so easily convinced.
"No, that settlement is too small to accommodate so many people, and it's not defensible. That's just one reason!" Gromril knew he needed to explain a bit to this young colleague and newly made relative.
"Another reason is the lack of sufficient supplies. Think about it, winter has just passed, and the clansmen's food there would be depleted. Our convoy's supplies are replenished along the way. If we run out of food, how will we defend? We'll only be more passive!"
Stringer nodded and returned to his post; what Gromril said was indeed true. After lunch, the convoy continued its march. This time, the Beastmen were not just scouting; they began to harass Gromril's convoy.
Centaurs carrying throwing axes and Ungors with bows and arrows ambushed, appearing and disappearing in the forests on both sides of the mountain path. Although Centaurs were somewhat clumsy, their four legs moved like the wind. The Rangers could hit them but found it difficult to kill them.
While Ungors are indeed the weakest in Beastmen society, compared to their other kin, they are undoubtedly more agile and cunning. Their developed hands can even craft blasphemous runic artifacts and produce weapons for their clumsier brethren.
If the harassment by ranged units only annoyed the dwarves and caused them to tighten their formation to protect the women and children more closely, by dusk, they encountered a somewhat decent ambush.
The Centaurs, who had been patrolling the periphery, threw down their throwing axes and picked up heavy battle-axes and halberds that required two hands to wield. Under the supervision of a screaming Shaman, covered in filth and with various primitive and terrifying cultic symbols painted on his fur, they charged out of the forest.
These creatures, born and raised in the wilderness, could easily conceal themselves in the forest. Fortunately, the Rangers, as long-lived species, had accumulated experience dealing with various races, and they discovered the Beastmen's hidden assembly.
Gromril promptly deployed a portion of the Anvil Guard to the flanks of the convoy. They withstood the charge of the beast horde, but the cannons couldn't be deployed effectively on the mountain path, and these clansmen couldn't pursue into the forest. The Centaurs left behind only a few corpses but still slowed down the convoy's progress.
Having just fought off the Centaurs, another group of Great Horned Beasts and regular Gorehorns, led by a Beast King, blocked the path ahead of the convoy.
The Beast King's thick-haired head sported massive, long horns, sharp and sturdy as swords, and its powerful body was covered in scars and crude tattoos. Fatis's former nickname, "Beast King Horn-breaker," was derived from creatures like these.
Gromril himself commanded the center, while Rogov—now a Leviathan Slayer, who was clearing the path ahead—fought a battle with the Beast King. Both were experts with axes and were evenly matched.
The Beast King stood over three meters tall. Beastmen society, similar to other warring races, is structured with the strongest fighter as the leader. However, in battle against dwarves, its height became a disadvantage.
Its battle-axe swung wide, each move exuding a ferocious aura, but it couldn't be effectively wielded against a dwarf whose net height, excluding his crest, barely reached its knee. Rogov rolled and darted within its axe-swinging range, unleashing a flurry of hacks. The larger the target, the more satisfying it was to cleave with his two-handed heavy axe!
Soon, the Beast King was defeated, but it retreated into the forest under the fierce cover of its heavily armored Great Horned Beast bodyguards. These creatures were far larger and sturdier than their kin, and they wore armor plundered from unknown sources.
In addition to being relatively tough, the Great Horned Beasts wielded heavy, armor-piercing weapons. Many clansmen were injured by their attacks.
By dusk, the convoy had only managed to cover half of its planned route. When they stopped to rest, the leaders gathered again.
"We can't keep marching on the ridge. The long, narrow convoy is constantly being harassed, and it's difficult to organize an effective counterattack!" Balin summarized everyone's opinion.
"You're right, we really can't keep being live targets like this," Gromril agreed with the engineer's suggestion. "Bring me a map!" he commanded at the same time.
"What do we need a map for? We're definitely going down the north slope!" Brockson handed him the map, grumbling.
"I say we need to go south!" Gromril stared at the map for a moment.
"Are you kidding me! That's Athel Loren Forest, full of green Pointy-ears!" Captain Grenson cried out. Normally he wouldn't contradict Gromril like this, but what the Longbeard Elder had just said seemed truly outrageous to him.
"You can't believe…"
"Listen to me, clansmen!" Gromril raised his voice, holding up the map. "If we go north, what's there?"
"Wissenland, isn't it?" Balin asked.
"Indeed, the Imperium of Man's Wissenland, a vast plain under Wissenland!" Gromril didn't directly deny it.
"We'll have no cover, and with Harpies scouting from above, at our current marching speed, we'll inevitably be caught and cornered by those filthy mutated monsters. Fighting them in the open will only make things harder for us!"
"But…" Captain Grenson was still insistent.
"Yes, the forest is the Wood Elves' territory, and according to the information provided by that traveler, they are the direct reason the Beastmen are here. While there is indeed animosity between the two races, their hatred for us is nothing compared to their hatred for the Beastmen!"
Gromril quickly stated his point of view. The origin of the Wood Elves also goes back to the War of the Beard. After the dwarves won and killed Phoenix King Caledor II, Malekith's Dark Elves launched an attack on Ulthuan—the High Elves' homeland.
The succeeding Phoenix King, Calardel the Peacemaker, called for the Elves in the Old World to return to Ulthuan to defend their original home.
But there were also some who adamantly refused to leave their new homes where they had lived for a long time. These Elves later settled in Athel Loren Forest and became known as the Wood Elves.
The Wood Elves were regarded as traitors by the High Elves of Ulthuan. They lived in seclusion in Athel Loren Forest and had no direct conflict with most dwarf strongholds. The dwarves of the World's Edge Mountains disliked these fellows simply because of their Pointy-ears.
"In the dense forest, aerial scouts won't be effective! I believe as long as we don't actively attack the Wood Elves, they won't move against us. If we are truly attacked, Barren Fort, Hornburg, and even Breezehold and Everpeak will seek revenge on them!"
Gromril convinced his clansmen. Despite all their prejudices, the dwarves acknowledged that Wood Elves were still a sentient race. They would weigh the pros and cons rather than fighting solely driven by bloodlust.
According to Gromril's analysis, temporarily taking refuge in the forest and waiting until the Wood Elves had completely driven out the Beastmen before asking for passage was indeed more feasible than entering Wissenland.
The dwarves had closer ties with humans, but Wissenland hadn't fully recovered from the Greenks' invasion, so it was hard to expect the lords there to actively come out and meet the dwarves.
After a brief discussion, they quickly decided to find a place on the southern slope of the Grey Mountains to spend the night. The Beastmen had already been driven to the edge of the forest, and the fighting would likely end soon. Then, they could reach Barren Fort in a little over half a day, and the caravan's supplies would be just enough if they conserved them.
Gromril quickly marked a logging outpost and an abandoned mine on the map. No one knew the situation in the forest, and they needed to adjust their direction at any time based on the enemy's movements, so more than one overnight location was considered.
Gromril sent out the Rangers and Slayers. He moved like a spider weaving a web, acting and waiting for feedback to react accordingly.
In Gromril's mind, he would personally direct the caravan's advance from the center, quickly annihilating small enemy groups and adjusting direction to temporarily avoid large ones.
But in practice, his ideal was grand, but reality was a bit stark. Commanding a group with a large number of non-combatants was not as effortless as it once was.
Gromril felt a strong sense of impedance, or perhaps this feeling had been present during their original march, and the special circumstances merely highlighted it.
Traces of the enemy came from all directions. The protection of the forest indeed prevented Harpies from easily spotting Gromril and his clansmen, but this didn't change the fact that this was the Beastmen's home turf.
"Only the west has slightly fewer enemies. Should we move in that direction?" The defense leaders from each side reported the situation.
"What's to the west?" Gromril tugged at his beard. He was now in a dilemma. The ordinary clansmen accompanying the team were not like professional soldiers and couldn't endure long journeys.
Their steps were getting slower and slower. If they couldn't find a place to set up camp and rest soon, it was likely that some would fall behind. These clansmen had chosen to join the caravan's migration out of trust in Gromril, and he absolutely could not abandon them.
"I don't know! Make a decision, Master. We still have the strength to fight now, but if this continues, the entire team risks collapsing!" Johnson reminded Gromril that besides physical capabilities, ordinary clansmen also had lower psychological endurance.
"Alright then, we'll go that way! As for the rest, let's leave it to our warhammers and axes!" Gromril stood on his anvil of doom so that more of his clansmen could see him and boost their morale.
The roars and bellows echoing through the forest were like a drumbeat of doom, and every dwarf tried their best to move their feet.
Gromril suddenly had an ominous premonition: the enemy wanted to keep his forces constantly on edge, exhausting their stamina as much as possible, waiting for the most opportune moment to launch an attack and crush them.
"Look over there, Master!" Two Rangers rushed back, whispering their report into Gromril's ear.
Gromril jumped off the anvil of doom to investigate. He found that this part of the forest had been twisted and desecrated. The trees had grown numerous tumors and thorns, and the power of Chaos had altered their physiological structure.
"The forest spirits in this area have all suffered!" Gromril muttered, remembering the Dryads and their lord, Drycha, the Calamity Thorn.
"Indeed, but the real trouble is over there!" The Ranger gestured for Gromril to walk a little further. What lay before them were a set of gigantic footprints. These footprints were large enough to fit Gromril himself!
"Giants? Four-Armed Bull Centaurs? Or a Ghorgon?" Gromril's heart skipped a few beats as he looked at the footprints. If these giant beasts were to charge into the ordinary clansmen and slaughter them, then he would truly be a sinner.
Upon discovering traces of the giant beast, Gromril grew anxious. He rewarded the reporting Ranger with two Vow Gold, one for the news he brought, and the other for his discretion in quietly informing him.
If the clansmen knew that a giant beast, beyond the power of mortals to contend with, was lurking nearby, it would undoubtedly be a huge blow to morale. In such a situation, if anyone decided to leave the main group, it would likely be a death sentence.
"Faster, we must be faster, my clansmen, hold on!" Gromril had the Guards set up the anvil of doom by the roadside. He stood atop it, encouraging the clansmen passing by.
"Moo! Moo!"
"Minotaur!"
"Form ranks! Everyone else, clear out!"
Most of the clansmen had passed Gromril when the Beastmen caught up. Johnson Strongshield's loud voice once again proved effective in the noisy environment. The Anvil Guard quickly formed ranks with the rearguard to face the pursuers.
Gromril saw over a dozen bipedal Minotaur monsters, with clouds of dust raised by their kin behind them. These creatures were hunched over, heads lowered, their horns – capable of disemboweling an opponent with a single thrust – pointed low for goring.
Watching the Minotaurs charge with thunderous momentum, every Anvil Guard felt a secret panic. There wouldn't be such impactful creatures in the Underway network. But their vows and courage compelled them to hold their ground.
"These pure-love warriors are truly workaholics; no world can do without them!" Gromril, of course, wouldn't sit by and watch a tragedy unfold. As large units, Minotaurs could charge at high speed even in the forest, because they would simply trample down low bushes.
"Earth, unleash your fury!" The Rune of Fury and Destruction caused the ground in the Minotaurs' charge path to crack open. In Athel Loren Forest, due to the concentration of magical power, Gromril's rune power was also enhanced.
However, Minotaurs are truly monsters born for war. They have thick fur, and their muscular, bulging bodies are covered in coarse but heavy armor. Gromril's rune could only interrupt their charge, causing little damage.
The Minotaurs, wielding axes, approached the dwarf ranks. They had a strong desire for battle, a craving for slaughter, a hunger for flesh and blood.
This group of Minotaurs wielded two single-handed battle-axes, perhaps because their usual opponents, the Wood Elves, were mostly lightly armored, which would increase killing efficiency.
However, their single-handed axes were still larger than the Dwarves' two-handed heavy axes. Combined with the Minotaurs' bodies, which were even stronger than Ogres, they could still transfer the impact force through armor to the Dwarves' bodies.
The Anvil Guard's line was shaken. The meteorite iron armor groaned under the chaotic, mutated strength. Gromril could even smell the bloody scent emanating from the Minotaurs' flaring nostrils.
"Fire! Otherwise, we won't get rid of these guys!"
At Gromril's command, the Iron Drakes opened fire, and a dozen tongues of flame licked at the Minotaurs. The creatures' fur caught fire, and the grease from their victims, accumulated through their rampant slaughter and gluttony, also served as an accelerant.
The dwarf Engineers' secret fuel kept the flames burning for a long time, which undoubtedly revealed the dwarf team's location to enemies hidden in the darkness—a truly desperate measure.
"Hurry up!" Gromril covered the wounded as they quickly caught up with the team.
"Why aren't they moving ahead? Why stop?" A moment later, Gromril realized something was wrong.
"Master, there's a narrow valley ahead!" The message was relayed from the front of the team.
"Isn't that good? Easy to defend, hard to attack, a perfect place to spend the night!" Gromril was quite puzzled.
"But, but that's a dead end!" Balin ran over. Stringer, who was scouting ahead, had sent him to negotiate with Gromril. "If we go in, how do we get out?"
"So, are we supposed to set up a formation at the valley entrance then?!" Gromril roared.
"Boom!"
As he spoke, a huge rock landed beside Gromril, and two unfortunate clansmen were directly thrown flying!
Looking at the stone, which was about the size of an adult dwarf, every well-informed dwarf knew where it came from!
"Cyclops!"
"Quick, get in!"
Now no one questioned Gromril's order to proceed deeper into the valley. Cyclopes are not a variant of Giants, but rather distant relatives of Minotaurs. Unlike those who can only wield crude tree trunks in melee, these massive creatures can hurl stones or other hard objects they find with greater force than a catapult.
The Dwarves began to quickly squeeze into the valley. Gromril loudly called out to Stringer. This Prince displayed a calm composure in crisis. He and Sister-in-law Pamela, along with their attendants, maintained order, preventing potential crowding and trampling.
Gromril seized the opportunity to direct the combat units to form a battle line, buying time for all the civilians to enter the valley.
"Hehehe, dwarf, you've found yourself a nice grave!" A screaming Shaman with black wings rose from the darkening forest. Its voice was not loud, but its blasphemous whispers seemed to pour directly into the Dwarves' chests, making their hearts itch.
"Malagor - The Dark Omen!" Gromril recognized the Beastmen Lord in mid-air by his pitch-black wings and the assorted blasphemous symbols on his body.
"Is it really him?" Balin's voice trembled slightly. "Malagor is depicted by the followers of Sigmar as a symbol of blasphemy. The Cult of Sigmar has sealed all ancient scrolls that describe this blasphemous being. The priests claim that merely reading the words that defame the gods would cause one's mind to collapse."
"Otherwise, what? Aren't those black wings the best feature of the Crow Father!" Gromril looked at the legendary Beastmen Lord in the air, who wouldn't stop babbling, and he instinctively tightened his grip on his warhammer.
"Inferior beings, thank me, the prophet of the true god, for granting you glorious evolution!" Malagor hovered in the air, the blasphemous objects hanging from his body swaying in the wind. From the broken flesh of human priests to the defiled fragments of holy scriptures.
With Malagor's shout and gesture, a dark power spread from him as its source. Gromril tried to use the anvil of doom to disrupt his casting, but it was clear that The Dark Omen had strong magical control.
Unexpectedly, Gromril and the dwarf warriors around him felt no abnormality. Before they could mock the weak spell, they heard bestial screams and roars coming from the team that had already entered the valley.
"What's going on? Are there ambushes in the valley?" Gromril's heart trembled.
Some of the humans who were originally traveling with the caravan were gradually mutating; some grew fur on their bodies, while others' teeth were elongating into fangs!
"Beastform! That, that guy can amplify the savage and bestial parts of humans' souls deep within their minds! If this continues, these poor people will completely turn into Beasts!"
Stringer's consultant recognized this terrifying Wild Magic, and his alarmed cry instilled fear in the dwarfs. Some clansmen with wavering resolve also began to twitch painfully.
"Quick, Hearth and Home Rune!" Gromril shouted from afar. This Rune, which could awaken a sense of honor and courage in people's hearts, could counter damage that directly affected the depths of the soul.
Stringer reacted, quickly invoking the Rune's power. The dwarfs' mutations stopped, but the young Rune Smith's power was still far from enough to contend with the legendary Shriek Shaman. Although the mutations of those weak-willed humans were slowed, they continued.
"Act, Prince! They, these human friends will understand you!" The consultant calmed down, looking at the pitiful individuals who had lost their human forms, with blood-red eyes and drooling mouths. He quickly advised.
"This, I..." Stringer hesitated, holding his forging hammer.
"Hehe! Little one, follow your own heart, release your desires!" Malagor raised his staff again. This Beastmen, blessed by the Chaos Gods, was adept at seizing any opportunity to drag his opponents into the abyss.
"Noisy crow, shut up!" Gromril would not sit idly by and watch Malagor cast. Since activating the anvil of doom was useless, a direct physical interference with a hammer would be better.
A Stormhammer whistled towards the Crowfather in mid-air. Being a spellcaster, Malagor dared not take a direct hit and was forced to flap his wings to dodge, interrupting his vile spell.
"dwarfs, you are a bit tougher than the frail hoofless ones, but what does that matter? You still can't dodge our Gorehorns!" Seeing the dwarfs enter the narrow Mountain Stronghold entrance, Malagor simply stopped wasting his magic.
If prepared in advance, with enough vile totems set up, and with the blessings of the Herdstone, Evil Moon, and so on, Malagor, the Harbinger of Darkness, could even twist an entire town into a Beastmen's paradise at once.
However, dwarfs naturally possess a certain resistance to Chaos corruption, and Malagor arrived hastily, with the timing, location, and human factors out of sync, severely limiting his ability to corrupt minds.
"Charge! I hear the whispers of the Gods, brave ones, you shall be elevated!" Malagor waved his staff, showering the blessings of the Chaos Gods upon his subordinates.
The legendary Shriek Shaman's favor, besides its wings, also included its deep, unique voice. Its voice seemed to reach the depths of the soul, and when it chanted spells, it could even invigorate listeners and increase their speed.
Large groups of Beastmen emerged from the depths of the dense forest. Their numbers were almost comparable to the skaven, but even the weakest of them had combat power equal to or slightly higher than a Clanrat. As Malagor cast his spell, a cloak of dark power condensed behind these Beastmen.
"In the name of Ghorok, crush the fools who do not revere the Gods!" Malagor unleashed a high-level Wild Magic spell—Ghorok's Cloak, significantly enhancing his subordinates' lethality. This spell originated from the first Minotaur of the realms, rumored to possess storm-like power.
"Fire! Three-stage firing method!" Gromril commanded, watching the charging horde of Beasts. Due to the narrow Mountain Stronghold entrance, the ranged units could not fully deploy, so they switched to a different firing method.
The dwarf archers formed three ranks. The first rank fired, then retreated to the back of the line to reload, and then the second rank of warriors stepped forward to fire. The three ranks of clansmen alternated reloading and firing, and the dense barrage suppressed the Beastmen's attack.
Malagor, in mid-air, watched his large force squeezed into the narrow valley entrance, easily mowed down by the dwarf ranged units, and felt anxious. These individuals, whose battlelust—or Beast Rage—had reached its peak, had only one thought: to charge in and satisfy their hunger for flesh and blood.
The Harbinger of Darkness was not a fool. It knew that this dwarf force had little provisions, and if the valley entrance was blocked for three to five days, they would either be forced to break out or collapse without a fight.
But Malagor also knew it did not have that much time. Although it had used a trick to shake off the Wood Elves for a distance, those environmentalists were still in hot pursuit, and dwarfs from surrounding Mountain Strongholds might also come to support.
Thinking of this, Malagor waved its scepter again!
"By Grimnir, Ghorgon!"
"Four-Armed Bull Centaur, this thing too?"
"Cyclops, watch out!"
With a tremor of the earth, two colossal creatures emerged. The one with only one eye on its forehead uprooted a tree and hurled it at the dwarfs, but its aim was poor, and it smashed into the mountain, causing Gravel rain to rain down.
The other was even more direct, charging straight towards the Mountain Stronghold entrance. The Four-Armed Bull Centaur was originally a powerful Minotaur; its endless hunger had twisted and mutated it into a savage monster with multiple arms.
As the monster approached, Gromril noticed it was scarred and covered in wounds left by arrows, some of which still remained. One of its arms was also missing, making it literally a Three-Armed Bull Centaur now, which was perhaps why Malagor hadn't sent it into battle immediately.
"Fire!" Brockson gave the order directly without Gromril's command. Facing such a large target, the cannon crew didn't even need to aim; they just fired directly.
Cannonballs and ballista bolts accurately hit the targets, but the effect was minimal. The giant beast's forearm alone was comparable to the cannon itself, and small projectiles couldn't cause much damage.
The Ghorgon, to the dwarfs' shocked gazes, swung its massive arms and scooped up several Gorehorns from the ground, stuffing them into its gaping maw and chewing. With the intake of fresh flesh and blood, its injuries seemed to lessen, and flesh buds emerged from its severed arm.
"Bang!"
"Clang!"
Brute force and meteorite iron armor collided directly. The Ironbreakers' meteorite iron armor was not much sturdier than the crude breastplates of Bretonnian infantry in front of this giant beast.
They were directly smashed into terrifying arcs by the immense force, and the flesh encased within them, of course, goes without saying. Some clansmen were also swept into the air and then heavily slammed against the mountainside.
Gromril poured all his Revival points into the healing effect of the Valaya Ritual. A large number of green orbs filled the valley entrance. Although the miracle greatly boosted the clansmen's fighting spirit, Gromril tragically discovered that these orbs floated in the air, unable to find targets. They could only heal, not resurrect.
As the Ghorgon tore through the dwarf battle line, a whole unit of Great Horned Beasts and seven or eight Minotaurs charged in behind it.
Gromril shouted, drawing Longbeard Warriors to fill the gaps in the Ironbreaker's defensive line. Every clansmen erupted with enough courage, swinging their weapons at the Ghorgon without hesitation, even if their height barely surpassed the giant beast's hooves.
"Boom!"
A giant tree falling from the sky shattered the Dwarves' painstakingly re-established defensive line. Another group of Warriors was sent flying by the impact. The Longbeard Warriors, lacking meteorite iron armor, were lighter than their comrades, but this also meant they fell a bit less severely.
Some of the green light points in mid-air found their targets, and the fortunate ones rose to their feet, healed by divine grace, but many clansmen never stood up again.
The Leviathan Slayer Rogov, with his towering orange hair crest, stepped forward. This Warrior had served as the vanguard, entering the valley first to check for possible ambushes, and was only now returning.
He gripped his great axe, cut down two Gorehorns blocking his way, rolled a few times, and came under the Ghorgon, striking a heavy blow to its Achilles tendon with his axe. The back of the axe almost directly embedded itself into its twisted flesh.
Slayers are experts at dealing with giant beasts; they know such behemoths must be attacked in their vital spots to be effective. Under this fierce strike, the Four-Armed Bull Centaur's left leg could no longer bear weight, and it painfully knelt on one knee.
"Rogo-"
Before the Dwarves' cheers died down, the Four-Armed Bull Centaur's mutated arm swung downwards at a strange angle. Rogov was unprepared for this attack; he was directly knocked into the air and fell heavily to the ground.
Seeing the tide turn and the brave Slayer defeated, many clansmen began to hum ancient dirges, preparing for a final stand against the Beastmen charging into the valley entrance.
"Look!"
Just then, Brockson, who always kept his monocle scope with him, suddenly pointed to the cliff on the left, where a figure had appeared.
Gromril's gaze turned at the sound. The figure's movements were very fast, but Gromril later recalled them as if they were slow-motion frames etched into his heart.
From its build, it was a dwarf. He threw back his hood, yanked off his tattered cloak, revealing a purple cape underneath. Runes flowed on this cape, dancing in the wind under the moonlight, flapping loudly.
His beard was very white. Gromril and all the other eyewitnesses would swear countless times in the days that followed that it was the whitest beard they had ever seen. The long white beard was neatly groomed with golden beard rings.
The dwarf's face, shrouded by a silver helmet, could not be seen clearly. He wore a suit of plate armor, but in the moonlight, it did not appear to be made of metal. He suddenly pulled a two-handed battle axe from his pack and, under the clansmen's gaze and exclamations, leaped from the cliff.
"Die, vile beast! In the name of my dearest Grungni!" The dwarf's voice was extraordinarily loud, but his strength was even greater than his voice.
The Ghorgon raised its clumsy head and looked up at the sky. The moon in the sky was the last thing it saw. The Warrior, descending from the heavens, split the giant beast in half with the battle axe in his hand!
"Hoo!" He landed softly on the ground, shook his axe, and let out a long breath.
"Boom! Boom!" The Four-Armed Bull Centaur's body, split in two from its forehead, fell, shaking the mountainsides on both sides.
For a moment, blood rained down, but this did not disturb the one who had descended from the sky. Runes flickered on his purple cape, and not even a drop of dirty beast blood splattered on him.
"Gr-Grimbrindal?" The Leviathan Slayer Rogov lay on the ground, looking at the white beard floating before him, and spoke painfully. The immense impact had severely injured his internal organs; blood gushed out with every word the Warrior spoke.
"It is I, little one!" The dwarf's booming voice rang out again. The clansmen's suspicions were confirmed, and they let out thunderous exclamations.
"They all say you came from the Ancestor Gods' halls. Now, can I, can I enter?"
Rogov struggled to ask the question he cared about most. From the moment he became a Slayer, the meaning of his life had been reduced to washing away his sins with an honorable death, to regain the right to enter there.
"Of course, you have proven your courage, but now is not the time!" Grimbrindal's face, hidden beneath his helmet, seemed to smile. He gently waved his hand, guiding some green orbs of light into Rogov's body. The Slayer coughed a few times, shifted his body twice, and his injuries seemed to be under control.
"Come with me, Sons of the Mountains! The hatred for these filthy hooved creatures will be settled today!" Grimbrindal turned around, behind him were the cheering Dwarves.
By this time, Gromril's subordinates had no discipline or formation to speak of; they behaved as if they were even crazier than the Beastmen opposite them! Non-combat units also grabbed nearby weapons and joined the counterattack.
Gromril stood on the anvil, watching his cousin, Tomi, charge forward, shouting, with an axe in one hand and, unable to find a shield, using an abacus as a substitute in the other.
No dwarf was willing to miss the glory of fighting alongside Grimbrindal. Grimbrindal is a Dwarven word meaning "White-Bearded Ancestor." The Dwarves' enemies fearfully called him the White Dwarf.
The vast majority of clansmen believed he was Gromril Whitebeard, the first High King of the Mountain Kingdom, the youngest child of the Ancestor Goddess Valaya and Father God Grungni.
His brothers became lesser Ancestor Gods, and he, as an extremely powerful demigod, ruled and maintained the foundation established by his father and brothers.
When Malekith, who was not yet the Dark Elves' Witch King, first came to the Old World to explore, he and the White Dwarf formed a deep friendship. Before the White Dwarf's death, he summoned Malekith, and the two made a dying oath to ensure lasting friendship between Elves and Dwarves.
When Malekith alienated Elves and Dwarves to seize control of Ulthuan and ignited the fuse of the War of the Beard, the powerful oath carved on the sarcophagus by the Rune Masters of the Golden Age was broken.
Gromril Whitebeard's soul returned to the mortal world under the combined effect of runic power and hatred, to take revenge on Malekith and all enemies of the Dwarves.
In the long years that followed, Grimbrindal appeared countless times at the most desperate moments of legendary battles. He wore the Zhufbar Rune Helm, Grimnir's Scaled Armor, and a cape woven by his mother Valaya herself, turning the tide with the battle axe gifted by Grimnir in his hand.
Currently, among the dwarf commanders, although Gromril is still young and lacks his own foundation, his status as a Chosen One places him in the second tier of leadership, on par with the lords of major strongholds. He is second only to High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer and Slayer King Agrimm Ironfist.
The former is the co-ruler of the Mountain Stronghold. When he stands on the throne of power, proclaiming the articles from the great book of grudges, the direction his battle axe points will be met with the full wrath of all dwarves.
The latter is an unparalleled warrior in his prime. Those who have fallen to the Axe of Dargo range from Chaos Great Ones favored by the gods to ancient Dragon Ogres that command storms, and even Giant Lords as tall as Mountains.
Every dwarf believes Agrimm can cut down anything in this world, and even facing those species that have never been slain is no cause for concern, as it will only fuel the Slayer King's battle intent.
However, the combined ability of these three to inspire allies might not even be a match for the White Dwarf; he is a true legend, an Ancestor, a hero, and a god.
The White Dwarf wielded the battle axe in his hand, and whether it was a Great Horned Beast or a Minotaur, a single swing left them decapitated. He left a path of blood and flesh behind him, with the two mangled halves of a Four-Armed Bull Centaur leaning against the mountain like roadside statues.
Behind him, the dwarves pursued ferociously, and the Beastmen, seeing this, completely collapsed. The fierce warrior who had cleaved a giant beast in half was charging at them; anyone who didn't want to die had to run away with their tails between their legs.
Malagor the Dark Omen had existed in this world for many years. It had heard of the White Dwarf's prestige and naturally dared not face his sharp edge directly. However, the dwarves were also helpless against this small, highly agile spellcaster with its own wings.
Gromril snapped out of his daze, only to find himself alone, with only a few humans who had escaped the beast transformation still guarding the carriage. They and Gromril, who stood rooted to the spot, stared at each other.
After a long pause, intermittent praises rang out. "Thank you for staying to protect us!" "You truly are a gentleman who protects women!"
"Women! Where is my sister-in-law?" Gromril looked around, only to find that the female dwarves had also charged out. They had also received some combat training and had their own weapons for self-defense.
Gromril sat with the humans, guarding the caravan's valuables, while keeping an eye on his experience bar in the system. He only relaxed when he saw the experience points continuously increasing, finally stopping as he approached level five.
After a moment, the pursuing dwarves returned, clustered around the White Dwarf. Gromril immediately opened the merchant caravan's stock of wine for his clansmen to drink freely.
The leaders of the caravan naturally gathered around the White Dwarf. This mightiest of dwarves removed his silver helmet, and Brockson respectfully received this divine artifact with both hands.
Beneath the helmet was a resolute face full of wrinkles. Although a hood had partially obscured him at the time, the dwarves recognized him at a glance as the down-and-out traveler from that day. The clansmen who had once mocked him hung their heads in shame.
"Gromril, you're young and inexperienced, but you've done quite well, worthy of the name!" The White Dwarf sat on a wine barrel, and after some jostling, Cousin Tomi poured him a full cup.
"Great Grimbrindal, forgive my ignorance. Why didn't you just tell me to turn back then?" Gromril eagerly asked the doubt in his heart.
If the White Dwarf had revealed his identity earlier and asked the caravan to turn back, even if Gromril had insisted on moving forward, no clansmen would have followed him. The words of a messenger could not compare to those of a true son.
"It was coming for you!" The White Dwarf drained his cup in one gulp. "Those little brats' stuff is still so inferior!"
Gromril understood. Even if he had retreated then, he would still have to take this path later. Going around through human territory would not have been very effective. Humans, being more susceptible to corruption, might have provided more reinforcements to the enemy than to themselves when facing Malagor's magic.
The White Dwarf's earlier charade was to get Gromril to lead the caravan into a narrow terrain that was convenient for him to slaughter. The dwarves' slow speed and difficulty in pursuit are characteristics that even the most legendary White Dwarf could not change. If they were in the open, the Beastmen would only need to avoid his axe blade.
After a night of revelry and feasting, the White Dwarf, as in countless legends, shouldered his pack and disappeared into the Mountains. However, Gromril knew that there would be opportunities to meet again in the future.
Many years later, Stringer the Pioneer, Rune Lord of Karak-Zfirin, held his grandson and recounted the stories of their Ancestors, pointing to the bas-reliefs on the stone wall in the lord's office.
This strongman, hailed as one who could rival the Ancestors of the Golden Age, grew more animated as he spoke, from the first Granite Hand carving out the prototype of the Mountain Stronghold in the Grey Mountains at the High King's command, to the epic battles of the War of the Beard fought around Breezehold, the most important western stronghold of the Mountain Stronghold.
"Grandpa, why is there only one story about you?" the young child asked, looking at the brand new stone carving. He had also awakened his Rune power and would soon be sent to Everpeak for instruction. Stringer felt he couldn't be strict with his most beloved grandson.
"Hahaha, little Gromril, what do you think Grandpa should carve then?"
"Of course, it should be you, wearing the Mountain Smasher, twisting the neck of the ork Warboss Gore Bloodfang, and recapturing the Gint Mine!" Little Gromril exclaimed, but then he added:
"Or wouldn't it be great if you led the army of Breezehold north into the Chaos Wastes? Why, why are you just talking outside?"
"Hahaha!" Stringer stroked his white beard, looking at the stone carving—a young dwarf standing by a campfire in the snow, saying something, with many clansmen sitting and listening. Two listeners, in particular, were emphasized through special carving techniques.
"What's important is who is listening to me! This one," he pointed to the person wearing a hood and sitting on a pile of armor, "is Grimbrindal!"
"This one!" He then pointed to another Clansman, who looked equally young, with his warhammer placed beside him, "is Gromril, Gromril-az Thorson!" Stringer laughed heartily.
"Gromril the Savior and the Whitebeard Ancestor! They, they are sitting and listening to you, Grandpa?" Little Gromril looked at his grandfather, his eyes full of adoring stars. He didn't often hear this story.
"That's natural, every word from my mouth, your Grandpa's, is like the rock crystal from the deepest parts of the earth! They, back then, could only nod in agreement!"
Gromril simply cleaned up the battlefield, then commanded the convoy to rest in the valley for half a day, and it wasn't until noon the next day that they left the valley to return to their original path.
Along the way, the Rangers discovered traces of the Wood Elves, but Gromril asked them not to make contact, only to loudly declare the convoy's purpose – to leave the Athel Loren Forest. The Wood Elves did not show themselves; they hid in the shadows of the trees, monitoring the convoy's movements.
As Gromril had expected, the Athel Loren had an undying enemy – the Beastmen to deal with. This group of pursuers was not numerically superior and lacked heavy armor-piercing weapons, so the Dwarven convoy successfully left the Athel Loren Forest and returned to the original mountain road.
The journey thereafter was smooth sailing. Gromril arrived at Karak Norn at dusk, and after completing the scheduled trade missions there, the convoy proceeded to the next stop.
Lord Borok was indeed very farsighted; he realized the enormous potential of the Rune Transmitter and even came up with some simple long-short pairings suitable for its use. He kept chattering to Gromril, but Gromril told him to calm down, assuring him that there would be an explanation once they returned to the Everpeak.
The convoy then passed through Wintertooth Pass and entered the Black Mountains. The prosperity of Hornburg had not diminished due to the winter battles, and the young Lord Arik was full of ambition, preparing to settle old scores.
By this time, the brave Rogov's injuries had finally recovered by most part. This warrior, who had received the White Dwarf's personal forgiveness, momentarily lost his goal in life. Ultimately, he made a not-so-difficult decision: to stay and follow Gromril, continuing to dedicate his strength to the revitalization of the Mountains Kingdom.
After passing through Ironforge and Karak-Drazh, Gromril finally reached Mountain Lake Fortress. Half a year had passed, and thanks to the diligence and skill of his clansmen, the place had been completely transformed.
Big Brother Grom had received the news early. After meeting Gromril, he rushed back to the Everpeak to prepare for his wedding.
In fact, this was already the true heartland of the Mountains Kingdom, only a day's journey from the capital. Gromril could have entrusted the convoy to others and gone home himself, but he still decided to see it through to the end.
When Gromril entered the gates of Karaz-A-Karak atop the anvil of doom, he was greeted by his clansmen lining the streets, with several times more people welcoming him than had seen him off.
Gromril waved in return, reminiscing about his journey. In just half a year, he had experienced many major battles and clashed with various adversaries. Besides improving his combat prowess and command experience, he had also thoroughly made the name Gromril-az Thorson famous.
Big Brother Grom's wedding was very grand. Gromril, as his only blood brother, did not rest but became busy again. As the Chosen of the Goddess, he was also asked to officiate the wedding and bless the newlyweds.
Gromril vaguely realized that some of the additional meanings attached to this wedding had been altered. He tried to make some adjustments, but for a while, he didn't know what to do and could only go with the flow.
On the big day, when Gromril finished proclaiming the vows of marriage beneath the statues of the Ancestor Gods, Grom and Pamela loudly confirmed them. Then, under the expectant gazes of everyone, the Ancestor Goddess 'responded,' and the young couple embraced passionately.
Gromril, as the officiant, was not at leisure even at this point; he had to fulfill his duty as a younger brother. He and his older sister, who had returned from the Imperium of Man, helped their elder brother drink. All of Gromril's memories after this point were dissolved in alcohol.
After the wedding, Big Brother and Big Sister-in-law returned to Mountain Lake Fortress, and Gromril also threw himself into new endeavors. The first thing he did was to present the Rune Transmitter and its accompanying codebook to Thorgrim.
This wise King quickly realized the immense military and civilian value of this device, and what pleased him even more was that Gromril, recognizing its great value, was also willing to sell this set of items at a relatively low price.
After reporting to Master Krag and obtaining permission to mobilize some guild members for experiments, Gromril made some adjustments to this temporary invention from the wilderness.
The Rune Smiths divided this rune into two levels. The master-level could achieve stable communication over hundreds of kilometers between large fortresses. Undoubtedly, this required more energy to maintain, at least the full power of a formal Rune Smith's charging.
In the vision of Gromril and others, master-level communication runes should be more often inscribed on the anvil of doom, relying on that treasure's characteristic of automatically gathering the Winds of Magic to remain operational.
The ordinary-level communication runes lowered the threshold for use; even an apprentice with a bit of runic power could activate them. Of course, the effective range was reduced accordingly, but it could still meet the effectiveness within tens of kilometers between settlements or between two armies on the battlefield.
With Thorgrim's strong support, master-level rune communicators were purchased with official funding from the High King's Court and distributed to large fortresses and settlements with a permanent population or within the sphere of influence of tens of thousands of people. Ordinary ones were sold at a price of five oath-gold each, affordable for any reasonably established clan.
The master-level runes Thorgrim distributed to the lords served as excellent advertisements. Coupled with the enormous utility of the Rune Transmitter, Dwarves suddenly took pride in owning one.
Beyond fulfilling their inherent mission – strengthening internal communication and connectivity within the Mountains Kingdom – the promotion of the transmitters also pushed the authority of the High King's Court and Gromril's personal prestige to new heights.
What Gromril hadn't expected was that clansmen with money to spare developed all sorts of jeweled or intricately carved gold casings to adorn their transmitters. This demand injected new vitality into the handicraft industry.
After settling Henrid-Dragonslayer, the former gatekeeper of Zhufbar, who had come to seek refuge several months ago, and fulfilling his promise to bestow a 'Vigorous' effect upon his elderly mother, Gromril immersed himself in catching up on runic knowledge.
This journey made him realize the gap between his own strength and true legendary power. He needed to seize the time to improve himself. After becoming a Rune Master, many relatively basic knowledge bases were directly opened to him.
Gromril spent Revival Points to continuously maintain the Ritual of Toolni, which enhanced his runic comprehension. He absorbed relevant runic knowledge like a sponge, solidifying his weak foundation that had been prematurely boosted by the system.
The effect of the widespread Rune Transmitters replaced the spread of divine grace—now almost all clansmen were convinced that the Ancestor Gods were about to return, becoming a new growth point for Gromril's Revival Points. Even as he continuously maintained the Ritual of Toolni, his points continued to grow.
Gromril, relying on the effects of the ritual, studied tirelessly, but after a few months, his secluded study was finally interrupted.
"Master Gromril, something's happened! Your clan is calling you to the hall for a meeting!" Henrid shouted, pounding on the door of Gromril's forge.
Following their return to Everpeak, Captain Grenson and his men resumed their posts, and now Henrid and Rogov were responsible for Gromril's safety.
"What, what good news again?" Gromril pushed open the door, his eyes bloodshot. Before he finished speaking, he looked up and saw the giant dwarf before him looking grief-stricken.
"What's wrong, Henrid?" Gromril asked, puzzled. Ever since he returned to Everpeak, all he had heard was one good piece of news after another.
"Alas, the Angrund Clan, they, alas! You'll know when you get there!" Henrid sighed repeatedly, unwilling to say more.
Gromril washed his face and left the room. He followed Henrid out, noticing many of his clansmen with tear-streaked faces along the way.
In the hall where his rewards had been discussed, the high-ranking members of the Drazklad Clan sat in a circle.
"Everyone knows now, the Angrund Clan's expedition has failed again!" Thorgrim said gravely from the main seat.
"I told you so!"
"Spawn of Goblins!"
Although they had likely cursed when they first received the news, the elders still grumbled.
"Uh, what exactly happened?" Gromril asked. To be honest, he was most certain of the Angrund Clan's failure, as they hadn't succeeded even by the time of the End Times.
"To make a long story short, they set off from Barak-Var, heading upstream along the Bloodwater River.
They fought and paused along the way, first defeating the enemies entrenched at Iron Rock, then feigning an attack on Black Rock Fortress, but actually detouring to Karak-Dran, which is Thunderhold."
Auntie Sonia quickly explained to Gromril. Cousin Tomi had grown a lot with the caravan, and her family had become closer to Gromril.
"Then Prince Domga led the team from the underground of Thunderhold into the geomantic network, heading towards Eight Peaks Mountain.
Everything went smoothly at first; the secret passage that the Angrund Clan's Rune Master had sealed during their last retreat hadn't been destroyed.
They went straight through the secret passage to the clan's treasury deep within the fortress."
Sonia's narration didn't contain much complaint or commentary. Gromril knew that if Uncle Longhammer were telling the story, it would take him at least an hour to reach this point.
"They successfully opened the treasury door and retrieved a large sum of wealth from one of the richest clans of the Golden Age.
If they had withdrawn at this point, this expedition could be considered a success, but they didn't. Perhaps the earlier smooth progress made Domga misjudge the situation."
Auntie Sonia sighed, and Gromril handed her a cup of coffee. "And then? Did they continue deeper?"
"Yes, Domga suddenly became reckless, abandoning his previous caution. He even wanted to reclaim Karak-Eight-Peaks directly this time!"
"How dare he!"
"How many men did he have!"
Even if it wasn't the first time they heard this story, the elders still lamented Prince Domga's foolishness.
"He started from the underground treasury and headed towards the upper levels of the fortress, where he encountered a large horde of rats! After finally breaking through the rats, those clansmen stumbled into a Goblin nest!
They were vastly outnumbered, with the enemy's numbers being dozens of times theirs!"
"But they still managed to break through successfully, how did they do it?" Gromril knew Belegar Ironhammer's story; this resilient clan should not perish here.
"Perhaps the Ancestor Goddess was secretly protecting them. They fought and retreated, arriving at the place where King Ruan bravely fought to his death!
The last bloodline of the Angrund Clan awakened the heroic spirits of the former king!"
"Ruan Ironhammer, he was the last king of Eight Peaks Mountain recorded in history. Until the very end, he steadfastly fulfilled his duties.
To buy time for the Rune Masters to seal the ancestral tomb, he sacrificed his chance to escape, leading his guard to fight to the death, successfully ensuring the peaceful slumber of the ancestors from external disturbance."
Great Grandpa Dorson recounted the ancient story with sorrow. King Ruan was a microcosm of many dwarf lords who lived and died with the Mountain Stronghold during the Dark Ages.
"Ancestor spirits, how to put it, their reasons for remaining in the mortal world vary, but two necessary points are immense power in life and deep-seated hatred or obsession.
The great Grimbrindal is an example, of course, he is incomparably stronger than King Ruan."
Uncle Iron Chisel explained. Ancestor spirits had not appeared for a millennium, and he had to exert great effort to find relevant records in the archives. However, Gromril already knew, having had no small amount of contact with Belegar and his four ethereal grandfathers.
"The former King of Eight Peaks Mountain pointed out a secret passage for his descendants to escape, but they were eventually overtaken by the frenzied Night Goblins.
Domga did not disgrace his clan; he handed over the inherited equipment to his younger brother, then led his Andergrund Oathguard to cover their retreat."
"And then they all died fighting without taking a single step back!"
Sonia choked up as she spoke, and Uncle Longhammer added the final outcome.
"After emerging from the fortress, those thieves still wouldn't let our clansmen go; they suffered a lot in the Mountains of the Badlands.
Finally, by a stroke of luck, they awakened the heroic spirit of Drama Hammerfist, who guided the survivors to escape to safety."
"Drama Hammerfist was the former Engineering Master of Eight Peaks Mountain. After the city fell, he refused to leave his homeland easily.
He organized a guerrilla force to fight against the invaders, but after one battle, there was no more news of him."
Great Grandpa Dorson took over the narrative. The millennium-long tug-of-war at Karak-Eight-Peaks had given rise to countless heroic and moving figures, but it had not yet returned to the embrace of the Mountain Kingdom.
"So now, Belegar, I can call him Belegar Ironhammer now, right? Where is he?" Gromril asked, stroking his beard.
"Patience, child, that is precisely the purpose of our meeting. He is currently resting in Barak-Var, and also waiting!" Thorgrim said, looking at Gromril.
"There's a lot he needs to wait for!" Gromril said, stroking his beard and smiling. He understood why the clan had specifically called him. Although he had attained elder status, he had never attended such meetings before.
"Yes, Eight Peaks Mountain was once the center of the Mother Goddess's faith. Your, no, the Ancestor Goddess's attitude is very crucial!" Grandma Yushou stared into Gromril's eyes.
"Regarding, cough, Grimbrindal's appearance in the Grey Mountains and his rescue of your caravan is now the hottest topic in the taverns, and interpretations of this event are also fermenting."
Longhammer hesitated, and Gromril indicated that he understood. "I need to go back and prepare the ritual!"