All Dwarves Are Warriors

Officially speaking, there was no such profession as "warrior" in dwarf society. Why would a race that dug tunnels, forged weapons, and built structures need warriors anyway? It wasn't like the old days of constant war.

Paradoxically, though, every miner, builder, and artisan doubled as a warrior. Dwarves might be short, but their strength easily surpassed twice that of a human. Their stocky frames were packed with steel-hard muscle. They had incredible toughness, and their very nature was aggressive and brave. Hammering heated iron or smashing an enemy's skull with a warhammer—it was all the same to them.

Miners could become warriors too, as long as they had their tempers lit. A few blood moles were no match for dwarf miners.

But the snake had illuminated the pitch-black darkness. Manjin roared as he swung his pickaxe.

"Raaargh!"

The pickaxe pierced the blood mole's skull dead-on. He shook it off like dust, sending the body spinning through the air. It flew straight toward the snake, who swallowed it in one gulp.

I'd felt it when feeding him ham, but there's something satisfying about watching him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eat so heartily.

The dwarves fought the blood moles ferociously. The moles burst out from every direction—not just north, south, east, and west, but from the floor and ceiling too, dropping down with dull thuds. The narrow tunnel floor gradually piled up with their corpses. The metallic stench of blood was overwhelming.

Among the dwarves, Manjin had killed the most blood moles. And the snake had slain even more than him. It spat rays from its mouth or shot forward like an arrow with a single leap. A casual bite as it passed, and the moles convulsed and dropped dead.

When we'd first met it popping out of that booze barrel, it had just been a sideshow. Even on our second encounter, I'd thought it was just a cute, goofy little thing.

But no. The snake was incredibly strong. Without it, every dwarf here would have died.

A moment later, the endless blood mole assault finally stopped. But Manjin couldn't relax.

"Gaaah!"

"D-Don't thrash around! You're bleeding!"

The dwarves weren't unscathed either. Scrapes on limbs were fine, but one finally collapsed, clutching his gut.

"Th-the kid!"

Manjin screamed and rushed over. It was the youngest. Blood poured from his abdomen. Another dwarf was pressing down desperately to staunch it, but blood kept surging out.

"T-Take off his shirt first."

Injuries were common for miners. They carried basic first-aid tools and knew the essentials. But when they stripped off the youngest's top, Manjin's face went pale.

"His guts..."

The blood mole had torn into his belly. Intestines protruded from the gash. This wasn't something simple first aid could fix.

And from experience, Manjin knew: when your innards spilled out, even dwarves died.

"H-Hyung... nim..."

"..."

"S-Save me... please."

The youngest gripped Manjin's forearm tightly. He'd lost so much blood his hand was ghostly white. Manjin couldn't answer right away. Everyone stared at him, begging him to do something.

Idiots. What do you expect me to do?

But he was the foreman. He had to try. He couldn't just tell the dying kid to give up.

"..."

His mind had gone blank. That's why, when someone nudged him lightly, he toppled over so easily onto his butt.

"Move."

Dungkel took Manjin's place.

"Water and potion. Now."

"Uh? Oh, right."

Manjin scrambled for the water skin and potion. Potions were precious, but he always carried one. As he went to pour it on the wound—

"Manjin!"

Dungkel glared and snatched it away.

"Pouring it straight on could contaminate the wound."

"Uh, uh..."

"Water here. Not on the wound."

Manjin dazedly followed orders. Dungkel washed his own hands first. No one understood why, but no one questioned it.

Then Dungkel took the skin and gently wiped the dirt from the protruding intestines.

"Ugh, hngaaah!"

"Hold his limbs still."

No one moved at first. Dungkel yelled, furious.

"What are you doing, you bastards? Grab him NOW!"

Manjin reacted first, seizing the youngest's legs. The others grabbed his arms. The kid thrashed, spewing curses from pain and fear. But Dungkel ignored it, slowly pushing the intestines back in.

"The guts aren't damaged. Just a hole in the belly and pressure forcing them out."

"So... the kid can live?"

"We'll make it happen."

Pathetic, lazy Dungkel. Manjin had quietly agreed with the insults before. But now? He looked the most reliable here.

Dungkel pulled something from his pocket—a first-aid kit wrapped in clean white cloth. It included thread as fine as hair and needles.

"I'm stitching it temporarily. Hold him tight."

Dungkel began sewing the ugly abdominal gash. His hands shook—he was tense too. He set the needle down, then slapped his own cheek hard with his knuckles.

Slap!

"Hoo."

Then he picked it up again. It could have been comical, but no one laughed. He sealed the wound.

Watching, Manjin remembered the past. As kids playing rough, whenever he'd gotten hurt, big brother Dungkel had always patched him up. Inexpressible shame flooded him.

"Have him drink the potion."

"Drink?"

"Feed it to him."

"Got it."

Manjin fed it to the youngest. Half ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠spilled—he could barely swallow.

The snake approached. Astonishingly, it held a potion bottle in its tail—from who knows where.

"That's... better than ours,"

Dungkel said, sniffing it. The snake nodded, and he finally poured a bit on the stitched wound. It healed visibly. But the unconscious youngest didn't wake.

"Too much blood loss. Could be shock."

"We gotta carry him out!"

"...That might be riskier. It's not properly treated. We ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠need a stretcher and to move him carefully."

"You, go get help! Hurry!"

One dwarf bolted at Manjin's order. Manjin spoke cautiously to Dungkel, wiping cold sweat.

"Bro."

"Yeah, Manjin."

"This might not be good."

"...What do you mean?"

Manjin gritted his teeth. He knew mining—especially blood moles—better than anyone.

Over twenty dead blood moles littered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the floor. Unusual. That many meant...

"Maybe... there's a nest nearby."

"Nest?"

"Yeah. Where they and their queen live."

Blood moles loved bone crystals. No one knew why—maybe some power drew them. Sometimes they nested where crystals clustered. They usually avoided dwarves, but near their nest? They attacked without mercy.

"Then..."

"Not sure. Could be coincidence."

If there really was a nest nearby, they'd attack again.

"Then we risk it and move him anyway."

"Stitching isn't a fix. No internal bleeding visible, but there could be. No cart—moving him like this is tough."

Sure enough, blood trickled from the youngest's mouth. Manjin agonized. If a nest was near, evacuating was best. But if not? Moving without a stretcher could kill him. Help with a real doctor and proper gear might save him.

Dilemma. Foreman meant deciding and owning it. But with a life on the line, Manjin froze.

Tap tap.

The snake tapped his heel.

"Huh...?"

Before he could ask, a notepad floated in the air. A pen moved on its own, writing.

"What?"

Manjin hadn't known the snake could communicate by writing. He blurted,

"Why...?"

The snake raised its tail like a thumbs-up. Somehow, Manjin got it. The snake sprang up and slipped into the hole the moles had come from. Too small for a dwarf's arm, but no issue for it. Its white tail flicked, then vanished into the black.

"W-Wait!"

Manjin lunged, but it was gone.

Dungkel stared, shocked.

"Wh-What?"

"No, uh, something I should've said."

"What?"

"Blood mole nests are dangerous. Not just monsters..."

Manjin swallowed.

"Full of deadly poison gas."

* * *

Helping friends, sure. And though I didn't tell Manjin or Dungkel...

Because Little White Snake wanted it.

I'd stashed him in my subspace first. He threw a fit, but I forced him in. It could be dangerous.

-That nest? Definitely there.

Pellelian was certain.

-I'm the expert on monsters, aren't I?

True enough. I slithered along the tunnel. I'd navigated burrows plenty. Crawling existing ones was easy.

I focused on my heartbeat. Steady. No survival instincts warning me. Even with the swarm's presence ahead.

Time to punish the ones who gutted our youngest.

The tunnel ended. Faint light shimmered beyond.

These guys!

"Saaak!"

I roared out thunderously. Bone crystals studded everywhere—a cavern of them. The glow came from them. Maybe phosphine sparks like will-o'-wisps.

Beneath, countless blood moles gathered. Dozens? No, hundreds. Red eyes glaring at the intruder: me.

In the center, a massive one. Bloated belly, elongated snout with eight spider-like eyes. Eight legs too.

Oh. Wrong place. Bye now.

As I turned to leave—

"Queeeek!"

No translation needed. 'Get that one!' Stinky breath like fart-copper. Weird.

"Quiiik."

"Kek!"

Hundreds charged. Giantification in this tight space? Nah.

Let's try melee. I dove into the pack. My sharp crystal scales sliced their sleek hides. The neurotoxin alone staggered them. When they bit—

Clang!

Teeth couldn't pierce. Low-level small fry couldn't scratch me, no matter the numbers.

Uroboros among blood moles. I thrashed like a fish in water.

Aaah, this feeling. No real fight since Shadow Forest. Battle instincts ignited.

But too many. Biting them one by one? My teeth would break first.

-Use magic. Magic.

Pellelian's advice. Multi-foe fights? Magic's efficient.

Got it.

Especially fire here.

Fireball from thin air.

Tik.

Then—

Whoosh. The whole space ignited. Gas explosion? Yeah.

Boom boom boom!

Light, blast, shockwave everywhere. I tumbled through the air.

The moles? Massacred.

And the queen too. Levels up.

But wait... am I gonna die like this?