Chapter 369| We Walk Out Of Here Breathing, Or We Make Damn Sure They Pay A Steep Price For Our Lives

​An hour ago, they stood beneath the magnificent glow of golden runes. Now, they were trapped at the bottom of an abyss.

​The transition from the sacred throne room to this Dwarven holding cell felt like being hurled off a cliff. The space was cramped, damp, and suffocating. It was barely large enough for five people to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, wedged between solid black stone walls.

​The only light inside came from the veins of purplish-red runes pulsing sluggishly along the walls. The dim glow cast long, distorted shadows across the cell.

​Drip... drop...

​Cold condensation dripped rhythmically from the agonizingly low stone ceiling. The air was stifling, thick with the stench of wet mud and rusted metal.

​Rianor Sudrath sat leaning against the furthest wall. He adjusted his glasses. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. His left hand, mangled from the torture in Magniora, was now wrapped in makeshift bandages by Selene.

​His Arcanotech Bracer had initially been forcefully confiscated by the guards. However, they tossed the device right back after recoiling in horror at the severity of the burn scars beneath the metal. It was a wound that defied the logic of any forge.

​Rianor’s gray eyes were fixed on a narrow ventilation slit near the ceiling. His brain hummed, frantically crunching probabilities.

​Two days.

​That was Roland’s time limit before the diplomat resorted to reckless measures. Rianor knew it for a fact; from within these rune-plated depths, no radio signal or communication frequency could ever pierce through to the surface.

​In another corner, Yara sat hugging her knees.

​The young mechanic’s face was pale. Her gray apron was soiled with tunnel dust, and her usually neat black hair now hung limply, framing her exhausted face.

​"Rianor..." Yara called out hoarsely, breaking the silence. "Are you... scared?"

​Rianor turned his head slowly. "Fear is an irrational response to the unknown. I’m not afraid, Yara. I’m calculating our odds."

​Yara buried her face behind her knees. "I... don’t know whether to be terrified or amazed. When they dragged us here, I saw a market. Forges blazing with bright fires."

​Her breath trembled. "I saw children, sir. This place... it’s alive. I’ve never seen people living together with such warmth up on the surface of the Iron Empire."

​Rianor didn’t answer immediately. He returned his gaze to the pulsing runes on the wall.

​"Hmm. That is exactly what makes this situation ten times more dangerous," he responded with deadpan precision. "This isn’t a camp of starving rebels that can be bribed with bread or intimidated by empty threats."

​Rianor lowered his voice. "They are an entire civilization. They have a system, defenses, and... civilians they have to protect. If Roland’s diplomacy fails, or if we make one wrong move here, the war won’t end with the clash of swords. It will become a mass slaughter."

​Near the cell door, Riven stood like a statue.

​The Grand General’s posture radiated absolute vigilance. His torn shirt exposed muscles coiled as tight as steel wire. Even with his sword confiscated, Riven himself was a lethal weapon.

​In another corner, Selene sat calmly with her eyes closed, letting her damp silver hair flow freely. Meanwhile, in the darkest corner, Lieur curled up, clutching his head. The young scout felt as though he had dragged them all straight into hell.

​Above ground, beneath the freezing night sky of the Eastern Mountains, tension took on a different form.

​Roland Sudrath stood rigidly near the barricades of the Forward Military Outpost. His gray eyes stared sharply into the pitch-black rocky mountains in the distance.

​The outpost’s steam lamps cast a dull yellow glow. The stench of gunpowder, burnt wood, and the metallic tang of fresh blood still hung heavy in the night air.

​Thorne stepped out from the direction of the barracks. His dark blue uniform was still immaculate, sharply contrasting the chaos of the outpost. However, the heavy bags under the Captain’s eyes couldn’t lie.

​"Prince Roland," Thorne reported in a low voice. "The Outpost Commander is getting anxious. Some of the border troops are pushing to retreat to the main base. Sweeping the caves without General Riven is considered pure suicide."

​Roland didn’t tear his gaze away from the mountains. "We are not retreating, Thorne. At least, not yet."

​The rhythmic crunch of boots approached. Rumina arrived. In her hands, she held a small map and a logistics ledger.

​"The Outpost Commander refuses to lose any more of his men," Rumina shot straight to the point. "I’ve calculated the probabilities. We need a minimum of ten fully armed men to form a viable sweep team. Even then, there’s no guarantee they’ll come back breathing."

​Roland turned around slowly. He stared at the map in his sister’s hands, his jaw tight. Her calculations were logical.

​"We’re flying blind," Roland hissed, suppressing his frustration. "We don’t know which tunnels are safe, which are Wyvern nests, and which are Dwarven traps."

​"Stay sharp," Rumina warned coldly. "Don’t let panic tear your logic apart. If you act recklessly now, we all die without ever sending word back to Northreach."

​Roland let out a bitter laugh. A rare sound for the diplomat.

​"Hah... I’m not panicking, Rumina. But I absolutely despise this feeling," his eyes flashed with fury. "Waiting. Being unable to do anything, while time continues to chip away at their breath down there."

​In the depths of the underground city, Yara climbed up. Her boots rested on Riven’s sturdy shoulders, the man standing as steady as a temple pillar.

​Yara’s fingers gripped the edge of the narrow ventilation slit, peering out. Through the crack, she saw a brightly lit stone corridor.

​Dwarven children in coarse tunics ran about playfully. Their crisp laughter echoed. Suddenly, a little girl with curly copper hair stopped. Her eyes stared straight through the dark crack of the cell, locking onto Yara’s gaze.

​Yara held her breath.

​The child didn’t throw rocks. She simply smiled broadly, gave a small wave with her chubby hand, and then dashed off to catch up with her friends.

​Yara offered a faint smile. Her eyes welled with tears. "They’re... playing with pebbles... they’re laughing..."

​"Don’t lower your guard," Riven chided from below, his voice heavy and uncompromising. "In a war for survival, children are also used as sentinels. Their eyes and ears are sharp."

​Yara hopped down slowly, crossing her legs on the cold floor. She stared at her grimy palms. "I’m not lowering my guard, Sir Riven. I’m just... sad."

​Selene slowly opened her eyes. "That is the tragedy for those born in the vortex of war," the Arcanum Master said softly. "We often pray for them to be spared from suffering, yet prayers never truly drop peace from the sky."

​"Then... what do we pray for?" Lieur muttered hoarsely from his dark corner.

​"To remind ourselves of our sanity," Selene answered, gazing at the glowing runes. "Prayers prevent us from forgetting that our enemies also breathe. That they cry. That they laugh. Prayers remind us that we are still human."

​"Unfortunately, prayers won’t save our necks from the ticking clock," Rianor cut in, slicing through the melancholic atmosphere like a scalpel. "If their Chieftain decides on an execution tonight, your prayers will just be a prologue before the executioner’s axe severs our heads."

​Riven snorted sharply. The corner of his lips tugged into a lopsided grin.

​"For once, you’re actually right, Rianor," the General chimed in. "Don’t waste the remaining oxygen on praying. Use it to find a weak point in these walls. We walk out of here breathing, or we make damn sure they pay a steep price for our lives."

​On the surface, the authority of a Northreach officer was being tested.

​Captain Thorne marched briskly toward the Outpost’s logistics gate. Dust swirled, mixing with the sour stench of sweat. Three Iron Empire soldiers were crowding around a young Dwarven prisoner who was shivering and cowering in the mud.

​One of the soldiers had just raised the wooden stock of his rifle, preparing to smash it into the frail prisoner’s spine.

​"Enough."

​Thorne didn’t shout, but his intonation sliced through the air. The three soldiers flinched and turned.

​"Tch, he stole a bread ration from the tent," the soldier justified defensively, squinting cynically at Thorne’s uniform. "This dirt rat needs to be taught some manners."

​Thorne stepped forward. His hands rested behind his back, but his eyes glared as cold as ice.

​"A prisoner whose ribs you can count from three meters away does not deserve to be ganged up on by armed soldiers."

​"Tch. You’re not our commander, Southerner. You have no right to give orders here," the soldier challenged, raising his chin.

​Thorne stopped exactly two paces in front of him. His towering posture stripped away the soldier’s false bravado down to the bone.

​"I am not giving you orders," Thorne whispered low. "I am preventing you from looking like feral beasts in the eyes of the other officers."

​The three soldiers stood stiff in silence. Their jaws clenched tight.

​"If this prisoner chokes to death on his own blood just because of a piece of bread, the report will land on the Outpost Commander’s desk," Thorne continued, his tone creeping with a lethal threat. "And from there, this shameful record of indiscipline will reach your Emperor’s ears. Tell me... is the price of a piece of bread worth your neck on the gallows?"

​The soldier swallowed hard. His grip loosened. Without a word of protest, they roughly dragged the Dwarf away from the logistics area.

​Thorne let out a long breath. He loosened the collar of his uniform. It wasn’t a grand victory of war, but it was enough. In this land full of intrigue, an image was a weapon.

​The night reached its coldest peak. A heavy sound vibrated through the corridor outside the holding cell.

​GRRRKK.

​The heavy stone slab door, engraved with runes, was pulled open. Torchlight flared brutally, blinding the prisoners’ eyes.

​At the threshold, the Dwarven Chieftain stood tall.

​Two guards flanked him, one resting a massive warhammer etched with white runes on his shoulder.

​The formation inside the cell shifted instantly.

​Riven glided silently, shielding Yara and Selene from the doorway. Lieur ducked his head even lower.

​Rianor, on the other hand, stood up slowly. He patted the dust off his trousers, adjusted his glasses, and stepped forward. He stood face-to-face with the Chieftain. Not an ounce of fear in him.

​"I haven’t decided whether you lot deserve to live... or die tonight," the Chieftain’s voice echoed, as heavy as grinding tectonic plates. "I want to hear it directly. For what foolish reason did Southern humans dare to set foot on the sacred ground of our ancestors?"

​"We didn’t come as a conquering army, nor as the Emperor’s lapdogs," Rianor answered clinically, skipping the pleasantries. "We were sent to understand the root of this rebellion. To find a way so that this ridiculous war doesn’t have to burn your home to ashes."

​The Dwarven Chieftain’s jaw hardened.

​"Hah. Sweet words from a venomous tongue. Who leads this group?"

​"We are a delegation forced to swallow this mission," Rianor replied without blinking. "Our leader is waiting on the surface, risking his life to hold off the Imperial army so they don’t rain artillery shells down on this mountain."

​The Chieftain fell silent. His gaze slowly dropped, pinning onto the dirty bandages on Rianor’s left arm. He could sense the heat anomaly beneath the fabric.

​"That burn wound..." the Chieftain muttered suspiciously.

​Rianor took a short breath, then rolled up his sleeve without hesitation.

​"This is a souvenir from an Arcanum Master," Rianor said coldly. "You aren’t the only race on this continent that has been chewed up by the cruelty of Aethel-Terra’s elites."

​The Dwarf’s eyes narrowed. His blind rage faded, replaced by the sharp glint of calculation. He stroked his beard, letting silence strangle the cramped space.

​Back at the Forward Military Outpost, the air froze to the marrow.

​Roland sat on a rickety chair, glaring at the map spread across an ammo crate. Rumina traced the topographical lines beside him, while Thorne stood at attention by the barracks doorway.

​GROAARRRR!

​A horrifying roar echoed from the mountain crevices. The steam lamps flickered as a vortex of cold wind blew past.

​Rumina halted her finger. "Lieur hasn’t returned. Rianor and Riven are missing too," she stated without lifting her head. "Roland, probabilistically speaking... we can no longer assume they are still breathing."

​Roland gripped the edge of the wooden table until his knuckles turned white. When he looked at his sister, his gray eyes radiated a steely resolve.

​"Tomorrow morning, right at the crack of dawn, we move out. We will find an alternative entrance."

​"I will take the vanguard, Prince," Thorne responded without hesitation, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

​"Just you and me," Roland decided.

​Rumina slammed the table lightly. "That’s pure suicide, Roland! Infiltrating with four people into a territory capable of swallowing your Grand General whole?"

​"It is more honorable to die trying to breach their lines than to rot in this outpost without answers, Rumina!" Roland snapped, letting a fraction of his desperation leak through.

​Yet a second later, he suppressed his emotions back to the freezing point.

​"You stay here."

​"What?" Rumina’s eyebrows knitted sharply together.

​"Hold this outpost. Manage the logistics, keep an eye on the Outpost Commander so he doesn’t deploy troops recklessly, and..." Roland fell silent, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. "...prepare a draft of our final letter to Northreach. If we don’t return in two days, make sure Father knows who buried us here."

​Rumina stood rigid in silence. The hands of the genius treasurer, who always had a thousand arguments at the ready, now merely crumpled the hem of her dress. Wordless.

​GROAARRR!

​A Wyvern roared again, this time much closer. The massive flapping of wings slicing through the night wind could faintly be heard.

​Roland stood up slowly, piercing the darkness of the night without fear. The two-day limit he promised was almost up. The fuse of the impending explosion in the Eastern Mountains had now burned all the way down to its base.