Marching Out (1)

In recent days, the weather in the region west of the San Pedro Mountains had been extraordinarily extreme. Dark clouds shrouded the sky, and lightning flickered in and out like pythons in the clouds.

The torrential rain, which had fallen continuously for two days and a night, had only just stopped.

The roads, eroded by the rain, had long since turned into a muddy, impassable mess.

No matter how one looked at it, this was not good weather for an expedition.

But Robo could wait no longer.

Long before the three-month deadline, he had already assembled his army and stationed them near the Dwarven Empire, waiting to lead his forces inside the moment the passage was cleared.

Yet now, the agreed-upon time had already passed, and there was still no word from the dwarves about the passage being completed.

This left him both anxious and frustrated.

At times, Robo even wanted to go and demand answers from those beer-guzzling, bearded fellows, wondering if they were intentionally dragging their feet.

But he did not dare.

Dwarves were no pushovers.

On the contrary, their bones were as hard as ore.

It was only because they had used the dwarves' breach of contract as leverage that these single-minded fellows had reluctantly agreed.

Now that they owed each other nothing, if he threw another tantrum, even the thirty-thousand-strong army under his command probably wouldn't be able to save him.

This was not to say the dwarves were exceptionally powerful, but rather that they were too unique.

Even without looking at the entire continent of Arlesk, within the Eastern Continent where the Eastern Kingdoms lay, the Dwarven Empire was not considered a top-tier power.

Yet their connections were incredibly vast. From neutral-to-good races like metallic dragons and elves, to underdark races like drow and goblins, all maintained close relations with them.

This was all thanks to the dwarves' smithing skills, which were as unmatched across the continent as their tolerance for alcohol.

As a race naturally gifted at forging, more than half of all known top-tier magical equipment on the continent came from these bearded fellows who loved iron-smithing and drinking.

Class-holders of various intelligent races deemed it a great honor to obtain a high-grade piece of magical equipment crafted by a dwarven master smith.

After all, a top-quality piece of magical equipment could boost one's strength to a degree where one plus one equaled three.

However, high-grade magical equipment demanded far too many materials and effort. Rarely would a dwarven master smith willingly craft one for another race.

Because of this, some evil-aligned class-holders had initially tried to force the dwarves into forging for them.

But these bearded fellows were incredibly stubborn. Unless they were willing, they wouldn't swing a single hammer. Even if they were beaten into mincemeat, they would still push themselves up, shout “Dwarves will never be slaves!” and then die.

This meant that when dealing with dwarves, one could only use persuasion and persistence.

Therefore, to obtain dwarven-forged equipment, the various intelligent races generally maintained a friendly attitude toward them, doing everything they could to curry favor.

This was so that when the need arose, they could pay a certain price to have a suitable, top-tier piece of equipment crafted.

This was precisely why the dwarves, despite not being exceptionally powerful, thrived so well on the continent.

If anyone angered these bearded fellows, the dwarves wouldn't even need to lift a finger; adventurers seeking to gain favor with the Dwarven Empire would flatten any obstacle for them.

Besides, quite apart from that, the Dwarven King of the Eastern Continent was a genuine Legendary Grand Warrior.

Even without cultivating battle qi or magic, his muscles—forged in iron and fire—had reached a state of near magic immunity.

Years ago, there were even rumors that the Dwarven King had used his bare hands to knock out two teeth of an adult white dragon that attempted to invade the Dwarven Empire, fashioning them into a pair of two-handed battleaxes.

While the truth of the rumor was impossible to verify, the tracks of a white dragon had indeed appeared near a tavern close to the Great Gana Forest on the border of the Dwarven Empire. Not long after, a pair of two-handed battleaxes indeed joined the Dwarven King's extensive collection.

Robo could figure out with his toes that if he truly angered this existence, he would likely be driven into a mine shaft like a nail, and his beloved father would still have to bring two kegs of raw ale with a smile just to redeem his corpse.

The campfire let out a soft crackle. Robo, who was sitting beside it, closed the book in his hands and looked up at the gloomy sky.

At the edge of his vision, a black speck was rapidly growing larger.

Casually casting Eagle Eye on his eyes, his vision zoomed in as if he were using binoculars, and the black speck quickly became clear.

It was an adult wyvern with a wingspan of a full ten meters.

As a drake that most resembled a true dragon aside from dragon beasts, though wyverns were not as powerful as true dragons, they were still renowned, formidable predators on the continent.

At the same time, they were the type of dragon that self-proclaimed dragon slayers were most keen to hunt.

Yet, facing such a menacing wyvern flying straight toward him, Robo did not feel the slightest bit of tension.

For this wyvern belonged to their Duchy of Reny. It had hatched from a wyvern egg obtained by his grandfather, the Legendary Grand Warrior Andrigo, when he cleared the Beast Horde Plains years ago.

After years of training, this Silver Rank wyvern had now become the most loyal companion and mount of his older brother, Renn.

Thus, Robo remained seated where he was, staring straight at the incoming wyvern.

To be precise, he was looking at the burly man in golden armor atop the wyvern's back—Renn.

Compared to Robo's caution, his older brother was much more simple and crude. Hot-tempered as he was, after enduring for some time, he had flown directly to the Dwarven Empire without a second thought to demand when the tunnel would be completed.

The wyvern slowed down upon reaching the camp, folding its wings as it crashed to the ground with a violent gust of wind. The resulting gale blew out the campfires in the camp. Sparks, carrying the mud from the ground, splattered toward Robo directly ahead, only to be blocked by an invisible magical barrier.

“How did it go, my dear brother?”

Robo put the magic book in his hand back into his storage ring, stood up, and walked forward, asking in a teasing tone, “Have those bearded fellows finished digging their tunnel?”

“Pah.”

Renn leapt down from the wyvern's back and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva. He glared at his brother, who was enjoying his misfortune, and acted as if he hadn't heard Robo's words. Fuming with rage, he walked off toward the cleric corps.

After taking only two steps, however, he turned his head and squeezed out a few raspy, low words from his throat: “Order the army to march.”

With that, he walked away.

Hearing this, Robo raised his eyebrows slightly. Though his face showed no emotional fluctuations, he was somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected this reckless fellow to actually get the job done.

With that thought, he averted his gaze from Renn's back, looked toward the camp filled with soldiers, and issued the order to set out.

Meanwhile, out of Robo's sight, Renn touched his front teeth—of which two were now missing—and clenched his fists with a face full of hatred.