Chapter 393 - 377: Duraga

Chapter 393: Chapter 377: Duraga

Dragon Mighty, the unique Trait Roland had awakened upon becoming a Dragon Descendant, was a power rooted in the most fundamental spiritual plane. Its effects depended on the absolute difference between the caster’s and the target’s Spiritual Attributes.

However, since he had acquired this power, the formidable enemies Roland had faced—from Anno to Malcolm—had all been individuals of unyielding will, rendering the Trait largely ineffective in actual combat.

But now, facing these ordinary Gray-skinned Dwarves who hadn’t even crossed the threshold of the Extraordinary, the might of the Dragon Descendant finally revealed its truly terrifying side.

It was an absolute suppression on a fundamental level of existence, a primal terror that made the soul itself tremble.

And under Roland’s precise control, this overwhelming pressure completely bypassed the companions behind him.

And so, a bizarre and suffocating scene unfolded before the eyes of Bronson, Hobbit, and Freddy.

Just as they tightened their grip on their weapons, bracing for a bloody fight to the death.

The Gray-skinned Dwarves surging toward them like a tide suddenly went rigid and collapsed, without a shred of warning. They couldn’t even hold their weapons, as if they were enduring some immense, unspeakable terror.

"Wh-what happened?"

Hobbit gripped his Longsword, blinking in confusion.

"Why did they... all collapse?"

At that moment, a figure slowly stepped out from the shadows.

"Rein in your power, old friend."

"Roaring at a flock of lambs that haven’t even grown their horns is beneath you."

Before the words had even faded, the oppressive weight on the Gray-skinned Dwarves’ souls dissipated, vanishing like morning mist in the sun.

Finally able to breathe again, the surviving Gray-skinned Dwarves shakily scrambled up from the cold ground, their gazes turning in unison toward the source of the voice.

As he drew closer, the newcomer’s features became clear to everyone.

He had the same rocky, grayish-white skin characteristic of the Gray-skinned Dwarves, but his frame was far taller and more robust than that of his kin.

Though still a head shorter than Roland, he was a giant among Dwarves.

He wore a heavily worn, coarse-spun robe. His long white hair, tough as steel wire, was meticulously arranged in several braids that fell over his shoulders.

A cold, sharp will burned within his pale, almost silver-white eyes.

"Ma... Master Klener, you... how..."

The sudden appearance of a man he thought dead made Noel’s face drain of all color.

The instant the mysterious Dwarf appeared, Roland’s muscles tensed.

His fingers tightened silently around his Mithril Longsword as he lowered his stance, entering a true combat-ready posture.

It wasn’t because the man could instantly dispel his Dragon Mighty, but because...

His gaze shifted downward, landing on the bizarrely shaped Iron Glove on the mysterious Dwarf’s right hand.

It was clearly forged for the right hand of a giant, made from dull black steel. It looked incredibly heavy, with no aesthetic appeal to speak of.

The wrist of the glove was bound by a thick, heavy iron chain, and its surface was covered with short, sharp iron spikes that curved inward.

However, what chilled Roland more than its cruel design was the faint, almost imperceptible aura clinging to it.

This was an aura he recognized.

It was something he had faintly perceived when facing the Lady of the Night, Shire, and the Lord of Dawn, Lodestar...

The unique pressure that belonged to a Divine Domain.

"Heh heh..."

Seeing Roland’s wary stance, as if facing a great enemy, Duraga let out a low chuckle.

He held out his empty left hand, his voice laced with an odd sense of familiarity.

"It’s been a long time, old friend. My appearance has changed quite a bit, but surely you still recognize me? I’m Duraga."

As he spoke, he took a step forward.

At this, the Mithril Longsword in Roland’s hand immediately let out a faint hum. He raised its tip slightly, the warning unmistakable.

Duraga stopped in his tracks. A trace of resignation appeared on his deeply lined face, and he shook his head.

"You’re as cautious as ever."

He then turned and waved the right hand that wore the Terror Iron Glove at the surrounding, still-shaken Gray-skinned Dwarves, his voice turning suddenly cold.

"Sheathe your weapons. All of you, fall back. No one comes near without my command."

As if granted a great amnesty, the Gray-skinned Dwarves, full of reverence and confusion, quickly helped up their unconscious kin and receded like a tide into the surrounding shadows and caverns.

In the blink of an eye, the courtyard was empty.

Once this was done, Duraga turned back to Roland. He deliberately raised both hands to show he had no hostile intent, then slowly paced forward, stopping a few steps away.

He forced a smile, attempting to appear gentle.

However, his gray skin, silver-white eyes, and the deep-seated, ineradicable undercurrent of hatred made the smile seem exceptionally stiff, even carrying a hint of cruelty.

"Though you did mention you would be coming here around this time..."

Duraga’s tone seemed to relax a little.

"But I’d expected you to turn up in a major fortress or a bustling city. I never thought I’d find you in this tiny, unremarkable village."

As he spoke, his gaze fell to the Mithril Longsword Roland was gripping, and his tone turned somewhat playful.

"So? The weapon I forged for you all those years ago—it still handles well, I trust?"

But in the next moment, his pale eyebrows shot together, and his voice filled with undisguised hurt and reproach.

"But... you clearly don’t know how to take care of it!"

"Look at this! How could there be such a huge crack down the spine of the blade? That’s no ordinary damage... What in the world did you use it to strike?"

Despite the overly familiar attitude of the Gray-skinned Dwarf who called himself Duraga, and the fact that his Perception registered no hint of malice, Roland’s brow remained tightly furrowed. He asked in a low voice.

"You know me?"

Hearing this, Duraga let out a deep, hearty laugh, as if he’d just heard the most amusing thing in the world. The force of it made the very air tremble.

"Of course I know you! Back then, we were..."

He was cut short when he noticed the genuine confusion and scrutiny on Roland’s face. His laughter died abruptly.

His silver-white pupils contracted slightly, as if he had instantly understood something. His expression became complex and unreadable.

"I see..."

He fell silent for a moment before speaking again, his voice deeper now.

"It seems the long river of time has washed some things away... That’s not surprising, I suppose. No wonder your aura feels so much weaker. Even..."

Duraga’s eyes swept over Roland’s face, and then he gently patted his Iron Glove.

"If it weren’t for this thing, I might not have recognized you at all."

He scratched his white-braided head with his free left hand, looking somewhat troubled. But then his tone became firm once more.

"Regardless, now that you’re here, you must honor the promise we made."

He leaned forward slightly, deliberately lowering his voice.

His voice was a mix of long-suppressed hatred, finally finding release, and an almost twisted glee.

"Even if you’ve forgotten who I am and forgotten our history, I’m certain you’ll be interested in what I’m about to tell you..."

Duraga said, almost with a savage grin, enunciating every word.

"I... have captured a... Heartstealer."