Exclusive Deal (3)

The deal with the dwarves went through without a hitch. Honestly, there hadn't been any reason to turn it down in the first place. In the blink of an eye, a staggering mountain of dango was delivered straight to my doorstep.

"She received it properly, right?"

I was talking about Penny, of course. Since I had recently expanded the bunker's interior, she should have no trouble sorting it into the storage vault on her own. As a bonus, I had bundled in a batch of snacks along with the shipment.

Meanwhile, armed with the provisions I had sent them, the dwarves sprang into action.

Their grand military strategy was shockingly simple: hit the beasts before the beasts hit them. Normally, defenders spent every available second frantically setting up barricades and bracing for the incoming assault. The dwarves, however, had simply lobbed volleys of javelins and arrows into the distance to deliberately enrage the horde.

Naturally, the gallery users watching this unfold were dumbfounded.

"Even for a warlike race, isn't that taking it a bit too far?"

Demonic beasts were relentlessly stubborn creatures that came in all shapes and abominations. Unlike humans, a grievous injury didn't slow them down; they would claw forward with unhinged fury until their dying breath. And just as everyone feared, the provoked swarm crashed against the walls of Kilgrote like a titanic tidal wave — a non-stop meat grinder that ground on for seven days and seven nights.

Even protracted sieges normally had breathers where the fighting lulled. But the beasts crawled over the ramparts in such endless, sickening numbers that there wasn't a single second of respite. The sheer, suffocating scale of the assault had the entire forum on edge. The dwarven kingdom sat squarely on the eastern frontlines. If Kilgrote collapsed, the tide would roll straight into human and elven territories.

Yet the dwarves were completely unbothered. In fact, they were actually finding ways to entertain themselves right in the middle of mortal combat.

Dwarves only needed a single thing in this world: alcohol. Pair that with hardtack to chew on as a chaser, and there was nothing under heaven they couldn't conquer.

Whenever thirst struck, they knocked back ale. Whenever hunger gnawed at their bellies, they dumped an entire bag of hardtack down their throats. When darkness fell, relief shifts rotated in to douse the sheer outer cliffs in oil and ignite the climbing beasts into screaming torches. And just like that, an entire week marched by.

In the end, it was the demonic beasts that collapsed from exhaustion first. Any mortal organism subjected to non-stop hunger, agony, and mental strain would break down after a single day and night. Biologically speaking, dwarves were not fundamentally different from other mortals. But what set them apart today was one decisive factor: an inexhaustible mountain of alcohol and food.

"Gwahaha! I am the God of the Hammer!"

"By the ancestors, it feels glorious to get properly sloshed after so long!"

"Sloshed? Who dared utter the word sloshed?!"

"Wasn't me, captain!"

Trapped between repairing shattered fortifications, toiling in deep mines, and backbreaking manual labor, the dwarves had long been denied the joy of drinking to their hearts' content. But now, they had been granted full, unconditional permission to drink non-stop on the clock — and for a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠full seven days, no less! Furthermore, while a siege's greatest vulnerability was logistical starvation, their fortress had suddenly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠turned into an infinite fountain of beer and biscuits. It was the ultimate cheat-code lobby.

Naturally, rumors of the mystical hardtack the dwarves were gorging on began to spread like wildfire across the forum.

Fascinated by its properties, members of other races drooled at the sight, desperate for a taste. But none could get their hands on a single crumb.

Dwarves equaled booze and hardtack. Just as that bizarre association was cementing itself across the gallery, a private message arrived.

It was Armion, the Queen of the Elves.

Once upon a time, elves were the undisputed center of the civilized world. Even as the human population surged, none dared look down on elven kind.

Of course, that was then. Today was a very different story.

Elves possessed abysmal technical expertise when it came to smelting, crafting, or manufacturing. Were they skilled farmers, then? Far from it. For centuries, they had relied on vassal colonies, brazen pillaging, and extortionate barter to procure their goods.

"Yikes, that's rough."

Short on food? Easy, just raid someone. Envious of dwarven metalwork? Simple, threaten them into handing it over. They were practically long-eared Vikings on dry land.

Naturally, there were forward-thinking, rational elves who tried to secure a stable future for their people, but...

A sensible elf dared to speak up? Cast them into the shadows of exile. After centuries of indiscriminate raiding, extortion, and banishing anyone who showed an ounce of reason, the bill had finally come due.

And the result was their present predicament.

Not a single person was willing to trade with the elves. Consequently, with the elven festival — their sacred annual celebration — looming just around the corner, they found themselves in the pitiful state of being unable to secure even a handful of sugar.

"No matter how bad things are, how is that even possible?"

I thought it was an exaggeration, but instead of an explanation, Armion simply attached two photos.

It was a generational masterclass in total systemic incompetence. Thanks to their joint efforts, the local supply of sugarcane inside El-Ladh had completely cratered, sending domestic prices into the stratosphere. And bringing sugar in from the outside was impossible, as no other race would give them the time of day.

"Still, why force yourselves to hold a festival right now? If things are this bad, can't you just cancel it?"

It seemed strange to me. If resources were that scarce, skipping a party seemed like common sense. In my eyes, festivals were an optional luxury, not an existential mandate.

"Hmm."

Evidently, it wasn't optional for them. I understood that they needed sugar for the festival, but what did she want from me?

"Hmm."

A dessert for their festival. With the dwarves fighting a bloody siege on one side of the continent, accepting a commission for gourmet pastries felt slightly bizarre. But looking at Armion's tone and the thread titles popping up from elven users on the board...

"Wait, is this a matter of life and death for them too?"

It didn't look like a festival they were hosting out of joy or cultural pride. Rather, the suffocating desperation reeked of people cooking under gunpoint.

"Well, it's not like it's hard to make."

For me, 'making' something simply meant clicking a button in the system store. Browsing the dessert catalog yielded hundreds, if not thousands, of confectionery options. Recalling Armion's desperate plea to make it as overwhelmingly sweet and delicious as possible, a particular item came to mind.

"Tooth-rottingly sweet, huh."

A confection that practically announced its intention to dissolve tooth enamel on sight — a pure, concentrated block of sugar.

Macarons.

Still, before handing them over, curiosity got the better of me. Why on earth were they this frantic over some festival sweets? As the Queen of the Elves, Armion would surely know the reason.

"Looking at the threads, it honestly looks like someone's holding a gun to your heads."

Whining about saving their lives, screaming that it had to be made no matter what — I wondered if some catastrophic curse was threatening them. After a long, awkward hesitation, Armion finally replied.

"Ah."

Suddenly, everything made complete sense.

The grandest occasion of the year for the elven race, the elven festival — also known as the Day of the World Tree.

In theory, it was a joyous occasion where all elves gathered as equals to drink and celebrate. In reality, the atmosphere was slightly different.

Smack!

"H-Hieeeek! H-Here it is, please take it!"

Smack! Crack!

"I-I brought mine as well!"

Terrified elves were lined up in neat, trembling rows before the colossal trunk of the World Tree, each clutching a platter of handmade confections. The sacred World Tree was the indispensable lifeline for the survival of their entire race. Once, she had nurtured them with infinite benevolence and unconditional grace. In return, the negligent elves had allowed parasitic mana worms to infest her bark and actively hindered her recovery.

Having realized that peaceful coexistence with these idiots was utterly impossible, the World Tree's alternative solution was delightfully straightforward.

CRACK!

"Eeeeeeek!"

A touch of physical persuasion.

And so the festival dawned.

Amidst the piles of mundane sweets brought forward as tribute, a vibrant, unfamiliar assortment of colorful discs caught the World Tree's eye.

At first, she regarded their pastel colors and sandwich-like shape with mild suspicion. But it took only moments for her divine senses to recognize the distinct signature: this was a culinary creation sent directly by the Head Moderator. Slender vines immediately coiled around the delicate box, sweeping the macarons deep into the hollow sanctuary at her core.

Even at a glance, she could tell they were unimaginably sweet and exquisite. To simply absorb such miraculous confections through rough bark and wooden roots felt like a terrible, unforgivable waste.

Unable to resist, the World Tree shattered her ancient seal, manifesting her true physical form directly before the box of macarons. It was the divine descent of her primordial body upon the mortal realm, an incarnation unseen for hundreds of years. Towering with aloof majesty, the divine guardian of nature parted her lips to deliver her first spoken words in centuries.

"Looks delish."