In the dim underground workshop, the furnace fire crackled and flickered, its wavering glow spilling into the reception room and illuminating the short, stocky figure of Foul Weather, Chieftain of the Earth Clan.
He had a hairy face, with a round bald patch clearly visible atop his head. The long beard characteristic of dwarven-like beings covered both cheeks and hid his lips. His dark, bark-like face was deeply wrinkled and tinged a dull red from years spent before the forge. A large, bulbous red nose threw the rest of his features out of balance, leaving him looking somewhat unkempt.
Despite his comical appearance, his mild expression made him seem rather honest and straightforward.
"I'm terribly sorry about yesterday. Please forgive a blacksmith for his pursuit of the art of smithing."
Foul Weather set down the tray and rubbed his hands together as he placed cups of tea prepared in the kitchen before the four guests. He spoke somewhat hurriedly, but his tone sounded quite sincere.
"I don't have much to offer you, so please have some tea first."
Samael glanced at the Earth Clan Chieftain's unnaturally drooping right arm and the faint limp in his step. A trace of mockery flashed through his eyes.
If you want to dismantle the Holy Sword, you'd better have the ability to do it first.
The atmosphere grew slightly awkward. Foul Weather looked embarrassed and hurriedly raised a hand to urge them on.
"Have some tea, have some tea..."
The three exchanged glances. Morgan ignored him completely, folding her arms across her chest and lowering her eyelids as though lost in thought. Samael and Mari, meanwhile, each picked up a teacup with a leisurely smile and raised it toward the Earth Clan Chieftain in acknowledgment.
Yet under Foul Weather's eager stare, the two visitors opposite him moved in perfect sync, gently swirling their cups with an irritating, deliberate slowness.
After what felt like half a century of dawdling, the cups finally reached their lips. But just before they drank, both abruptly stopped and turned to regard the Earth Clan Chieftain with amused interest.
"Drink! Why aren't you drinking? Are you looking down on me?!"
Their blatant lack of courtesy sent the hot-tempered Foul Weather into a rage.
"You seem awfully impatient. Why don't you drink this cup yourself?"
Morgan pushed the cup toward him with a curled finger and asked flatly.
Foul Weather seemed inexplicably startled. He instinctively backed away several steps, putting distance between himself and the teacup.
At once, six eyes settled on him. Realizing that he had exposed himself, the Earth Clan Chieftain's face alternated between red and pale. He gave an angry snort, stepped forward, and reached out to snatch back the teaware one piece at a time.
"That was prepared for guests. I'm not in the habit of sharing utensils with others. As for you, you won't even drink a cup of tea. Clearly, you don't trust me. If that's the case, then our cooperation ends here!"
Morgan did not so much as glance at Foul Weather. Instead, she turned coldly toward her two allies.
"Have you two had enough fun?"
"It's not that we don't want to drink it. We simply don't dare..."
Mari giggled and tipped her cup onto the floor.
As a thin stream of pale green tea splashed across the marble, the floor immediately began to hiss and corrode as though doused in strong acid. Waves of green miasma rose from it, enough to make anyone who breathed it feel dizzy.
For a moment, they could almost make out an exaggerated skull-shaped cloud in the fumes.
At the sight, Foul Weather's face turned a deep purplish red.
Samael clicked his tongue in admiration and casually tossed his teacup back onto the table, understanding clear in his eyes.
Besides being described as "scum" and "troublemakers," fairies also had another, rather sinister nickname: "Grand Poison Masters."
In one possible future, the Six Primordial Fairies slacked off and failed to forge the Holy Sword of the Planet on time. As a result, the gods were unable to stop the Wandering Star from descending, civilization on the surface was destroyed, and only the fairies survived.
The Horned God Cernunnos came to the surface, hoping the fairies would repent. But the fairies, long since tired of his admonitions, tricked Cernunnos into drinking poisoned wine and successfully poisoned him to death.
Later, just as the newly born humans and fairies were about to call a truce and form an alliance, another cup of poisoned wine killed the leader of the human coalition, plunging the world into chaos.
That was why, before coming here, Samael had already warned Morgan and Mari. Given the fairies' atrocious nature, all three had been on guard from the start.
Sure enough, they had now witnessed one of the fairies' traditional specialties firsthand.
Foul Weather's acting, however, was atrocious. The moment they walked in, he had been in far too much of a hurry to make them drink the tea.
Samael could not help complaining inwardly.
If you're going to put on an act, at least make it convincing. If a dwarven-like being is urging people to drink something, it should be alcohol.
"Enough. The game ends here. Let's return this to its rightful owner first."
The Ancient Serpent shook his head mockingly. As his fingers curled, a loud metallic ringing filled the forge illuminated by the flickering flames.
The Holy Sword Foul Weather had hidden transformed into a streak of golden light. It blasted through the stone wall, tore through layer after layer of Chants, and flew straight into its owner's hand.
"You bandits! Thieves! Don't even think about taking it away from me!"
The moment the Holy Sword changed hands, Foul Weather's eyes turned bloodshot. He roared in fury, raised his short-handled forging hammer, and charged screaming at the group opposite him.
Under the impact of Ether and overwhelming strength, the long cedar table was instantly reduced to dust.
My sword. Since when did it become yours?
Sure enough, there was no point trying to understand a fairy's thought process from a normal person's perspective.
Samael covered his forehead with one hand in exasperation. Without even looking over, he held the sword in his right hand and casually swung it.
"BOOM!"
In an instant, the teeth-grating clash of metal against metal filled the entire reception room. A fierce storm of Ether swept outward, twisting the air visibly around them.
Bricks and stone within its range were ripped away layer by layer before shattering. Tables, chairs, cups, and every other object nearby burst apart.
The next moment, the charging Earth Clan Chieftain, now clutching only half a hammer handle, was hurled backward like a cannonball and embedded deep into a granite wall covered in layer after layer of defensive formulas.
Morgan and Mari moved in perfect coordination, erecting a Magical barrier to seal off the commotion inside the underground workshop.
"Seriously, if you're going to try robbing someone outright, you should at least know your own limits."
Samael lightly wiped the edge of his sword and shook his head.
"My treasure! My treasure!"
Yet as the sword's radiance fell across him, Foul Weather roared from where he was embedded in the wall like a man possessed. His face twisted hideously as his boiling Ether turned into thick, ink-black smoke that churned around him.
Gradually, driven mad by the loss of the possession he treasured above all else, the Earth Clan Chieftain's crimson pupils turned completely black. Nothing remained in his eyes but limitless obsession and madness toward the Holy Sword as he struggled and threatened them.
"You need my power! Give me back my treasure!"
"That's right. We do need your power. But we never said... we needed you."
Samael rubbed his chin and stared straight ahead, the corners of his lips curling into an eerie smile.
"Impossible! Impossible!"
Foul Weather, who had been so confident only moments earlier, looked as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. His pupils contracted sharply.
Samael smiled and shifted half a step aside, murmuring softly.
"Barghest, dinner's ready..."
At once, a half-grown blond infant with heterochromatic eyes came toddling forward on unsteady legs, crystalline drool hanging from the corner of its mouth.
Foul Weather struggled wildly, his eyes overflowing with despair.
Beneath the flickering furnace light, the tiny Projection gradually stretched and lengthened into the shape of a feeding black hound, completely swallowing its writhing, struggling prey!
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