Who am I? Where am I? Why would miners be here? Witt's brain felt like it was short-circuiting as he struggled to grasp what his next move should be.

While some overheat in thought, others relinquish it altogether. One of Witt's men, without a second of hesitation, blurted out, "Yep, this is Clyster Street number two, for sure."

A miner heard this and turned around to confirm, "Boss, we've arrived."

Behind the miner, emerging from the tunnel, was a tall, imposing figure. Witt squinted, sensing familiarity but unable to place the man.

Byron emerged from the darkness, relieved to see the familiar engravings of a magical seal in the basement. Facing the stunned soldiers of the standing army, he posed the ultimatum: "Surrender or perish?"

Witt didn't hesitate, choosing survival over pride as instinctively as one would prefer a chat with a man over a barking dog. "We surrender, we surrender! Just don't kill us!"

He hurled his sword to the ground and hunkered down with hands over his head.

Just then, a series of dull thuds echoed from outside the basement, followed by a creepy chuckle: "Found you guys~ Heheh~"

Witt paled with alarm, barricading the door with his body while yelling, "For real, we've surrendered! Tie us up quickly—they're letting the dogs in!"

A few miners bound the soldiers with ropes prepared earlier, piling them in a corner. Byron then opened the door to find Buster waiting outside.

"Enough with the games. What's the situation?" Byron asked the golden hound looking up at him.

"We're surrounded outside, and everyone's in here now."

"Where did we stash the goods?"

"Storage room. There're five hundred."

"That'll do."

With a nod, Byron led his miner brigade towards the storage room.

In the basement, miners flooded in through the wall as if the tide, their number seemingly endless. From the corner, one of Witt's men muttered nervously, "Captain, doesn't this feel a bit off?"

"Please," Witt implored.

"It's just that the miners..."

"Could you please not spell it out!" Witt groaned, his face a mask of despair. "We've been through enough today—no more, I beg you."

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Inside the storage room, Byron fixated on the neatly arranged muskets, a rush of confidence filling him. Armed with these weapons, a counterattack was imminent.

As the miners continued to transport supplies, the entire Clyster Street residence was now filled from basement to ground floor. Byron directed the skeleton miners to pass down muskets hand to hand.

Gripping a musket, Byron addressed his troop, "Those who've got the new gear, strap your pickaxes to your back and use these instead."

After flourishing the musket, he praised, "Your Majesty sure knows his craft—solid and not too heavy."

"But boss, how do we use these things?" asked a chatty skeleton.

"Yeah, they're nothing like our rusty swords," the others murmured in agreement.

"Use 'em how they're meant to be used: smash 'em hard but without causing fatalities. That’s what Your Majesty wants," Byron ordered while toying with the weapon.

"Got it!" The skeletons' acknowledgment was anything but in unison.

In the parlor, Murphy, overhearing the commotion, couldn't resist a little brag, "Reinforcements are here~"

Alaric, pressing a hand to his chest, listened carefully and indeed heard footsteps; he reassured his family with a smile.

"Mr. Murphy, so now we..."

"Eat and drink as you wish, back home once the job's done," Murphy grinned confidently, then frowned in thought. "Am I forgetting something vital? Nah, if I've forgotten, it can't be that important."

Outside, Witt's team grew impatient. Half an hour had passed with no word—were they dead or alive?

"Did the mage off the captain already?"

"That can't be right, wasn't this supposed to be a negotiation?"

"If the captain's dead, can I be the new captain?"

"Knock it off!" Everyone chimed in unison.

Suddenly, a soldier hushed the group, "Quiet! What's that sound?"

All fell silent, ears straining to catch a distant, muffled rumble like thunder rolling over the horizon.

Some soldiers pressed their ears against the door, hearing an ominous roar drawing closer.

The door burst open, sending a few soldiers flying backward. Before the rest could react, dozens of... miners surged through.

These miners, pickaxes slung across their backs and strange iron rods in hand, looked like any other workforce, only more spirited. The only problem was, why were miners here, of all places?

Unfortunately, no one was left to ponder as a fierce battle between the miners and standing army erupted.

The encircling soldiers were largely disengaged, except for a few. One of the commander's sycophants was particularly vigilant.

The commander had been indifferent after Witt entered the house, so an especially obsequious soldier had volunteered to continue surveillance.

When that soldier witnessed an unexpected miner onslaught, he called out in panic, "Trouble! Trouble!"

The commander, conserving energy against a fence, jolted awake at the shout. "Quit your babbling! What's the trouble?"

"People, lots of them. Loads of miners," the sentry blurted, words tumbling out incoherently.

The commander stood up, sucked in his gut, and peered out, speechless. He never imagined "a lot" would be quite this many. The courtyard swarmed with miners, a few overwhelmed soldiers now tied up and tossed aside.

But the commander quickly rallied, summoning his old battlefield authority. He envisioned Doyle, the cautious commander he once served under, applying a flattering filter to himself. Instantly, confidence surged within him.

Drawing his sword, he bellowed, "All units, orders are to storm and hold! Attack! Attack!"

The other squad leaders, certain the big boss had never used such tactical jargon, put aside queries on his cultural grasp. Instead, they unsheathed their swords, assuming the mantle of frontline leaders: “Charge!”