Rows upon rows of soldiers, an astounding variety of species.
For a moment, the guards at the gates considered sounding the alarm for a stampede, but the dwarf on top of the gate, with his telescope, managed to make out a pair of carriages, atop one of which sat a girl in a uniform, so in the end, they refrained.
In a way, the worst possible mistake, yet in a way, the best possible option.
Yet the longer time went on, the more despair coloured the gate guards’ faces. The amount of mana this group of monsters was emitting was absurd—in particular, the two carriages contained monsters the likes of which they had never even heard of.
These dwarves in particular were on guard duty because of their Mythril hair, which in turn made them extra sensitive to mana.
One of them quietly made the decision to ring the silent alarm. None of the others stopped him.
And then, the monsters arrived. Yet, unlike one would expect monsters to do, they simply stood there and looked at the gate—mind you, the gate that should’ve been hidden, that was camouflaged with magic so that only those who knew it was there could find it.
In other words, this mob had a guide.
As the carriages approached, the monsters parted to either side. The Demon Horses pulling the carriages stared down the dwarves at the gates for a few moments, then pulled to the side, allowing the doors of the carriages to face the gate of the kingdom.
From within the mob—nay, from a central position that allowed one to oversee the entire thing, a trio of monsters emerged.
A Demi-Dragon, feared for their fierce intellect and grand magical skill.
Some kind of ogre-type—it seemed to possess great physical strength, like all ogres, and its head was shaped almost like a skull.
And a huge lamia, more specifically one which felt like it was absurdly good at curses and blessings alike.
The Demi-Dragon walked up to the less-decorated of the two carriages—only slightly so, of course—and, with a deferring bow, opened the door.
What emerged from beyond defied the seams of reality.
A dragon in human form, her very gaze commanding the dwarves to kneel.
A devil in strange clothing, her every little movement sending the mana in the air into disarray.
A witch with verdant hair, her tired eyes sweeping the dwarves aside as though they were dirt.
A slime with human form, who even the other monsters took a bit of distance from.
The first one to open his mouth was the Demi-Dragon.
“The exalted members of the Demon Generals, our humble army presents itself,” he said, showing a symbol of humility that was unheard of for a prideful race like Demi-Dragons—that is, he dropped to one knee before the dragon.
The rest of the mob—no, the army followed suit.
Thus, the dragon in human form cleared her throat.
“Everyone!”
Her voice was booming, likely audible all the way into the centre of the capital.
“Hold positions! Negotiations will now begin.”
‘Negotiations’? She was using the word ‘negotiations’ in a situation like this? Absurd.
At best, this was a threat. A show of force.
If one were to interpret it particularly malevolently, this was a declaration of war.
The next one to speak was the witch. She addressed not the army, but the dwarves.
“His Highness will grant you the gift of laying eyes upon his form. All hail Prince of Darkness Astaroth! All hail Astaroth Eskaria!”
Her last words echoed among the army, to the very last soldier, as the door of the other carriage was opened from the inside.
The first one to emerge was naught but a child in a uniform. Yet on his back was a sword his size, and his gait revealed to all with a trained eye that he knew perfectly well how to use it.
Yet the one that emerged after him was, by all means, true terror, to the point where some of the dwarves, including the ones that had, by now, gathered on the inner side of the gate, did not even notice the girl who exited behind the second.
Although he was tall, his height was nothing out of the ordinary—both the ogre and the Demi-Dragon were taller. His gait, too, was light and unhurried, and his body was not particularly strong-looking, either.
Yet he was, by all measures, terrifying.
A uniform none of the dwarves recognised. Ears like those of an elf. A suspicious mask that hid his face, a religious symbol in its place and an opening for the mouth, a black crown on his head.
Yet all that paled in front of the terrifying part.
His mana was… nothing noteworthy. By all standards, it was what was to be expected of a sixth-grade monster. Yet the dignity he commanded was, on the other hand, enough to rival a god. The dwarves could sense it—if he wanted them dead, they would have been dead. Yet to be used by him in exchange for their lives could hardly be considered a trade.
The particularly trained in the magical ways amongst the dwarves noticed something else, too. He was holding back his mana. He was restraining himself.
He was making himself seem weak.
At his advent, the purple uniformed girl, who had been on his carriage’s roof, jumped off, though she remained in the air, floating above him. A few of the dwarves recognised her, and lost their last bit of hope. No doubt she had guided the army here.
With a hand gesture, the man beckoned the Demi-Dragon towards him. He obeyed and listened to his words, spoken so hushed that even the children standing on either side of him could not have heard them.
And then, the Demi-Dragon cleared his throat.
“His Eminence has spoken,” he said, turning a gaze filled with a whirlpool of all manner of negative emotions to the dwarves. “Your lives are worthless. His Eminence demands you enter the Alliance of the Divine Throne, or otherwise be subjugated with extreme prejudice.”
Unreasonable.
Completely absurd demands.
Alliance of the Divine Throne? What was that? They had never even heard of such a thing.
In response to that absurd declaration—
The gates opened.
From the other side poured dwarves, and after a moment, a palanquin rode forth, flanked by more dwarves on either side.
And atop it sat a dwarf with a gorgeous beard of white hair and a golden crown atop his head.
A moment’s pause.
And then, once more, the masked man opened his mouth. But this time, there were none near him. Would he—?
As if to answer that inner question asked by the dwarves, the demi-dragon’s voice sounded, likely in response to the masked man’s opening mouth.
“His Eminence will now bless you with his words!”
And thus the man spoke.
“A mana reaction I do not recognise… Your hair is made of this elusive Spirit Steel, then?”
The king of dwarves stiffened. Spirit Steel—? That was supposed to be a secret to all but the dwarves—
“I see I was correct. I would recommend you work on your acting.” Although the true king’s mask hid much of his face, his smirk was visible plain as day. “Then, that makes this easy. Along with that alliance, you are to hand over every bit of Spirit Steel you possess.”
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Every last bit———?! Unlike other materials, Spirit Steel could only be obtained by harvesting the hair of dwarves with royal blood, and was thus extremely rare. To demand they hand over all they had was—
“I refuse,” the king of dwarves said, stalwartly and certainly, certainly without a quiver in his voice.
The true king could not hide his chuckles—or perhaps he simply did not desire to.
“You refuse, you say? That must be the stupidest possible… But, very well. Then, by force-”
“Wait!”
The one who had been brave enough to interrupt the king of kings was none other than Khunduth. He who was known amongst the dwarves as the most courageous of warriors and the strongest of fighters.
Though his eyes were not visible, it could be seen from his mouth that the true king made a displeased expression.
“Who are you? And why should I wait for a single dwarf?”
“I am Khunduth, the warrior-chief of the dwarves!” the dwarf replied, attempting with his full mind to calm his rapidly beating heart. “I challenge you to a duel, foreign king.”
“Orichalcum hair… Well, you must be quite something, then.” The true king still did not look at all pleased, though he was at least willing to listen, it seemed. “State your terms and I will see from there.”
“Very well.” Khunduth cleared his throat and steeled his nerves, then spoke once more. “If I win, you will leave us alone. In return, if you defeat me, we will join your alliance and give up our Spirit Steel without resistance. Is that acceptable, Your Majesty?”
He turned back to the king of dwarves, who nodded without a word. Indeed, he had full trust in his warrior-chief, who could easily defeat a sixth-grade monster. And in the end, terrifying as he was, this king of kings’s mana reaction was nothing special.
And in the first place, this was no doubt a reasonable offer for the dwarves. If Khunduth won, that would be that, and if Khunduth lost, that meant that the monster army was stronger than the dwarves’ strongest warrior, and thus that the dwarves should accept a loss with as few casualties as possible.
Thus, the dwarves staked their hope upon this offer, and yet—
“I see. Yes, I understand your viewpoint. It is logical. I refuse.”
The king of kings’s merciless refusal cut their hopes to shreds.
“What benefit is there in that for me? I could simply trample your kingdom underfoot, instead, and with less risk to me, at that.”
Absolute confidence in his words, backed by a massive army.
“But tell you what.”
Once more, a haughty smirk played across his lips.
“Try again. You have one chance. If you can come up with terms I will accept, you can have your duel. If not, I will have you executed for your insolence. Try and determine how much my mercy is worth to you.”
A few moments of silence as Khunduth weighed his options. He took a few steps back and climbed onto the dwarven king’s palanquin—no one stopped him, so it seemed he was allowed—where the two had a hushed discussion.
Judging from the twitching of the true king’s ears, he heard the whole thing.
Once more, Khunduth stepped forward.
“Then allow me once more,” he said. “The benefits of our victory are the same. But if you win, our kingdom will become a vassal nation to your state, and you will be free to impose whatever laws you like. In addition, a slight change to the duel itself—killing one’s opponent is allowed.”
For a few moments, silence reigned.
Then laughter spewed forth from the true king’s lips.
“A fight to the death, is it? I see, I see… I will accept, under one more condition.”
Khunduth nodded.
“If I win, my army gets to run wild in a fight against yours. You see, I have taken them all this way, and to disappoint them now would be simply torturous, no? What, there is no need to worry. I will properly make sure that your soldiers come back from the dead.”
Was he implying he possessed true resurrection magic?
And not just that, but on a mass scale?
It seemed strangely believable.
“... Very well,” said Khunduth after another moment of silence.
“Are you sure about this?” asked the king of kings, stepping forward.
“Very.”
“I will not hold back, you know.”
“That is how I would want it.”
“You will die, you know.”
“Better at your hands than anyone else’s.”
A few more moments of silence.
“I will add another condition to the fight itself,” said the king of kings, his tone allowing no refusal. “I will use only one spell.”
“Which one is that?”
“[Darkness-Attribute Magic: Dark Blade].”
Without so much as an incantation, a sword formed in the true king’s hand.
“Out of respect for your warrior’s determination, I will beat you with whichever weapon you prefer,” he said, gesturing to the sword. With a flick of his wrist, it changed shape from a bastard sword to a zweihander, to a flamberge, to an axe, to a mace.
“Then,” said the warrior-chief, “a hammer, please. Defeat me with the weapon I am the most proficient at.”
“Very well.”
The shadowy wraith in the form of a blade thus copied the shape of Khunduth’s warhammer, down to the minutest detail. Though it was very much a two-handed weapon in the dwarf’s hands, the true king lifted the copy with a single hand and spun it around appraisingly.
“Well, it is not bad. The balance is good… Then, let us begin.”
It seemed the Demi-Dragon was going to serve as the duel’s mediator. He placed himself in a neutral position and started a countdown, allowing ample time for the combatants to once more introduce themselves.
“Khunduth, warrior-chief of the dwarves and greatest of warriors, stepping forward!”
“Astaroth Eskaria, Prince of Darkness, ruler of Eskaria, and envoy of Entropy. In the name of the Goddess, I declare death upon you.”
“Two… One… Begin!”
Well, with that much buildup, perhaps it was only natural that the battle would end up an anticlimax.
Not even a second after the word ‘begin’ had left the Demi-Dragon’s mouth, Khunduth’s head was on the floor.
Indeed, his head was separated from his body by a clean cut.
By what was undoubtedly a blunt weapon, still in the true king’s hand, without even the slightest hint of technique or skill.
He looked down at what had once been the dwarves’ greatest warrior.
Just what did he mutter? The wind carried away his words before anyone had the chance to hear them.
And what, precisely, was the meaning behind that enigmatic smile?
He set down the shadowy hammer next to Khunduth’s body. As though it had never been there to begin with, it faded away.