The silence stretched taut in the dimly lit chamber, punctuated only by the rasp of Grot's ragged breath. He knelt before the imposing figure of Viscount Bernard, his massive frame dwarfed by the man's icy presence. Grot, the fearsome warrior who had faced down countless foes without flinching, now bowed his head in uncharacteristic humility. This wasn't just respect; it was desperation.

"Viscount Bernard," he rumbled, his voice thick with emotion, "I require the blood of the Golden Race. Please, lend me your assistance."

Bernard's gaze, sharp as a predator's, swept over the kneeling warrior. He saw the flicker of pain etched in Grot's battle-scarred face, the tremor in his hand gripping the hilt of his axe. This wasn't a request for personal gain, but something far deeper, something that gnawed at the very core of the stoic warrior.

"Grot," he began, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the chamber, "you know the legends of the Golden Race. Their blood, potent and mythical, is not easily acquired. Unless you can defeat an extraordinary dragon.”

He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Grot's. "Right now, even I wouldn't dare claim victory against one. To grant your request would be to send you on a fool's errand, one that could cost you your life."

Grot's jaw clenched, his silence heavy with unspoken arguments. He knew the Viscount spoke the truth, yet the weight of his burden was too much to bear. He opened his mouth to plead, but the words died on his tongue. A sigh, heavy with defeat and despair, escaped his lips.

An extraordinary dragon...

He lacked neither the courage nor the resolve to face the dragon but not the strength to vanquish it.

Though he feared no danger, he was not a reckless barbarian.

"I will utilize the Dark Covenant's resources to seek the Golden Race for you, but our present focus should be on the twelve magic scrolls.

Grot, an artifact possesses unimaginable power. It may potentially resolve the challenges you currently face."

Upon hearing these words, Grot's countenance became a complex mixture, and he finally sighed.

"Thank you for your aid. The North will forever remember your kindness."

With that, he rose to his feet and pounded his breast with his fist.

Exiting Viscount Bernard's residence, Grot's face remained heavy.

While the power of an artifact was immeasurable, he doubted that the twelve magic scrolls could restore the life that had been consumed.

Presently, only the blood of the Golden Race could heal the Valkyrie of the North.

He had three months to retrieve the blood of the Golden Race.

This task was no less formidable than hunting an extraordinary being.

Was there no hope?

Would the royal lineage of the North vanish like the glory of the Northern Rhinoceros, which had been exchanged for the Northern Glory?

His dark eyes reflected a sense of despair.

This northern warrior could not discern the path forward.

"Good day, Lord Grot," a cheerful voice suddenly reached his ears.

Grot turned and beheld the newcomer with a hint of surprise in his gaze.

"Hande, Lord Amy."

He had seldom interacted with Amy before. In fact, as a northern warrior, he had once held disdain for Amy's profession as a Shadow Priest.

True heroism lay in charging the dragon head-on, while skulking in the shadows was the act of a despicable coward.

But now, Amy, who had become the fifteenth Shadow High Priest, had earned the right to speak with him.

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Therefore, as he observed the other party's amiable smile, he struggled to understand their intentions.

"Lord Grot, I may possess what you seek."

Grot's brow furrowed as he detected the burning intensity in Amy's gaze.

"Lord Amy, are you certain? I require the blood of the Golden Race. Can you provide it?"

A hint of mockery crept into his voice. Even Viscount Bernard lacked it. How could a so-called "mouse", who had once been pursued relentlessly by a low-level bishop of the Knights' Temple, possibly possess it?

But to his astonishment, the Shadow High Priest displayed no anger but instead retrieved a thumb-sized, translucent crystal vial from his pocket. Within it flowed several drops of scarlet blood, tinged with a faint golden hue.

When Grot witnessed this sight, his eyes widened in shock and disbelief as he gazed upon the transparent crystal vial.

The energy emanating from the pale golden fluid within the vial was brimming with vitality. He swore that this was the most life-giving blood he had ever encountered, surpassing even the blood of extraordinary beings.

Even the holy water blessed by the Goddess in the Temple of Life paled in comparison!

A name that sent shivers down his spine came to Grot's mind.

The Golden Race!

Grot, who had nearly succumbed to despair, was suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of elation.

The Golden Race! He had actually stumbled upon the Golden Race!

These were high-level beings comparable to dragons!

"Lord Amy, please forgive my brashness and ignorance. I swear by the God of War that I meant no disrespect..." Grot's voice was fraught with a mix of anxiety and surprise, devoid of any genuine apology towards Amy.

This northern warrior had completely abandoned his former arrogance.

"My dear Lord Grot, I come bearing a proposition."

Amy's tone was laced with a hint of a smile, as if he remained unbothered by Grot's rudeness.

Upon hearing this, Grot inquired eagerly.

"Lord Amy, do you truly have the blood of the Golden Race? I am prepared to negotiate with you."

"Lord Grot, this is the blood I obtained from the Golden Race just this morning,"

Amy extended his hand and presented the crystal vial to Grot.

Grot felt the surge of life energy at close range and was filled with uncontained excitement.

"What must I give in exchange for it?"

He naturally referred to the Golden Race.

Grot shook his head: "I regret to inform you, Lord Grot, that the Golden Race is not for sale."

Grot's face fell, but Amy's subsequent words brought him a glimmer of hope.

"The cub of this Golden Race is what I accidentally acquired on the Orcish border. I believe no one understands the value of the Golden Race better than you.

Therefore, I will not sell it at any cost, but parting with some blood is of little consequence."

A broad smile spread across Amy's face.

"I also seek to earn your friendship, Lord Grot. As for the price of the blood,

I desire the treasure of the North – the Mithril Armor."

Grot's expression shifted subtly upon hearing this. He had not anticipated that this Caster would request such an item.

While the Mithril Armor was not as priceless as the Northern Dragorhino' Horn, it was his most vital and protective layer of armor.

The Mithril armor, forged by Dwarven master craftsmen using precious materials such as Mithril, Auric, subterranean Cold Iron, and Lava Heart, was a treasure in its own right. During his twenty years of youth, while fighting in the North, this secret silver armor had saved his life no less than thirty times.

If he were to relinquish this treasure, Grot sensed that his strength would diminish by at least two levels.

"Of course, if you are unwilling, then forget it. I swear to the Goddess of Magic, I..."

Grot's eyes betrayed a hint of reluctance, but he ultimately nodded resolutely.

"No, Lord Amy, I accept."

The lineage of the northern royal family could not be severed. In the future, the North would require a king.

He had already sacrificed the pride of the North – the Northern Rhinoceros – and he saw no harm in offering a precious silver armor for the sake of the North.

Although it may be his most treasured possession.

When Amy took possession of the hollowed-out silver armor, weighing a mere ten pounds and radiating a unique, brilliant silver glow, a broad smile spread across his face.

"Lord Grot, you should accompany me and the northern royal family out of the city."

"Out of the city?"

Grot frowned.

"Naturally. Do you think I would keep the Golden Race's cub in Green City?" Amy's expression was enigmatic.

"I do not object to you bringing additional companions. In fact, after completing this transaction, I intend to depart Green City to venture into an ancient ruin.

Perhaps my next return will be in ten or twenty years. At that time, I hope to have achieved an extraordinary breakthrough." Amy's eyes sparkled with uncontainable enthusiasm.

Grot felt a twinge of disdain upon witnessing this scene. These wretched Casters were always chasing after the lost magic of ancient ruins in an attempt to find shortcuts to becoming extraordinary.

Amy appeared oblivious to Grot's undisguised disgust and continued, "If the ruins were not so perilous and did not necessitate a secret armor capable of withstanding formidable attacks, I would not have revealed the existence of the Golden Race.

I believe I need not elaborate on their significance."

Amy's tone suggested a hint of reluctance, as if he were sacrificing a great deal in this transaction.

Grot felt a slight sense of relief upon hearing this.

Most of his initial suspicions dissipated.

"No, I trust in my old friend of twenty years, Lord Amy. I shall simply bring a contingent of northern warriors."

Amy waved his hand dismissively, "No, I believe you should bring more contingents."

The wariness in Grot's eyes vanished, and he nodded with a smile.

"As you wish."

In truth, regardless of Amy's consent, he would have brought additional contingents of his subordinates. This question was merely a test.

And Amy's response had put him at ease. It indicated that he harbored no ulterior motives; otherwise, he would have found a way to minimize his assistance.