On the morning of the seventh day, Leopold already knew the results of Gorn's negotiations. He stared silently at the soup in the bowl before him.
“It seems war is still unavoidable...”
Blake took a massive bite of his bread, chewed a couple of times, swallowed, and reached for a second piece on the table.
“...What are you worrying so much about?” he mumbled. “This isn't the first time Gorn's negotiations have fallen through. Back then, when he was negotiating prices with the dwarfs, it took him three years just to raise it by five percent.”
Isabella sat on the windowsill, one leg bent and the other dangling, swaying gently. She didn't join their conversation, her gaze fixed on the main street outside.
Goblins bustled to and fro on the street as usual, pushing mine carts and carrying baskets, no different from yesterday, the day before, or the day before that. Yet, the calmer it was, the more uneasy Isabella felt.
“Leo,” she suddenly spoke.
“What's wrong, Bella?” Leopold looked up.
Isabella opened her mouth, then closed it again. She shook her head, unable to shake off a faint, persistent sense of unease, as if something in her very bloodline was warning her.
“...It's nothing,” she said, finally turning around. “I just feel like today is too quiet.”
Isabella hopped down from the windowsill and walked out of the dining room.
Brother... is that you?
Isabella recalled her brother's smile. She didn't even know why she was thinking of his smile; perhaps he had already discovered she was still alive?
Isabella took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. What should she do? Should she tell Leo? But doing so would only drag Leo into the dangers of the White Dragon Royal Family.
Isabella pushed open the window at the end of the corridor, letting the subterranean wind rush in to disperse that faint, fleeting scent. Standing by the window, she narrowed her icy blue eyes and looked toward the north side of the royal capital.
There was nothing. Everything was as usual.
“Tch!”
In the dining room, Blake was still devouring his bread. Leopold sighed and slowly set down his coffee.
“Do you have any thoughts on the Dragon Slayers' 'gift', Blake?”
“Thoughts?” Blake swallowed his last bite of bread and licked his lips. “My thoughts are simple—however many come, I'll kill that many. How could mere lowly goblins ever challenge the truly noble dragon clan!”
Boom—!
Just as Blake finished speaking, the castle roof was subjected to a violent bombardment.
Leopold bolted upright. He recognized it—the sound came from the east side of the royal capital, near the outer wall of the mine shaft.
“...Artillery.”
“Not good,” Blake said, tossing his bread aside as he stood up, his grayish-blue vertical pupils constricting. “A heavier bombardment is coming!”
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The entire tower tilted outward, bricks and stones shattering as debris rained down into the dining room.
Boom!
A beam from the ceiling collapsed, crashing straight through the dining room floor. The entire castle wouldn't hold out much longer.
Blake had already transformed into his dragon form, shielding half of the dining room with his massive wings.
“Isabella!” Leopold shouted through the smoke and dust.
“I'm fine!” her voice called out from the corridor. A white dragon burst through the shattered bricks and landed right beside Leopold.
“Are you two alright?”
“We're fine, Bella,” Blake said, shaking his wings.
“Well, this truly is a grand gift.” Leopold chuckled, looking toward the east side of the royal capital.
As expected, the formation of the Greystone Alliance was inherently aimed at the Bronzebeard Tribe. In other words, the alliance's fundamental interest lay in weakening the tribe's power.
If they had launched a straightforward, honest attack, they might have actually pushed the tribe into a corner. Too bad they provoked dragons...
“In that case, we should prepare a return gift of our own,” Leopold said, narrowing his eyes.
Deep within a corner of an abandoned mine shaft on the east side of the royal capital.
Twelve dwarf cannons were lined up in two rows, their muzzles aimed directly at the castle. Hot blue smoke still drifted from the barrels as goblin gunners frantically reloaded.
“Hurry! Second reload! Don't give them a chance to breathe!” a goblin wearing black leather armor shouted, waving a short whip.
Boom—!
Another volley fired. Twelve iron cannonballs slammed into the castle's foundation, causing the entire structure to collapse inward.
“Reporting, Commander! The evil dragons' castle has been destroyed!”
The goblin addressed as "Commander" lowered his telescope and let out a long sigh.
“Have the Bronzebeard forces arrived?”
“They have already engaged our frontline forces,” the goblin reported truthfully.
“Retreat!” the black-clad commander made a swift decision.
“Retreat?” another goblin gunner panted, pointing toward the castle. “Commander, those three dragons haven't even come out yet! We're retreating already?”
“Fool!” The black-clad commander grabbed the gunner by the collar, lifting him off the ground. “The main Bronzebeard forces are already closing in from the west! If you take the time to load another volley, we'll all end up dead here!”
“B-But—”
“No buts!” The black-clad commander let go, turning to roar at the gun battery. “All personnel, retreat along the designated route! Blow the cannon barrels! Drench any gunpowder we can't carry away!”
The goblin gunners froze for a second before frantically executing the orders. Some swung hammers at the cannon barrels, while others hauled buckets of water to pour over the gunpowder barrels.
“Hurry! Hurry!”
However, they were only halfway through destroying the barrels when a blast of freezing dragon breath cascaded from the heavens, instantly freezing the entire row of cannons into solid ice sculptures.
The black-clad commander's pupils shrank. He abruptly looked up—
A massive grayish-blue silhouette swooped down from the sky above the castle ruins, the wind pressure whipped up by his wings sending the surrounding debris flying in all directions.
“Run? Where do you think you're going?”
The black-clad commander took two steps back, his hand already resting on the shortsword at his waist. His hand was trembling.
Blake raised his right claw. An icicle condensed at the tip of his claw, then suddenly exploded into a flurry of ice shards that showered over the frozen cannons, unleashing a blanket of white, freezing mist through the mine shaft.
From behind came the chaotic sound of goblin footsteps and clashing metal—the Bronzebeard forces were already advancing.
The black-clad commander looked at Blake, then glanced at the surrounding Bronzebeard forces. He suddenly let out a short, desolate laugh.
“You're Blake, aren't you? The Bronzebeard Tribe's executioner. Do you have any idea how many of my brothers you've killed!”
“...The Dragon Slayers will not lose! You damnable frost dragon, the great dragon-slaying hero Elivan has completed his studies under the dwarfs and returned!”
With a flick of his wrist, he plunged a dagger into his own chest. His movement was so swift that even Blake didn't have time to react.
Blake stood frozen on the spot, his grayish-blue vertical pupils staring at the corpse for several seconds. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something.
“...Shit,” he muttered under his breath, turning his face away.
From behind came a flurry of hurried footsteps, accompanied by the clatter of armor and shortswords. Gorn ran out from the corner of the mine shaft, followed by a dozen Bronzebeard guards.
“Lord Blake, I have arrived late.”
Blake didn't look at him, his gaze still fixed on the frozen gun battery. “...You're right. You are late.”
“It is my failing,” Gorn said, straightening up. “They mobilized their forces much faster than I anticipated.”
Blake finally turned his head, his grayish-blue vertical pupils landing on Gorn. He gestured toward the corpse on the ground. “This guy said, 'The Dragon Slayers will not lose,' and mentioned that someone named Elivan has returned after completing his studies under the dwarfs.”
Gorn's face suddenly darkened. “Elivan... he was the goblin exiled by my grandfather. He is a descendant of the Fourth Regiment's warriors. Sixteen years ago, he instigated a rebellion and was banished from the tribe. There has been no news of him since.”
“...Well, there is news now,” Blake said, flicking the tip of his tail. “He learned the dwarfs' crafts and came back to back those Dragon Slayers.”
Gorn didn't say anything. He looked down at the stiffening corpse on the ground, his fingers slowly tightening around the hilt of the shortsword on his belt.
“Lord Blake,” Gorn finally spoke. “Where are Mr. Leopold and Lady Isabella? I sent men to search the castle ruins, but they couldn't find them—”
“Them? They flew off. Toward the north.”
Gorn was stunned. Following the direction of Blake's tilted chin, he looked toward the fork deep within the mine shaft that led north. “...The north? The Dragon Slayers' stronghold?”
“Those two said they couldn't just accept a gift without returning one.” Blake's tone sounded incredibly casual. “That place is probably about to be completely wiped out, isn't it?”
Rate on N.U.
