Translator: CinderTL
Dragon's Might, a unique trait awakened by Roland upon becoming a dragonborn, drew its power from the deepest spiritual plane. Its effectiveness depended on the absolute difference in mental attributes between the caster and the target.
Yet since acquiring this power, Roland had faced formidable foes—Arno and Malcolm—all of whom possessed unwavering mental fortitude. This had often rendered the trait ineffective in actual combat.
But now, against these ordinary gray-skinned dwarves who hadn't even crossed the threshold of transcendence, the dragonborn's majesty finally revealed its true terror.
It was an absolute crushing at the level of life itself, a primal dread that shook the very depths of their souls.
Under Roland's precise control, this overwhelming pressure completely bypassed his companions behind him.
Thus, Bronson, Hoby, and Freddy witnessed a bizarre and suffocating scene.
Just as they tightened their grips on their weapons, bracing for a bloody, desperate fight, the gray-skinned dwarves surging toward them like a tide suddenly froze in place, their weapons slipping from their grasp, as if struck by an unspeakable horror.
"W-what's happening?"
Hoby gripped his longsword tightly, blinking in bewilderment.
"How did they... all collapse?"
At that moment, a figure emerged slowly from the shadows.
"Sheathe your strength, old friend."
"Roaring at a flock of hornless lambs is beneath your dignity."
Before the words had fully left his lips, the oppressive weight that had been crushing the gray-skinned dwarves' souls vanished as silently as morning mist before the sun.
The gray-skinned dwarves, survivors of this near-death experience, gasped for breath and struggled to their feet from the icy ground, their eyes fixed on the source of the voice.
As the figure drew closer, his features became clear.
He possessed the gray-skinned dwarves' characteristic rock-like, pale gray skin, but his frame was far taller and more muscular than that of his kin.
Though still a head shorter than Roland, among dwarves he would be considered a giant.
Clad in a worn, coarse-cloth robe, his steel-like white hair was meticulously braided into several thick plaits that hung over his shoulders.
His pale, nearly silver eyes burned with a cold, sharp will.
"Master Kekruna, you... you're..." Noel's face drained of color as the man who had risen from the dead suddenly appeared before him.
The instant the mysterious dwarf revealed himself, Roland's muscles tensed, ready to strike.
Roland's fingers tightened silently around the Mithril Longsword as he lowered his stance slightly, assuming a true combat posture.
This wasn't because the dwarf had instantly dispelled his Dragon's Might, but rather because...
His gaze shifted downward, settling on the bizarre iron gauntlet on the mysterious dwarf's right hand.
Clearly forged for a giant-sized right hand, the gauntlet was crafted from dull, dark iron, appearing both immensely heavy and utterly devoid of beauty.
A thick, heavy iron chain tightly locked the gauntlet at the wrist, its surface bristling with short, sharp iron spikes that curved inward.
Yet what truly chilled Roland to the core wasn't the gauntlet's brutal design, but the faint, almost imperceptible aura that clung to it.
This aura was familiar.
He had sensed it faintly before, when facing Shar, Lady of Night, and Lothander, the Lord of Dawn...
The unique, overwhelming pressure of a God's domain.
"Heh..."
Seeing Roland's battle-ready stance, Durga let out a low, soft chuckle.
He extended his empty left hand, his voice tinged with an odd familiarity.
"Long time no see, old friend. I may look different now, but surely you haven't forgotten me? I'm Durga."
With that, he took a step forward.
Seeing this, the Mithril Longsword in Roland's hand immediately emitted a faint hum, its tip rising slightly, the warning unmistakable.
Durga stopped in his tracks, a hint of helplessness crossing his deeply furrowed face as he shook his head.
"You're still as cautious as ever, you old fox."
He turned to address the shaken gray-skinned dwarves around him, waving his right hand, which was encased in a terrifying iron gauntlet. His voice turned icy.
"Put down your weapons and withdraw. No one is to approach without my command."
The gray-skinned dwarves, as if granted a reprieve, quickly helped their unconscious comrades to their feet, their faces a mixture of awe and confusion. Like a receding tide, they retreated into the surrounding shadows and caverns.
In the blink of an eye, the courtyard was empty.
Only then did Durga turn back to Roland, deliberately raising both hands to show he meant no harm. He slowly approached, stopping a few steps away, forcing a smile that was meant to convey warmth.
But his ashen skin, silvery eyes, and the deep-seated, unyielding hatred that lingered beneath the surface made the smile appear stiff, even cruel.
"Though you mentioned you'd be coming here around this time..."
Durga's tone seemed to relax slightly.
"I expected to find you in some grand fortress or bustling city, not this insignificant little village."
As he spoke, his gaze fell upon the Mithril Longsword Roland gripped tightly. His voice took on a teasing edge.
"So, how does the weapon I forged for you all those years ago feel in your hand? Still comfortable to wield?"
But the next moment, his gray eyebrows furrowed sharply, his voice now laced with undisguised concern and reproach.
"But... you don't seem to know how to take care of it at all!"
"Look at this! How did such a massive crack appear down the spine of the blade? This isn't ordinary damage... What on earth did you use it to cut?"
Observing the gray-skinned dwarf who called himself Durga's overly familiar demeanor and sensing no malice from him, Roland's frown remained fixed. He asked in a deep voice, "Do you know me?"
Hearing this question, Durga burst into a hearty, rumbling laugh that shook the air slightly, as if he had heard something truly amusing.
"Of course I know you! We were..."
He stopped abruptly, noticing the genuine confusion and scrutiny on Roland's face.
His silvery-white pupils contracted slightly, as if he had suddenly understood something, and his expression became complex and unreadable.
"So that's it..."
He remained silent for a moment before speaking slowly, his voice deepening.
"It seems the long river of time has washed away some of your memories... That's not surprising. No wonder I sensed your aura had weakened so much, even..."
Durga's gaze swept across Roland's face before he gently patted his iron gauntlet.
"If it weren't for this thing, I might not have recognized you at all."
After speaking, he scratched his head, which was covered in white braids, with his free left hand, as if troubled. But his tone quickly hardened.
"Still, regardless of what you've forgotten, since you're here, you must fulfill the promise we made long ago."
He leaned forward slightly, deliberately lowering his voice.
His voice carried a mixture of hatred that had been suppressed for too long, now finally unleashed, and a twisted sense of satisfaction.
"Even though you've forgotten who I am and what happened between us, I'm certain you'll find what I'm about to tell you... quite interesting."
Durga spoke almost with a snarl, each word carefully enunciated.
"I've captured a mind flayer."
(End of the Chapter)
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