A Warm Gift from the Sprout Snake's Heart: The Dwarven Artisans

Dwarven craftsmen. Among them, those whose skills were so outstanding they earned the title of Meister. Not just blacksmiths or architects became Meisters. There were even those who devoted their entire lives to mining in the depths of the earth and rose to Meister status as miners.

They say that when mining reaches the pinnacle, you can see the grain in the rock. A single tap along that grain, and even a massive boulder splits easily. In a way, it's like the tales swordsmasters tell—of hiding behind a single blade or felling a man with a mere tree branch.

No dwarf miner at that pinnacle was present here. But Dungkel's pickaxe swings looked just like those of such Meisters. Thud, thwack-thwack. Even though the power behind his swings wasn't overwhelming, the speed at which he carved into the wall was anything but ordinary.

"Huff, huff."

Dungkel exhaled roughly. Piles of dirt and rock fragments littered the area around him. The expressions of the dwarves who had been watching with sneers shifted. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Most went beyond simple surprise into outright shock. Even the overseer, who had despised Dungkel, was no exception.

"...Hand it over."

"Pardon?"

"Give me that pickaxe!"

He snatched the pickaxe from Dungkel as the boy caught his breath. Did he think there was some secret to it?

"Did you make this pickaxe?"

"No..."

"Then who did?"

"Grandpa Helmuth."

So that one-armed old dwarf was named Helmuth. Tough old coot.

"Of course!"

The overseer's reaction was explosive. That grandpa must have been quite the dwarf in his younger days.

"Trying to show off with gear advantages, eh? Cocky little shit."

This idiot dwarf. It's not the gear—it's this body of mine.

He gripped the pickaxe and swung at the wall. Thunk! Thunk! His form was definitely better than Dungkel's. But I wasn't just watching idly.

On the contrary, I used earth magic to firmly adhere dirt to the wall. Thunk, thunk.

"Wh-what the hell is this?!"

No matter how hard he swung, it only left tiny scratches—nothing like before.

Oh, magic training. Thanks to all the varied uses, my proficiency went up. The path of magic is truly deep and wide.

As the overseer's futile swings continued, the surrounding dwarves burst into laughter. A race that appreciates humor.

In the end, the overseer flung the pickaxe away with a beet-red face. Rude bastard. As Dungkel picked it up, the overseer jabbed a finger into his chest.

"I don't know what trickery you pulled, but I don't trust you!"

I thought dwarves were all big-hearted. This pettiness rivals the elves.

"I've been watching you for a long time...!"

Spit flew as he spoke right in Dungkel's face. His breath was foul—probably stomach issues.

"A punk like you...!"

Smack!

Gah! Without thinking, I whipped my tail across the overseer's cheek. He stared blankly, alternating between me and Dungkel. Dungkel cautiously tried to shove me deeper into his hood. The moment the overseer's face twisted in rage...

"What is this commotion?!"

A gravelly voice boomed. It was an elderly dwarf in the same uniform as the overseer. Dwarves' age showed in their beard length, and this one's was streaked white.

"Senior, perfect timing. This Dungkel brought a snake and started causing trouble..."

"You're the one causing trouble!"

"Y-yes?"

The overseer ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blinked in confusion. A red tail mark on his cheek made him look ridiculous.

"From what I saw, he did plenty well. Why pick on him?"

"..."

"Tsk tsk, kid."

The old dwarf held a letter of introduction—written by Dungkel's comrade, Helmuth.

"From my view..."

"You questioning Helmuth's and my judgment?"

"...No, sir."

The arrogant overseer bowed his head deeply. Dwarves respect their elders well.

"Do as you like."

"Understood."

The old dwarf stood watch as the overseer grumbled reluctantly.

"Still, he can't go into the tunnels alone. We need to assign him a crew."

Dungkel's brightening face darkened again.

"Any of you want to take Dungkel?"

The overseer called to the gathered dwarves. Not a single hand rose among them.

"Raise your hand before I shove him anywhere. There must be openings."

Miners worked in crews. Naturally, to become a miner, Dungkel needed to join one. But no one would take him. They averted their eyes or slipped away.

How has he lived to be hated this much?

I glanced at Dungkel, but his expression softened my heart. He wasn't crying, but the despair was heartbreaking. Ugh, my head...! It reminded me of middle school—being the last one left when assigning trip roommates, unwanted...

I couldn't let Dungkel mentally attack me anymore. I scanned around. Not like I'd spot a familiar face... Wait, there!

My eyes locked with a dwarf's. A muscular one with his brown beard neatly braided into two forks. How could I forget?

Saaak!

I cried out in delight and leaped down. The dwarves blocking my path yelped and parted. I reached my "friend."

Hey! Long time no see!

"Uh..."

This friend's name was Manjin. The dwarf I'd shared drinks and brotherhood with that day.

Why the blank stare?

For some reason, Manjin looked flustered. No way he forgot me. Did he black out from the booze?

-Looks like he doesn't remember you, heh heh.

No way. We swore friendship that night.

Pellelian teased wickedly. If I sang the song we'd belted out together, he'd remember. Clinking glasses—ho!

Shh-shh-shh-shh, saaaak!

I danced with the tune and motions from then. The dwarves murmured.

"Brother Manjin, is that the snake?"

"They look close! Haha."

Manjin smacked the laughing dwarves' heads.

"Sh-shut up, you lot!"

Why's he like that? Shy when the spotlight's on?

-Aren't you the embarrassed one?

No. Did he think it was one-sided friendship? Shocking. I felt like icy tears might fall.

As I stared blankly at Manjin, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"G-good to see you."

He finally offered a fist. Yeah, we're friends, right? I bumped my tail against it.

"Perfect, Manjin! Take Dungkel!"

The overseer jumped in. Manjin sighed deeply, reason unknown.

Dungkel approached and gave a slight nod.

"Manjin."

"Dungkel."

An awkward air hung between them. I stood in the middle, tapping their ankles.

You two don't seem close—don't worry.

They'd warm up quick.

The dwarves marched into the tunnel. Manjin's crew leader was, naturally, Manjin, leading three young dwarves—for a total of four. Now with Dungkel and one snake, six. Five dwarves and a snake headed into the tunnels to mine crystalline ore.

After a long walk, Manjin sighed.

"Haa... Dungkel."

Dungkel, walking behind, looked up.

"I get you like that hood. But if you don't wanna crack your skull, wear this."

"Ah, thanks."

Dungkel took the spare helmet sheepishly. Removing the hood revealed his shiny bald head. The other dwarves snickered. His appearance stood out among dwarves.

Dungkel's face flushed.

"Ever been in a crystalline ore tunnel?"

"No."

"Seen a mole beast?"

"Twice."

Mole beasts popped up in tunnels often. True to their name, they burrowed and hated light. One alone wasn't dangerous, but packs were. Accidentally hitting their nest while mining was every miner's nightmare.

"They love crystalline ore especially. If one shows, shine your oil lamp."

All miners carried lanterns on their belts. Dungkel fiddled tensely with his. The young dwarves poked fun.

They whispered behind him.

'What's Brother Manjin and Dungkel's deal?'

'They knew each other before, I guess.'

Seemed so. Manjin was the cool guy they admired—stylish brown braids, a bit cocky but big-hearted.

Yet he knew that "flawless" Dungkel. No wonder they avoided talking to him.

Now Dungkel looked eager. But once real mining started, the grueling work would leave him sobbing for sure.

'Wonder when that face crumbles.'

'Three hours.'

'I'll say two.'

The youths bet on it.

Manjin stopped, inspected the wall, even tasted the dirt with his tongue.

"Let's dig here. Vein seems to run downward."

The grueling tunnel digging began. Everyone thought Dungkel would drop quick. Pickaxe skill and stamina were different beasts.

But the result surprised them.

'He's holding up better than expected?'

Dungkel showed no strain. Beads of sweat rolled off as he kept shoveling.

Finally, Manjin called a break.

"Rest up, eat, then more."

Dungkel set down his shovel. His palms were torn and bloody—not used to miner work, clearly.

He wrapped them tightly in bandages. The young dwarves' expressions softened a bit.

'Not as slimy as the rumors.'

Rumors said Dungkel skipped work out of laziness. But in person, he didn't seem lazy—at least not yet.

Soon, though, they frowned again.

"Urk."

"What's that?"

Dungkel mashed unknown plant leaves and such in a wooden bowl.

"Ah, salad..."

"Salad?"

"Want some?"

"Nah."

What salad? Thinks he's an elf?

Dungkel smiled awkwardly and crunched the green mess.

His companion, though, was different. The snake stuck right to Manjin's side.

"Right, you need food too."

He'd fled Dungkel's salad offer in horror.

"Ham okay?"

Saaak!

The snake gulped the ham in one go, barely chewing—super speedy. Feeding animals brought strange joy.

Other dwarves crowded, sharing ham. The snake took it all without refusal. Despite its small size, it ate a dwarf's portion.

Even with rations depleting fast, the dwarves were delighted.

"Hahaha."

"Cute little guy."

They'd been wary of the monster, even as Manjin's friend. Now? No more. In the dangerous crystalline tunnels, they'd protect this tiny snake.

Those beards hid naive, kind hearts. With ham secured, I'd protect them too. I thought.

Before break ended, I pulled the sprout snake's pot from my subspace. Dwarves took interest.

"A pot."

"Sprout, huh. How's it growing underground?"

Cute, right, my sprout snake? Meant for Dungkel's underground garden, but since we came down together, I brought it. Bats might smash it otherwise.

Oh, soil's dry already. The sprout snake was a glutton. It absorbed water and magic stones fast. Despite eating well, growth was slow—still just two cotyledons.

Why's it dancing so much today?

The sprout snake swayed like it was alive—which it was. It often rustled like dancing. When I brought my tail near, it reached with leaves like "hug me," but today it danced on its own.

"Hmm... left or right..."

Post-meal Manjin pondered direction. Finding veins was half luck, even for pros. Dig suspicious walls, no vein? Go deeper, repeat.

"Whoa, what's this."

"It's dancing, the sprout."

Young dwarves eyed the dance. I grinned and went to repot it.

"Something over there?"

One dwarf muttered. Checking the sprout snake...

Huh.

It pointed one leaf at the wall. Closer to the wall, clearer: shaking fiercely, like something hid beyond.

"Crystalline vein that way?"

"Telling us? Haha."

Dwarves laughed it off. But what if? They didn't know—this sprout snake was world tree kin, amazing stuff.

I raised my tail, pointing pickaxe to wall.

"What? Dig?"

"What's going on?"

Even Manjin approached.

"Says dig ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the wall."

Manjin heard the youths, face odd.

"Dig, see what happens."

"Sure, why not."

No ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠harm. Maybe pure crystalline ore. The dwarf swung expectantly.

Squish.

The feel at impact was wrong.

"Huh?"

Blood spurted from the hole.

"Kieeeek!"

A blood-spraying mole beast burst out.

"M-mole beast!"

Screams erupted.