Chapter 374| Diplomacy Doesn’t Always End With Ink On Paper. Sometimes, It Forces Us To Stand On The Front Lines.

​Riven’s breath came in heavy heaves, exhaling a thin mist into the dense, oily air that reeked of copper.

​Barely seven paces ahead of him stood Captain Reksov.

​The tempo of the battle had shifted.

​Riven’s dark military shirt was torn completely across his chest and shoulders, exposing sinewy muscles glistening with sweat. The rough bandages on his left arm were now saturated in crimson, blood slowly dripping onto the marble floor.

​But the northern giant paid it no mind. His pain receptors had long been deadened by pure adrenaline, his gray eyes locking dead onto his opponent.

​Opposite him, Reksov was in no better shape. His officer’s uniform hung in tattered ribbons, shredded by slashes.

​His pneumatic right arm hissed wildly. Superheated steam spewed from the seams of the metal joint, emitting an ear-splitting screech.

​Click... click...

​The mechanical red lens on the left side of Reksov’s face flickered erratically. The ruby glass was cracked, shattered by the earlier blow from the shaft of Riven’s spear.

​Reksov rolled his shoulder.

​Snap.

​An unnatural grinding sound of bone against iron echoed out. Yet his sadistic smirk only widened.

​The maimed man attempted to pump the lever at his waist to inject fresh hydraulic pressure.

​Tsssh—BZZZT!

​His machinery rebelled. Blue sparks erupted violently from his mechanical elbow—his booster system had suffered a total breach!

​"Tch. Just scrap metal," Riven hissed.

​He saw the opening—a fatal window that would remain open for merely a fraction of a second.

​Soundlessly, Riven lunged forward. Crouching low like an apex predator, the tip of his runic spear sliced through the air.

​By instinct, Reksov swung a mechanical uppercut.

​But the effort was futile. The hydraulic leak slowed the massive punch drastically. Riven ducked, letting the multi-kilogram fist whistle hair-breadths over his head.

​Slipping into his enemy’s blind spot, Riven pivoted his hips, channeling raw terrestrial power through his arms.

​WHOOSH!

​He thrust the runic spear dead into the gap of Reksov’s pneumatic elbow!

​CRAAASH!

​The orange spearhead impaled the copper plating and steel cables. Riven showed no mercy. With a roar from the depths of his chest, he twisted the spear shaft a full hundred and eighty degrees!

​CRACK—PSSSSTTT!

​The steel joint fractured violently! Massive bolts flew into the air. Reksov’s pneumatic arm went limp, spewing its final wisps of steam before dying completely.

​Reksov stumbled back two paces. He looked down, staring at his right arm, now reduced to useless iron scrap.

​Then, the man looked up.

​There was no cheap rage in his organic eye. No panic. There was only the dark composure of a hunter realizing his prey was an even fiercer beast.

​Beneath the violently vibrating belly of the Steam-Tank, Yara’s world had turned into a suffocating volcanic hell.

​The heat burned her lungs. Sweat and soot dripped heavily from her chin, soaking her dirty apron. Her leather gloves began to reek of singed hide, on the verge of melting as they braved the scorched metal around her.

​The skin on her arms blistered, throbbing with blinding pain.

​"Come on... please, come on..." Yara whimpered through gritted teeth.

​Rianor’s makeshift copper conductor was already attached to the exhaust valve. With trembling hands, Yara gripped the scalding pressure regulator wheel.

​She turned it with every last ounce of her strength.

​Screeech... clack!

​The energy flow locked in place. The copper conductor immediately flared bright orange! A massive heatwave surged inside, forcing the Steam-Tank’s combustion core past the melting point of steel.

​The steel behemoth above her groaned in agony. The engine shuddered so violently it rattled Yara’s internal organs. Its left tread spun wildly, showering sparks against the stone floor.

​"Hah... hah!"

​Yara didn’t wait around to die. She scrambled out like mad, rolling to avoid bursts of scalding steam. Her skin was blistered in several spots.

​She sprinted frantically, tripping over volcanic rocks, crashing down on her knees, and crawling forward once more to seek cover.

​Atop the tank’s hull, a mechanical catastrophe erupted. The energy-consolidating main cannon hissed terrifyingly. Trapped steam pressure incinerated the internal chamber.

​The giant cannon barrel shifted from black to a glowing crimson, softening like wax.

​Psssshhhh—clack!

​The internal metal fused solid. The main cannon melted shut!

​From behind the stone alcove, Rianor’s gray eyes observed the mechanical failure.

​The Bracer display on his arm glowed blue, indicating the barrel temperature had breached critical limits.

​"Hmm. Melted from within," Rianor murmured coldly. The tank wouldn’t explode outward; instead, it would become a liquid iron coffin for its own crew.

​Rianor stepped out from the mist, raising his hand high to signal the Dwarven King.

​The Dwarven King, standing with his warhammer shouldered, narrowed his eyes. He caught the crimson glow on the tank’s barrel and heard the fine hairline cracks.

​His battle instincts ignited instantly.

​"FALL BACK TO THE CROSSROADS!" the Dwarven King bellowed, his voice booming like thunder. "PULL BACK ALL DEFENSIVE LINES!"

​The Dwarven soldiers didn’t argue. They retreated in orderly formation while dragging their wounded comrades, moving clear of the radiant heat radiating off the tank’s hull.

​The King retreated alongside them with steady strides, never averting his gaze from the enemy.

​PSSSHT!

​The Steam-Tank’s cannon spat one final plume of jet-black steam toward the ceiling before dying completely. The multi-ton machine was reduced to a useless iron monument.

​Beside Rianor, Yara collapsed onto the floor of the alcove, her back resting against the stone wall.

​The young mechanic closed her eyes, clutching her severely blistered arms as she gasped desperately for oxygen.

​Rianor looked down at her. There were no poetic words of praise. Yet the spectacled man offered a single, subtle nod.

​To Rianor Sudrath, that was the ultimate mark of respect.

​Meanwhile, in the eastern passage, the tension began to settle.

​Selene’s frost mist melted, leaving pools of cold water across the floor. Selene lowered her hands slowly. Her blue robes were soaked, her striking face deathly pale from the immense drain on her mana.

​Before her, Thorne drew his twin daggers from the neck of the final Imperial soldier. The corpse collapsed into the water without a sound, flushing away fresh crimson blood.

​"Their wave is receding," Thorne reported hoarsely. "They aren’t pushing forward."

​Roland stood amidst the shattered remnants of the barricade. His shirt and coat were stained with blood and soot, the captured steam rifle in his hands still smoking.

​The young diplomat’s left hand trembled violently—not out of fear, but from muscle spasms after discharging hot lead at point-blank range.

​Roland pressed the rifle barrel firmly against his thigh, forcing his hand to stay still. He refused to show weakness before the Dwarves.

​From behind the smoke, the Iron Empire forces could be seen pulling back.

​They retreated in orderly formation, covering each other’s blind spots as they fell back toward the second tank trapped beneath the rubble. It was a disciplined, tactical withdrawal.

​Bringing up the rear of the formation walked Reksov.

​His ruined pneumatic arm hung limp, supported only by his own shoulder. The man was propped up by two cyborg soldiers, leaving a trail of blood and oil behind them.

​Before vanishing into the mist of the tunnel, Reksov halted. He turned toward the West Gap, locking eyes dead on Riven Sudrath.

​His mangled lips moved, mouthing something silent. A faint smirk carved onto his face before he was swallowed by the darkness.

​A few hot-headed Dwarven soldiers raised their axes, preparing to give chase.

​"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Riven barked, his voice exploding through the tunnel.

​The Dwarven warriors froze instantly, swallowing hard as they felt the Grand General’s terrifying aura, before slowly lowering their weapons.

​Riven watched the enemy retreat without shifting an inch.

​His spear was still dripping with blood and oil. His breathing had evened out, yet his muscles remained coiled, ready for action.

​As a seasoned commander, Riven knew the math. The enemy was retreating in formation; chasing them into a narrow tunnel would only walk them into a trap and lead to a senseless slaughter.

​The Dwarven King stepped up alongside Riven.

​"They’re gone," the King murmured hoarsely. "A bitter victory. We held the threshold, but our home is already soaked in blood."

​Riven turned to him coldly. "A bitter victory is far better than absolute defeat, King. You bled today, but this land remains yours."

​The Dwarven King fell silent, absorbing the harsh truth, before giving a slow nod.

​In the eastern passage, Roland walked past pools of blood.

​He stopped near the corpse of the elderly Dwarven warrior crushed beneath the marble slab. The old warrior’s eyes remained wide open, staring toward the civilian sector—toward the place where he had ensured his family’s safety.

​Roland knelt down, the hem of his coat touching the pool of crimson. With his grime-stained palm, he gently brushed down the old warrior’s eyelids until they closed completely.

​He stood back up, his jaw clenched tight.

​Rianor stepped closer with the rest of the group.

​"How long?" Roland asked curtly. "How long until they return?"

​Rianor scanned his Bracer. "Two tanks are disabled across the western tunnel. Their heavy artillery movement is completely blocked. Three to four days. That is the time required for them to mobilize fresh troops from above."

​Roland nodded. Three days.

​The Dwarven King approached them. "You could have run and hidden in the caves when those steel behemoths broke through. Yet you stood here. Bleeding alongside us."

​Roland answered calmly, "We fought because it was the right thing to do. And we refuse to die in a foreign land."

​"Hah, foolish bravery," the Dwarven King chuckled bitterly. "This is merely a deep breath before our impending demise."

​"As long as we can still draw breath," Roland cut in firmly, "there is always a way out."

​In a corner of the tunnel, Yara sat staring at her severely blistered palms.

​A waterskin was offered in front of her. Yara looked up.

​Rianor stood there with an unreadable expression.

​Yara drank it eagerly. "Will... will we make it out of here alive, Mr. Rianor?"

​Rianor adjusted his glasses. "Based on logistical calculations and combat capabilities, our chances of emerging intact are infinitesimally small."

​He locked eyes with Yara. "However, small does not mean zero."

​Yara offered a bitter smile at the hyper-rational response.

​Night slowly enveloped the subterranean Dwarven city. The chill crept down from the surface.

​No one slept. Dwarven civilians emerged bearing bandages, tending to the wounded, and moving the deceased to the sacred halls.

​Thorne and Selene snatched brief rest against the stone wall. Lieur curled up, clutching his knees in a dark corner.

​At the mouth of the West Gap, Riven stood alone, holding his spear.

​Roland stepped closer, standing at his side.

​"First day in a foreign land," Roland said, rich with irony.

​"Not over yet," Riven replied curtly.

​Roland leaned against the stone wall. "I never imagined I’d be holding a steam rifle, fighting side-by-side with Dwarves."

​Riven glanced at the rifle slung over his younger brother’s back. "You enjoying it?"

​Roland chuckled dryly. "Not in the slightest. But I’m starting to understand."

​"Understand what?"

​"Diplomacy doesn’t always end with ink on paper," Roland answered quietly. "Sometimes, it forces us to stand on the front lines, ensuring there is a tomorrow left to negotiate."

​Riven offered a faint smile—barely perceptible. "You learn quickly, Little Brother."

​The two princes of Northreach stood staring into the darkness of the tunnel.

​The first battle was over. A minor apocalypse successfully averted.

​But beyond the rubble and fog... the next storm was already bracing to break down the door.