"We'll give them proper Moth Pole hospitality," Cinderclaws growled. "Prep for guerrilla defense."
He began issuing orders without hesitation.
"Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen—light steam armors. Stay out of sight. Flank only. Strike when they expose their rear."
"Yes, sir!"
"Comet, Cupid—spider tanks to long-range positions. Overlapping fields of fire."
"Yes, sir!"
"Donner and Blitzen, you're with me. We draw their attention."
"Yes, sir!"
"Everyone else—scatter. Hard cover only. We fight from shadows. We bleed them slow."
The guards saluted sharply.
"What about the prisoners, sir?" Dasher asked.
Cinderclaws didn't hesitate.
"Tell them to stay in their cells if they want to live," he grumbled. "These intruders aren't here for petty criminals. They're likely here for our VIP."
His eyes narrowed.
"Where are the Grand Marshal's men?"
"Most were on the train, sir," Vixen replied. "Only a small escort accompanied the Grand Marshal into the tunnel."
"Hmph."
Cinderclaws glanced upward through the drifting smoke.
"I hear no gunfire from above," he said flatly. "They're likely dead."
A sharp shout suddenly pierced the haze.
"HEY YOU! PUT IT DOWN!"
Cinderclaws turned.
One of his guards stood several meters away, rifle raised and trained on a group of approaching prisoners.
They were armed.
Some carried stolen rifles. Others gripped mining pickaxes and heavy hammers taken from the labor pits.
Faces blackened with soot. Eyes burning.
"WE WANT TO FIGHT!" one of the prisoners shouted.
"LAST WARNING! DROP THOSE RIFLES!" the guard barked back.
None of the prisoners raised their weapons at the guards.
They didn't retreat either.
Cinderclaws strode forward and raised a hand, signaling his guard to hold.
"What do you mean you want to fight?" he demanded.
The lead prisoner stepped forward and jabbed a thumb toward the devastated pit behind them.
"Look at this!" he shouted. "Our mates were slaughtered! We're dwarves. What pride do we have if we hide like rats while their killers march in?"
Cinderclaws clicked his tongue.
"Tch… stubborn idiots."
He studied their faces. Rage. Grief. Determination.
Refuse them, and they would fight anyway—just not in a way he could control.
"Fine," he said at last. "Fight if you want."
The prisoners stiffened.
"But hear me clearly," Cinderclaws continued, voice hard as forged steel. "If even one of you points a weapon at a guard—"
His hand rested on his sidearm.
"—I'll shoot the lot of you myself."
The prisoners held his gaze.
Then they nodded.
"Spread out!" Cinderclaws barked. "Take positions. Use cover. Don't cluster."
He turned away.
"I'll fetch Rudolph."
The dwarves dispersed into the smoke while the invaders were descending.
---
Maximum Security Cell
"Are you alright, Council Member?" Mara asked, bracing a shimmering shield of mana against a massive slab of fallen stone that threatened to crush them.
Dust trickled from above.
Dwordoug Axebreaker coughed heavily. "Y-yes… thank you, Mr. Ambassador."
"Sir?" Mara said, glancing toward Levi. "Your assistance, please?"
"Allow me," Levi replied mildly.
He lifted a hand.
With a simple telekinetic push, the slab of rubble shifted and slammed aside, crashing against the tunnel wall with a heavy rumble.
Mara exhaled and lowered his shield, shaking out his arms.
"Hff… thank you, sir."
"You're getting old," Levi said lightly.
"I am not a demon duke," Mara groaned, rolling his shoulder. "Two thousand years is considered elderly for my kind."
Dwordoug wiped soot from his beard and looked toward the tunnel leading upward.
"What's happening up there?"
Levi's smile sharpened slightly.
"I believe," he said, "that our… mutual friend has arrived."
Dwordoug narrowed his eyes.
"And how did you two get out of your cell?"
He paused.
"…Never mind. It was foolish of me to assume a demon duke could be properly contained."
Levi's smile widened, but he said nothing.
Dwordoug turned his attention upward again.
"They strike this deep within Dwargonia…" he muttered. "My men above should have signaled a nearby military base."
"Hm," Mara replied politely. "Given their track record, it is highly likely communications were severed first."
Dwordoug grimaced.
"…You're right."
His expression hardened.
"Then we must move. They won't leave without proof of our deaths."
"As expected of the Grand Marshal," Levi said smoothly. "Ever perceptive."
Without further delay, the three of them proceeded deeper into the tunnel system.
---
Moth Pole Entrance
Two guards hid inside the shattered entrance post, backs pressed against cracked stone as black steam armors marched past with mechanical precision.
Spider tanks crawled over crushed debris, metal legs stabbing into stone, cannons scanning methodically.
"S-shit…" one guard whispered, knuckles white around his rifle. "We can't fight steam armor with rifles. What do we do?"
"I don't know, dwarf! I don't know!" the other hissed back, breathing fast.
A pause.
"…Maybe we surrender?"
Before either of them could move—
One spider tank rotated its cannon toward the guard post.
BOOM—KABOOOM!
The entrance post vanished in a blast of fire and splintered stone. Smoke swallowed what remained.
The black-armored strike force did not slow.
Twenty-five steam armors. Eight spider tanks.
They advanced in clean formation, rifles raised, optics scanning. Any wounded dwarf crawling through the rubble was dispatched without hesitation.
Some tried to surrender.
The invaders accepted the gesture just long enough to confirm compliance—
Then shot them anyway.
At the cliff overlooking the pit, the assault commander halted.
His armor bore a darker insignia across the chest plate.
"This is Grinch Leader. We are entering Moth Pole," he transmitted through his comm unit.
"Understood," came the reply. "We require visual confirmation of Dwordoug Axebreaker's body."
"And the demons?" Grinch Leader asked.
"If identified, signal with flares. Three bombers remain on standby to erase the area. Remember, no witnesses."
A brief pause.
"Roger. Grinch Leader out."
The troops dispersed and began descending into the cratered prison.
---
Lower Pit
Below, dwarven guards and armed prisoners crouched behind shattered stone and collapsed beams.
Rifles were gripped tight.
Pickaxes and mining hammers rested against shoulders.
"Here they come," a prisoner whispered.
"Let them pass the chokepoint," a guard murmured. "Heavies fire first."
The black steam armors advanced into the pit floor.
Then—
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Two of the guards heavy steam-armors opened fire from concealed positions.
Explosive rounds slammed into the invading formation.
The black armors reacted instantly.
Retractable wheels deployed beneath their boots. They slid sideways, zigzagging with controlled bursts, avoiding direct hits with mechanical precision.
One black armor dove behind a mound of rubble for cover.
It did not realize dwarves were already beneath it.
Through a narrow crack in the debris, a guard lined up his shot.
BOOM!
The bullet struck the armor's exposed hydraulic line.
Steam erupted in a violent hiss.
The machine staggered.
Before it could recover, three dwarven prisoners burst from hiding—one with a mining hammer, two with pickaxes.
They slammed into the armor's legs, striking joints in coordinated blows.
The steam armor toppled, crashing hard onto the scorched ground.
"Welcome to Moth Pole," one prisoner growled.
They surrounded it.
CLANK—THUD.
CLANK—THUD.
CLANK—THUD.
Pickaxes hammered against the cockpit hatch. The dwarves began chanting their work rhythm.
"HEY! HO! HEY! HO! HEY! HO!"
CLANK!
It tore free.
The cockpit popped open.
Inside, the pilot stared up in terror.
"Hey-ho, you bitch!" one prisoner barked.
His pickaxe came down.
---
Bashington DC, Pentagon
Inside the command center, rows of officers worked in disciplined silence beneath the glow of a massive monitor wall.
Live aerial feeds displayed the assault on Moth Pole from multiple angles—heat signatures flickering, explosions blooming in calculated intervals, black-armored units descending in clean formations.
Stan stood with his hands behind his back, gaze fixed on the central screen.
"What's the Reaper status?" he asked calmly.
"Three Reapers are holding altitude at fifteen thousand meters, sir," an officer replied without turning from his console.
"Good," Stan said. "High enough to avoid Dwargonian patrol routes."
He tilted his head slightly.
"ETA?"
"Forty minutes."
Stan exhaled through his nose.
"Let's hope Levi doesn't do anything reckless before they arrive."
---
Moth Pole, Underground Sewers
The sewage tunnel was narrow and damp.
Dwordoug Axebreaker crawled at the front. Behind him came Mara, and behind Mara, Levi—who somehow managed to look relaxed despite being knee-deep in filth.
"Do we truly have to crawl through this?" Dwordoug growled.
"No real alternative," Levi replied cheerfully. "The main tunnel collapsed."
Dwordoug grunted as something unpleasant squelched beneath his gauntlet.
"A hundred and fifty years since my soldiering days," he muttered, "and now I find myself crawling through dirts again at my age."
"Change of scenery is excellent for mental health," Levi said lightly.
"Hmph. What would a demon know of well-being?"
Levi smiled behind him.
"I only learned about it after working under the Prime Minister."
Dwordoug snorted.
"Your prime minister. Alex Solomon. Is he truly as strong as the Demon King?"
Levi let out a short laugh.
"Oh no. Not at all. I'm surprised my ambassador didn't clarify earlier."
He adjusted his gloves as they crawled.
"The Prime Minister is actually the weakest demon in all of Murica."
Dwordoug stopped crawling.
"…What?"
"Not joking," Levi continued pleasantly. "He looks intimidating, yes. Quite orc-like. But a demon teenager could defeat him in a fair fight."
"…Impossible," Dwordoug muttered, resuming forward movement.
"Completely possible," Levi replied. "He possesses no notable physical strength."
"Then why follow him?" Dwordoug asked. "Because he grants you access to modern knowledge? Industry? Weapons?"
"That is part of it," Levi admitted. "Murica's modernization has been… efficient."
He paused briefly.
"But for me personally—he believes true power lies in words, not swords."
Levi's voice carried a rare note of sincerity.
"And I believe the same."
Dwordoug scoffed.
"…Says the demon god of discord and envy."
Levi's smile returned—calm, almost gentle.
"That title is outdated," he said. "I am merely a humble civil servant now."