Chapter 109
Chapter 109
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 109
Chapter Title: Interlude - Darulma Dun
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Dwarves on Earth do not live in mountains.
Traditional underground stone houses had long been replaced by apartments, and the clan’s mountain palaces by modern mansions.
Their kin back home and other races would chatter about how they had abandoned tradition or betrayed their homeland…
But Earth’s dwarves just snorted.
Betrayed tradition? No, they still exchanged pickaxes as coming-of-age gifts.
They wore ceremonial robes woven from mountain goat wool at weddings and celebrated holidays with barley rice cakes and beer.
They weren’t ignoring tradition—they simply weren’t bound by the past.
The miners who spent their lives digging tunnels and the artisans who lived and died for their masterpieces had all long been buried under mustard gas.
The dwarves who remained in the modern world were nothing more than capitalist entrepreneurs who worshipped money or workers chased by paychecks.
…Of course, as always, there were exceptions.
A small minority of outdated dwarves still prattled on about tradition and revenge.
Old bloodlines born before Stalin’s invasion.
‘…Damn old fools.’
Darulma Dun hated them.
He hated how they built houses little better than bunkers underground when perfectly good apartments were available, and how they treated the clan’s companies as their personal playthings.
Companies for dwarves only? What kind of nonsense was that in the era of globalization?
If they had just merged properly with humans, their companies would be several times larger by now.
No, size wasn’t the only issue.
The attitude that as long as dwarves ate well and lived well, that was enough—that selfish mindset was the real problem.
What good was it for dwarf companies to donate everywhere, advertise in the media, and polish their image?
If some human unemployed showed up on the news whining, “I lost my job because of the dwarves,” all that built-up goodwill went up in smoke.
Hell, some lunatic from the Republican Party who wanted to restrict dwarf voting rights was running for president.
If dwarves didn’t want to become the second Jews, they needed to change their attitude now and actively cooperate with humans…
“…Darulma.”
The voice from ahead snapped Darulma out of his thoughts with a start.
He looked up to see the worried eyes of the elderly dwarf guiding him.
Without realizing it, Darulma bowed his head in response.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“Your expression doesn’t look good. I just called out to check. You seem burdened with worries before meeting the elder after so long.”
“…”
“Don’t worry too much. If there’s a good reason, the elder won’t reprimand you harshly. Isn’t he still your father, after all?”
Darulma said nothing. The elderly dwarf called uncle didn’t seem to expect a reply and resumed walking.
Thud, thud.
Their footsteps echoed through the corridor mimicking ancient underground passages for quite some time.
When they reached a massive iron door, the old dwarf spoke again.
“Go in alone from here.”
“Uncle, you…”
“I’ll wait. I’m fine, so catch up with your father properly after so long.”
*If there’s any catching up to do,* Darulma thought, swallowing the words rising to his throat. He bowed to his uncle.
Creeeak!
As his uncle opened the iron door with a grating sound, Darulma stepped inside.
***
‘Tch.’
The moment he entered, Darulma clicked his tongue without thinking.
The scene before him was one he could never get used to, no matter how many times he saw it.
‘Still living like this?’
The first thing that caught his eye was the enormous room filled with display cases.
Packed tight like the shelves of a grand library, the cases held similar objects.
Heads of Stalin statues.
Made of different materials, sizes, and shapes, they were authentic pieces torn from statues erected in communist nations everywhere.
A landscape steeped in the madness—no, insanity—of a deranged dwarf’s vengeance.
Fearing the hatred and lunacy might infect him, Darulma kept his gaze averted and hurried through the cases.
After walking for about a minute, he caught a pungent stench assaulting his nose.
A sour, nose-stinging odor reminiscent of spoiled beer.
Darulma stopped and looked toward the source. In a dim corner, hunched over a small desk, sat an elderly dwarf.
“Oh, Five Gods…”
A scrawny body uncharacteristic of a dwarf, sunken eyes, and a long beard trailing to his feet.
The old dwarf’s name was Sgelma Dun. Former head of the clan and Darulma’s father.
“…Who’s there?”
He spoke without even looking at Darulma. Darulma bowed at the waist in reply.
“Yes, Father. It’s Darulma.”
No sooner had the awkward greeting ended than Sgelma rose from his seat.
In his hand was a small fragment of a Stalin head.
“Darulma… the one who caused trouble in Manchuria… my son.”
“…Trouble? I handled everything you ordered. The dragon too—Manchuria’s downfall was prevented.”
“Handled? You call that handled? Must I list your mistakes one by one, or will you confess them yourself?”
Darulma swallowed hard. He bowed even deeper but kept his mouth shut.
The silent protest filled the space between the two dwarves before fading.
“…Fine, if that’s how you want it, I’ll list your sins myself. First, the World Tree Crystal. Where did you use that thing?”
“That was…”
“It was meant for the Holy Kingdom’s cardinal. And you gave it to some mere mercenary? You, personally. No one else.”
Darulma tried to retort, but his father hurled the Stalin head fragment a bit faster.
Thwack!
Struck on the forehead, Darulma crumpled to the floor. He clenched his teeth to stifle a scream.
“I could have endured that much. But the imperial seal. You handed over the golden imperial seal to that guy too?”
Sgelma shot up from his seat and strode toward the fallen Darulma.
“Son… have you already lost your mind to dementia? Forgotten how important the seal is?”
“I haven’t forgotten…”
Darulma trailed off. The symbol of the Dwarf King. Its importance couldn’t be overstated. But…
“…The seal acknowledged that mercenary as its master. How was I supposed to take it back?”
“What?”
“Don’t ask how it happened. It’s done! After he freed the dragon, the seal only accepted his mana!”
Darulma spat the truth, but truth and persuasiveness were different matters.
Even he, who had seen it with his own eyes, could scarcely believe it—how much more his father?
“You call that words coming out of your mouth?”
As expected, his father didn’t believe him.
Sgelma loomed over Darulma, eyes blazing down at him.
“Dabal the King, the seal’s former master, has been dead for ages! No one can transfer ownership! Not you! Not me! Not even the Five Gods!”
The old dwarf’s eyes glittered with madness, saliva dripping from his mouth.
“And some Earth human gains ownership of the seal? You dare call that words?!”
“…”
“Even if it were true, if you were a dwarf…! You should have killed him and taken it back! Not returned empty-handed! You should have brought the seal yourself!!”
Darulma squeezed his eyes shut. To think this stubborn dwarf was the father he once admired. How had it come to this?
Tears welling, he replied.
“…Father, kill him? Who? Have you gone blind following those idiot reporters?”
“You bastard!!”
“The media yammers on about the saintess, but I saw it with my own eyes. He’s the one who felled the dragon. Killing him would be insane… Gah!”
Sgelma seized Darulma by the collar and yanked him up. Strength unfit for his aged body choked his son’s throat.
“Darulma.”
“Khk, guh… F-Father…”
“Suppose… everything you say is true.”
The father’s hands trembled as they squeezed his son’s neck. As if clinging to the last shreds of sanity.
“But we need that seal. You know that, don’t you? All of us do.”
“Guh, kh…”
“Only the seal’s unsealing power can locate Stalin!”
Darulma wanted to say it was just his father’s delusion.
Stalin alive in another dimension? Absurd.
But he couldn’t voice it.
Just as with the Manchurian dragon, no logic or persuasion pierced the flames of vengeful obsession that even consumed him.
“I-I… khk, have… a plan.”
Sgelma said nothing for a long while after hearing him. His choking grip quivered, Darulma’s breaths grew ragged.
“Speak.”
Only then did the pressure on his neck release.
Feet back on the ground, Darulma coughed and caught his breath.
“Him… Whew, Cheon Yeomyeong. We’ll make him our ally.”
“……”
Sgelma’s brow furrowed. He didn’t swing his fist only because of lingering faith in his son.
“We’ve built rapport. Workshop access, elixirs, even spread rumors in the media of our special ties.”
“…Hmph.”
“If we ask to borrow the seal’s power, he’ll lend it gladly.”
Sgelma remained silent. Darulma pressed on to hide his anxiety.
“And that’s not all. If we somehow find Stalin, his strength will help. Why else did we sponsor the mercenaries?”
“That was…”
“To acquire power money can’t buy, right? Cheon Yeomyeong is exactly that.”
Finishing, Darulma gauged his father’s reaction. Sgelma stroked his chin beard thoughtfully.
“…So he’s the one who felled the dragon.”
“Yes. Captain Kwon Mongju said it himself. He severed the dragon’s wings and legs alone.”
“Dragon-slaying caliber talent… How old is he?”
“Just a first-year at the academy.”
Darulma didn’t stop there, rambling on about how Cheon Yeomyeong was Lord Howe Academy’s first and last transfer student, and how he thwarted the academy terror attack.
Did his words hit home? His father’s response wasn’t bad.
The madness in his eyes subsided, and a spark of the vigor from his entrepreneurial days returned, however faintly.
“…So, when did he say he’d visit our workshop?”
“Uh, not yet… Haven’t heard back. He’s an academy student. He can only come during break…”
“Then it’s too late.”
“…”
“Humans forget easily. A few months is plenty for them to become strangers.”
Darulma felt an inexplicable chill. Before he could speak, Sgelma picked up the discarded Stalin head again.
“What weapon does he use?”
“Uh, mainly a sword.”
“A sword… Making one from dragon bone would take at least half a year. If we take the order now and start crafting, it’d be a second-year promotion gift at best.”
“…”
“Son, do you know how much time until the Superhuman Olympia this year?”
Superhuman Olympia. Held every three years, where young superhumans not yet of age competed.
“…About half a year.”
He couldn’t not know. Dungan Heavy Industries was a sponsor.
“Yes, exactly half a year. Son, would it be better to give him the weapon before then, or after?”
“…We should take the order now. If the artisans push, we can finish in time. I’ll contact him right away.”
Darulma rose to speak, desperate to escape, but Sgelma wouldn’t let him leave.
“Wrong.”
“…What is?”
“To win hearts, ordinary methods won’t do. Have you forgotten my teachings already?”
Words from his father before the madness took hold. Darulma bowed to suppress his surging emotions.
“Father, then…”
“Don’t contact. Go yourself.”
Himself? Regardless of Darulma’s bewilderment, Sgelma continued.
“No matter how you hound the artisans, a sword rushed against time won’t be a masterpiece. Don’t just order—bring a better sword in person.”
With that, Sgelma threw the Stalin head again. Darulma caught it reflexively.
“Take every usable sword from the clan head’s warehouse… no, all of them. Let him choose.”
“…”
“Show everyone we’re his patrons. Understood?”
Darulma bowed in lieu of words, and the father-son talk ended there.
The son turned wordlessly, and as he departed, the last spark faded from his father’s eyes.
Thud.
Amid the gaze of countless Stalin heads, quiet footsteps echoed through the room.
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