< 142. Roger's Trap? >
"Finally."
The time had come.
Ernan Hildean had safely fallen into the hands of the Hildean strike force.
He didn't know if the Third Prince was faithfully carrying out his mission, but there was no word yet of the Empire launching a hero expedition.
Even if it was just the calm before the storm, it had bought them time.
And that precious time was Berge's last chance.
"Have the blueprints come out yet?"
"To traverse the rugged Erjest Mountains without issue, bipedal or caterpillar-track designs won't cut it. So we're designing it with eight legs, like a spider that can go anywhere. Even sheer cliffs!"
At first dismissive, but once he glimpsed a possibility, Roger's professional pride exploded.
If he was going to build it, then better, more reliably, more perfectly.
It was the result of sleepless nights poring over designs with the golem artisans.
"Each leg will measure 22 meters. When folded in half for movement, accounting for the joints, the effective operating height will be around 10 meters."
"For fluid motion, each leg will have 211 joints, with 315 magic circuits engraved for smooth flow..."
"And the projected materials required..."
The list of materials pouring from Roger's mouth was staggering.
The silver lining was that attaching legs to what could pass for a golem in some ways—the Tower—meant no need for a core.
The core was a golem's vital heart, and without Magic Points as a substitute, they couldn't have made one even if materials weren't an issue.
No one in the Berft Kingdom had the tech to power a towering golem several dozen meters tall.
"Estimated time required?"
"The blueprints aren't finalized, so it's not perfect."
"So how long?"
"It's the pinnacle of cutting-edge magic engineering—something we've never built, never even attempted. Delicate machinery demands skilled hands, so naturally it depends on the number and caliber of artisans..."
"So it all boils down to what I do. Right?"
"...Ahaha, well, not exactly."
"Duly noted."
"Ahaha..."
"Gordon."
"I've already spoken to the Golden Moon Merchant Guild. But it won't be easy."
"Why?"
"Bringing them into the Tower means they'll learn about you and us. We can't send them back to the continent. Top artisans without deep ties are rare—ones who won't cause trouble later."
"Then we'll just make sure trouble happens."
"Pardon?"
"I'll kidnap the dwarves."
The Tower mattered more than blowing the Golden Moon Merchant Guild's cover, but if he could keep the guild, he should.
Better a mad Demon King snatches artisans than guild-sourced ones vanishing mysteriously.
"...The Berft Kingdom won't sit idle."
He knew. If undetected, great—but if caught, Berft would erupt. And if they rallied to topple the Flame Demon King, dwarf weapons would flood every nation.
Never poke the dwarf kingdom.
Not unless you had no rear to guard.
"Worse is still worse the same. Just means beheading becomes dismemberment. Dead is dead—what's the difference?"
"Planning to die, then?"
"Figure of speech. One more enemy changes nothing once this plan's done."
"True. Can't make legs without Berft anyway—die either way."
"And above all, it's a race against time. Empire could strike anytime, so snag the best-handed dwarves now."
"Fair point."
"Pathetic, though."
Even if true they couldn't beat the Empire's might, a Demon King yielding and fleeing?
"We'll settle this debt later."
"Damn right. Bottom line: two things."
Massive materials and artisans to craft them.
Materials? Shove in subspatial storage. Too much? Multiple trips.
Artisans were the issue.
Kidnapping was easy. Roger spilled secret tunnels; Mana's Phantom hid Magic Points perfectly. But post-kidnap, hauling dozens—hundreds?—without eyes on them? Tough. Living beings couldn't survive subspatial voids.
"On that note."
"Hm?"
"Might have a solution."
"Solution?"
"From Sharlot. Freeze people magically, halt bodily functions, seal external flows—they could survive any space. Needs immense power, though."
"Freeze and seal, even subspatial survival?"
"Sharlot's word. But no easy feat—must block dimensional flows."
"With Sharlot's power?"
"Short-term, yes... but."
"Not long-term?"
"Yes."
"Then..."
Gordon wouldn't mention impossibilities without reason.
He had a plan. Or none now, but Berge could make one.
Didn't he?
Berge's sole ally Demon King. Frost demons' lord who(?) loved freezing royals into statues.
"Time to visit Reina."
Oh right—forgot to ask Ugar about that favor. What price to promise?
"Honestly, I had my doubts."
Reina Sordain accepted the sudden meeting readily.
First words face-to-face in the Demon King's office.
Sweet cherry scent wafted with them.
Always got that candy in her mouth.
"About what?"
"Part of me thought you'd come. Part thought you wouldn't."
"Why?"
"First: your situation."
"Guess I'm in deep. Even you, cut off in the tundra, know."
"Not that bad."
Reina's face soured.
"Second?"
"Pride."
Crunch.
Tiny cherry candy shattered in her mouth. Swallowed, popped a new one.
"...How much candy you got?"
"Always stocked. Conquering Alein? Bringing this to Ma-gye first."
"This too?"
Berge pulled chocolate from Ernan—fancy wrapped.
"Chocolate? You like it too?"
"Nah, random get."
"Not as lasting as candy, but not bad."
She unwrapped, popped it in. Faint smile at the sweetness.
"Tasty."
"Glad."
"But no favors for snacks."
"Know what I'll ask?"
"Rough guess."
"How?"
"Your spot, our ties. Sorry to ally then bail."
Reina yearned to help. Most trustworthy of four kings; nominal allies.
But fool's move.
Save Berge? Delay one hero push. Failed blade sharpens, turns on her.
Personal? Might've. Frost noble, honor-bound to words.
But not alone. Frost demons, beasts, monsters—her kin, Tower folk.
"Can't help directly. No monsters, beasts, demons. But anything else? Gladly."
"As allies?"
"As allies."
"I've taken without giving."
"Your straits since then? Understood."
"Ugar thing you asked? Still pending."
"Same."
"......"
Berge blinked at her devotion.
Pre-regression Reina? Icy, chill wind gusting. Frost Demon King style.
Our beef colored it, but this gap's huge.
Like head in flowers, believing all pure and good.
"What if I take all, then ghost?"
"Betraying me now?"
"You trust too much."
"Misjudging, Berge Dayas."
Reina's gaze iced over. First post-regression glimpse of true face—Berge flinched.
Pre-regression her.
"Not overtrust. Know Frost Demon proverb?"
"...Frost grudge freezes volcanoes?"
"Good. Frost rage: deepest, coldest in Ma-gye. Persistent."
Crackle.
White frost blanketed the table.
"Betray me? My ice hits you first—not humans."
"...Even if humans close in?"
"Delay maybe. Not dumb enough to watch my head roll freezing yours."
But.
Crack.
Icicle plunged vertically. Grazed Berge's cheek, splintered chair arm, stabbed floor.
"We end it. Me or you."
"...Not saying I'll betray. Just worried—you give too much."
"Good. Unneeded worry. Not as naive as you think."
"...Yeah."
"Unconditional now, but investment. Your crisis? Deferring returns."
"Scary."
"You need it. Right?"
"No troops, you said?"
"Can't kill my vassals for you."
"Fine anyway."
Perfect timing.
"Need your external help."
"External?"
"Your power. Freezing, sealing cold."
"Cold?"
"Yeah. Freeze and seal people—even subspatial safe. Can do?"
"Kidnapping?"
"Yeah. Need human chaos. But exposed now? Worse."
"Magic orb with my cold? Works. Less efficient than direct, but subspatial week-plus easy."
"Perfect. Exactly it."
"How many orbs?"
"More better."
Price?
"Survive? Pay double."
"Expect it. Want you alive."
"Won't disappoint."
That day, Berge got 50 frost magic orbs.
"Around here."
Pale-disguised, Berge checked Roger's map.
Dwarf cities aplenty; he picked Berft capital.
Guards toughest, risks highest—but best artisans clustered central.
Caught? Worst case. But counters existed.
Enter via Roger's dozens of secret tunnels.
Some sealed post-kidnap; check opens, hide "Pale" entry.
"Here."
Squeezed into camouflaged rock crevice. Earth crushed; face twisted.
Roger, that bastard dug to his size.
Recall: Mana's Phantom trip, tunnels this narrow?
Griping stopped in ten minutes. Dead end.
Waste.
Roamed range, confirmed eight sealed.
All sealed?
Ninth endless. Down to underground city, as labeled.
Long haul; dark tunnel ended. Knock: hollow echo.
Breached.
Berge punched through.
Dust billowed out.
Berge peered eagerly.
Whoosh—
"...Who?"
Roger, you mad fuck...
Dust-caked face met Luize Berft's—axe raised.
< 142. Roger's Trap? > End