NOVEL NEXT Chapter 189
Chapter 189. Oath and Promise
“I will never harm a Dwarf while wearing that armor.”
— Demon Lord’s Prince No. 7, Zilbagias Reiju
†††
Caught off guard by a sudden encounter with the Dwarf Blacksmith Warriors, the prince of demons comes to a halt.
“Uuuhhh-Aaaah!”
Seizing the moment, the lead Dwarf warrior swings back his hammer.
Of course, it’s not just any hammer. It’s the “True Strike,” infused with the soul of a Dwarven blacksmith. The hammerhead is a heavy, rugged silhouette, yet it’s intricately engraved with obsessive detail, exuding a terrifying magical power.
This is bad.
I can feel it in my bones.
“DeeAaaahhh—!”
The ancestral battle hammer of the Dwarven warrior comes crashing down with all its might.
Ten steps between us.
Naturally, the impact lands.
With a tremendous crash, shockwaves rip through me, and the protective spell shatters like glass with a single blow.
“Ooooooohhhh!”
Next, a different Dwarf warrior lets out a battle cry and swings his glimmering axe in a horizontal arc.
An invisible slash rushes forward.
“Uh!!”
But as a Demon, I perceive it with magic. If I take that head-on, I’ll die. The spear’s staff, like a twisted bone, quickly forms a shield resembling a collection of skulls on my left arm.
I brace myself… no, I won’t hold! In an instant, the skull shield is torn apart, and the invisible slash aims straight for Zilbagias without losing momentum—
But.
The scale armor I wear, the “Cyndi Chaos,” its silver scales shine brilliantly and deflect the attack. Sure, I can’t completely negate the shock, and I stagger a bit. Behind me, the stone walls on either side, where my body didn’t block, get sliced neatly.
“What the hell!?”
“You held up!?”
The Dwarves are astonished as the strike from the highest quality magical weapon fails to break through. Zilbagias also brushes his fingers against the shimmering silver scales, surprised.
(This… is truly remarkable armor!)
Zilbagias himself boasts formidable magical power, yet to withstand the blow of a True Strike without so much as a scratch? Among the armaments obtainable by other races, this could very well be considered top-tier.
And so, as Zilbagias vows not to harm the Dwarves, the creator proudly showcases their craftsmanship!
“That’s an impressive piece of work!”
“Made by our kin!?”
“That shine… it must be from a White Dragon’s scales!”
With murderous intent still intact, the fervent gaze of the Dwarf blacksmith warriors converges on him—
“Hey, Demon! Where did you get that armor!?”
A Dwarf warrior with gleaming eyes asks from behind the helmet.
Caught off guard by such a question in the heat of battle, Zilbagias is taken aback. However, the Dwarves don’t attack in that moment of surprise; they close the distance slowly, poised for battle while waiting for an answer.
(The Dwarves truly are persistent) Zilbagias thinks, and for the first time that day, he smiles.
It’s just a slight twitch of the mouth, a hint of a grin.
“At the Demon Lord Castle. Crafted by a skilled blacksmith.”
In any case, they can’t make a move. Thinking I’m being quite leisurely, I reply.
“A Dwarf!?”
“Naturally.”
“What’s their name!?”
The Dwarves encroach with heavy breaths. Zilbagias fumbles for an answer. Mentioning Fisero’s name here might bring him disgrace. Wouldn’t that paint him as a traitor for supplying quality arms to our mortal enemy?
“I know you scoundrels have taken hostages and made our kin work for you!”
One warrior shouts, spitting with fervor.
“So it’s no surprise that he worked!”
“And while reluctantly laboring, we wish to know the name of the craftsman who made such an amazing piece!”
“Surely they’re no ordinary person! Could they be the Holy Craftsman!?”
“That’s nonsense, I’ve never heard of the Holy Craftsman being captured…”
The atmosphere grows loud, feeling less like a battlefield and more like a blacksmith’s workshop.
I can’t help but smirk. It’s actually amusing how enthralling this armor is that it captivates the Dwarves so.
— I cannot harm Dwarves.
They are too delightful to deal with. Furthermore, this armor will surely be a great help in the coming battle against the Demon Lord Prince and the Demon Lord. There’s no way I can break my vow—
“—Your Highness! What would happen if you broke your oath?”
Suddenly, the innocent voice of a young man echoes, and Zilbagias freezes as if struck by lightning.
Ah— that’s right, that was the cheerful guy who got thoroughly beaten by Platiphia during training—
“Of course, this armor’s magical power would dwindle, turning it into nothing more than a pile of scales.”
Zilbagias had answered him.
“Ah, that would be quite a disaster!”
The earnest young man pretended to be shocked.
“Such a masterpiece turning into garbage isn’t acceptable!”
The cheeky younger brother jumped on that, too.
“If the Dwarves show up—”
The older brother with gray hair thumped his chest.
“—Leave it to us!”
He said, raising his spear and laughing innocently.
“The Dwarves are too precious to kill, and avoiding conflict is wise, but if we meet them in a confined space, I’ll trust you guys.”
— I recall that I answered like that and smiled wryly.
To imagine the three idiots taking on the Dwarf warriors armed with ancestral True Strikes seemed completely absurd…
“Uuuhhh…!”
Zilbagias, pale-faced, stumbles back, feeling nauseous. Even with his hands over his ears, the laughter wouldn’t cease.
No, rather… it’s growing… louder. I feel dizzy. The ground feels like it’s swaying under my feet—
“What’s wrong!? What’s the craftsman’s name!?”
“Something seems off here!”
“…This isn’t going anywhere.”
The Dwarves exchange glances before Zilbagias.
“…We should examine this directly.”
One mutters softly.
The buoyant atmosphere vanishes, and the blacksmiths transform into a troop of warriors.
“—Nuuuhh!”
The axe, the masterpiece of the True Strike, swings again. This time it’s not an invisible blade but a force accompanied by the wielder’s rush.
“!? ”
As if someone had broken through his thoughts, Zilbagias looks up wide-eyed. The broad, hefty blade of the axe, sharp as a razor, is just about to slice into his neck when he raises his sword-shield to defend.
Kaaak! The immense shock almost sends the Holy Sword flying from his hands, but he barely holds on.
“What!? What is that blade!?”
The ancestral True Strike axe is effortlessly stopped by a seemingly pitiful old blade, leaving the Dwarven blacksmith warrior agape.
It’s no wonder they’re surprised. Yet this is the unyielding Holy Sword that didn’t break even while clashing with the Demon Lord’s spear—
“The tip… no, is that a sword?!”
“I can understand the armor, but what on earth is that!?”
“What’s going on!? I want to see! I want to know!”
The Dwarves’ excitement escalates.
“Ugh…!”
But ignoring their exuberance, Zilbagias turns and begins to flee in a panic.
“He’s running!? Follow him!”
“So it’s still a Demon! Fight him!”
“Let us examine that armor and sword!”
The Dwarven blacksmith warriors rush forward, creating a bottleneck at the narrow staircase entrance.
“Wait up!!”
The Dwarf who dashed out of the guard room swings his hammer at the fleeing Demon Prince’s back, “Hmph!”
Even though he’s already ten steps away, invisibly potent strikes crash down.
Bam! The protective spell shatters, the Demon Prince falls over, but he quickly rises and continues to flee without looking back—
“Wait hold on!!”
“Damn it, we can’t catch up!”
“Pathetic, is this the state of Demons!?”
With clattering armor, the Dwarves run, but unfortunately, their feet are too slow.
Then suddenly, a thunderous roar echoes from afar, shaking the entire castle.
“What!?”
“Could it be… the west gate has been broken!?”
The Dwarves halt in the narrow hall and look at each other.
“…We can’t linger here; we must defend the east gate at all costs!”
“Back! Back!”
“Damn it… the precious armor… the sword…!”
“Give it up you fools!”
The hammer-wielding Dwarf is poked in the head by a comrade, still gazing regretfully down the hall—
But the Demon Prince has already vanished, consumed by darkness.
†††
“Your Highness! Leave it to us!!”
— Stop.
“We’ll fight in your place, Your Highness!”
— Stop!!
“Why won’t you let us fight? Come on, Your Highness?”
— Stop it!!!
“Why, Your Highness… why…”
The innocent voice gradually shifts to a dreadful echo.
“Why did you—destroy us, Your Highness…”
“Stop it!!!!”
Screaming, Zilbagias continues to run.
Up the stairs, through the watchtower.
With a singular desire to distance himself from that voice rumbling from the depths of the earth.
“Why, Your Highness, why…?”
But even upon reaching the top of the tower, the voice refuses to cease. It resonates like a ringing in his ears. It echoes like a ringing in his ears—!
“Ahhhhhhh!!!”
Zilbagias throws down his spear, covers his ears, and screams.
His bloodshot eyes fixate on something on the floor.
— The short arrows from destroyed crossbows.
“Ahhhhhh! Waaaaaaahhh!”
Like a drowning person grasping at straws.
Zilbagias picks it up without hesitation and drives it into his ear.
“Ahhh! Stop it! Stop it!!!!”
Again and again. He gouges his ears. Thick blue blood spills out.
But still.
“Why, Your Highness…”
The voice doesn’t stop.
“Stop… please stop…”
Zilbagias, collapsing to the ground while covering his ears, shakes his head weakly.
“Please… just stop…”
As the thick blue blood drips down from his ears—
It mingles with the red blood of the slaughtered human soldiers on the floor.
It stains darker and darker, endlessly.