Chapter 375| We Are Coming

​Time slipped by, unnoticed by the sun.

​In the belly of the earth, morning wasn’t heralded by the break of dawn. Morning here was simply the rhythm of life, pulsing once more after a near-death slumber.

​The subterranean Dwarven city began to rise from that hellish night. The orange glow from the veins of ancient runes along the walls slowly intensified, responding to the activity of its denizens. The warm temperature from the magma river at the bottom of the chasm crept up slowly, banishing the lingering chill from the stone corridors.

​There were no cheers. Last night’s victory had been bought at far too steep a price.

​In the vast courtyard near the main forge, only a muted bustle remained. Dwarven civilians worked together to clear away the ruined pillars. Cracked, bloodstained combat gear was stacked neatly in the corner to be smelted down.

​The distinct scent of the underground city—a mix of wet stone dust, metallic soot, and the herbal aroma of fire-moss—filled the thick air.

​In a stone alcove sheltered from the foot traffic, Rianor Sudrath sat cross-legged on a leather mat.

​His gray shirt was soiled with volcanic dust and torn at the shoulder. His glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his sweat-slicked nose. With a calm motion, his right index finger pushed them back up.

​In his lap, his Arcanotech Bracer lay open.

​The Adamantite shielding plate had been removed. The blue micro-circuitry inside blinked sluggishly, as weak as the pulse of a critical patient. Rianor wiped a smudge of soot from the scanner lens using a torn strip of his cloak.

​Sixty-eight percent structural damage, Rianor noted clinically in his mind.

​Last night’s forced resonance had fried almost every internal conductor within his Bracer. The device had saved their lives from the collapsing pillar, but the price was the complete paralysis of his primary analytical systems.

​Rianor looked up, sweeping his gaze across the alcove.

​On the other side, Selene sat leaning against the stone wall. The Water Arcanum Master looked deathly pale. Dark circles heavily bagged her eyes from extreme mana depletion. She kept her eyes closed, drawing upon the lingering moisture from the rocky dew to restore her energy.

​Nearby, Riven stood leaning against a pillar. The dark-haired giant barely moved. The bandages on his left arm were seeping crimson once again, but his expression was as flat as a tombstone.

​Shhk... shhk...

​Riven was sharpening the edge of his shortsword. The scraping of the whetstone was the only melody in their corner.

​"How long until your system is back up?"

​The voice made Rianor turn his head. Roland stood at the base of the alcove. The diplomat’s blue coat had been discarded, leaving him in a grime-stained white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

​"Basic functions will be restored in five hours." Rianor reattached the Adamantite plate to his arm, tightening the tiny screws with precision. "But thermal scanning and projective tactical calculations are completely dead for at least a week. We’re blind when it comes to long-range combat."

​Roland gave a slow nod. His jaw hardened. "We don’t have a week. Reksov is still alive, and he pulled his forces back up to the surface. What was your estimate last night? Three days?"

​"Three days is the absolute limit before the Iron Empire clears our stone barricade," Rianor corrected. "That’s assuming they don’t deploy large-scale explosives from the outside. If they get desperate, we have less than forty-eight hours."

​Roland fell silent. His gaze drifted toward the courtyard where the Dwarves were tending to their wounded. "We can’t fight down here again, Rianor. One more tank assault, and the roof of this city will cave in on its own people."

​"Diplomatic solutions evaporated the second their steam cannons fired," Rianor replied coldly. He stood up, dusting off his trousers. "There are only two logical options. Mass evacuation through the deepest tunnels, or a pre-emptive strike on the surface military outpost before they bring down heavier artillery."

​"A counter-offensive..." Roland muttered, his eyes narrowing. "That’s suicide if we don’t know their exact strength up there."

​"Every second we waste breathing down here is just delayed suicide, Roland," Rianor shot back mercilessly.

​Roland didn’t argue. He turned on his heel, striding toward the main hall where the Dwarven King was waiting for an impromptu war council.

​Rianor stared at his younger brother’s back. For the first time, he saw Roland’s shoulders bearing a weight that was no longer just the Sudrath family name, but the lives of thousands from an alien race.

​In a corner of the forge courtyard, Yara sat on an empty wooden crate. She stared blankly at her palms.

​The skin on her fingers was blistered and peeling from turning the super-heated conductor valve beneath the tank’s hull last night. The pain throbbed constantly all the way up to her elbows. Her beloved leather gloves had been charred beyond recognition, tossed aside near the rubble.

​Yara let out a shuddering breath. The young mechanic was used to seeing broken machines, but seeing human bodies torn apart by scrap metal triggered a nausea that refused to settle in her stomach.

​Suddenly, a small shadow cut through the orange glow from the wall.

​Yara looked up. Standing before her was the little Dwarven girl with copper hair she had saved in the Council Room yesterday. The child’s knitted tunic was dusty, her face smeared with soot.

​The little girl didn’t speak. She simply held out her tiny hands. In her right hand was a stone bowl filled with clear, cold water, and in her left, a broad leaf holding a poultice of boiled fire-moss.

​Yara was stunned. Her brown eyes met the child’s faded red gaze, which radiated absolute innocence.

​"F-for me?" Yara whispered hoarsely.

​The child gave a stiff nod, pushing the bowl and leaf closer.

​With hands trembling violently from the pain, Yara accepted them. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

​The little girl didn’t leave. She stood quietly, watching Yara awkwardly dip her fingers into the bowl of water. The cooling sensation instantly soothed the burning pain, making Yara close her eyes in relief.

​Then, tiny, calloused fingers touched the back of Yara’s hand.

​The Dwarven child took a dab of the blue-green moss paste and, with extreme care, applied it to Yara’s blistered skin. The paste felt biting cold at first, before slowly transforming into a soothing warmth that numbed the pain completely.

​Yara looked down at the copper-haired head resting near her lap.

​Her defenses crumbled. The tears she had been holding back since last night finally fell, washing away the gunpowder dust on her cheeks.

​This was no longer just about surviving the Iron Empire’s killing machines. Amidst the clanging of hammers and the shadow of death, there was a heart beating with warmth. Yara knew full well that if those infernal engines were allowed back in, it would be these tiny hands crushed beneath their steel treads.

​"I won’t let them hurt you again," Yara whispered between sobs. A blood oath from an ordinary mechanic in the heart of a civilization of stone.

​The little girl looked up, tilted her head for a moment, and flashed a wide smile, showing off her tiny teeth.

​At the makeshift command post facing the West Tunnel, the tension had yet to settle.

​The Dwarven King stood staring at the pile of colossal pillars blocking the passage. His ancestral warhammer leaned against the wall beside him. The runes etched into his aged skin had dimmed, but his commanding presence still hung heavy in the air.

​The crunch of approaching boots echoed. Roland came to a halt beside him.

​"That barricade is thick, but it isn’t permanent," Roland stated, his eyes locked on the stone crevices that were still billowing smoke. "The Iron Empire has hydraulic drills and high-compression explosives. They can peel through that rock in a matter of days."

​The Dwarven King didn’t turn his head. His eyes memorized every drop of dried blood on the floor.

​"You didn’t run last night, human," the King murmured hoarsely. "Nobles of your kind usually prefer to sit in their towers, sipping wine while the lowly grunts slit each other’s throats in the mud."

​Roland offered a bitter smile. "In my family, a noble title is the primary reason you have to stand at the very front to take the hits."

​The Dwarven King turned to him. For the first time, a glimmer of respect shone in his aged eyes. "The mountain stone records every drop of blood. You bled for us. The Stone Council might still be suspicious, but this King is not blind. You are no enemies of ours today."

​"And tomorrow we might not be around to be friends or foes, King," Roland countered lethally. "Reksov—the man with the steel arm—he survived. I saw his eyes when he retreated. This is no longer a territorial conquest. It’s purely a vindictive extermination operation."

​"Let those hounds come," the Dwarven King growled, his fists clenching. "We will collapse the roof of this tunnel and bury them alive with us."

​"That’s a proud way to die, but it’s not a way to win," Roland cut in with absolute finality.

​The King narrowed his eyes. "Then what is the suggestion of a diplomat whose table has already been burned to ashes?"

​Roland stared straight into the eyes of the subterranean ruler. His diplomatic instincts had transformed into the cold calculations of an executioner. "We can’t just wait for them to tear down our front door. We need a line of communication. My sister is up at the surface military outpost. If she can send a message to the Northreach fleet at sea, we can pincer Reksov’s forces from two sides."

​"The routes upward are crawling with patrols from the remnants of their forces," the Dwarven King replied skeptically.

​"Rianor is running the probabilities as we speak," Roland stated firmly. "Give us access to your hidden navigation tunnels leading to the surface. My team will make the climb."

​The Dwarven King fell silent for a long moment, weighing the insane gamble proposed by the young man before him.

​Finally, the King gave a slow nod. "Get your people ready. Tonight, you’ll have your tunnel."

​While the heart of the earth pounded with tension, hundreds of miles away from that hellish crater, night had already draped over the ocean.

​Bone-chilling winds swept across the wooden decks of the NRS Orion—a heavy armored cruiser of the Northreach fleet. The black waves of the Northern Sea crashed against its steel hull, spraying saltwater that practically froze in the air.

​In the command bridge, dimly lit by the glow of steam lamps, Commander Borch stood as rigid as a gargoyle.

​Behind him, Naya stood leaning against a pillar.

​Her fingers played idly with the hilt of her dagger. She stared at Borch’s back, knowing exactly what was lurking in her superior’s mind.

​Click... clack-click... ding!

​The repetitive sound shattered the silence. The portable telegraph machine in the corner of the room chimed—the only secure communication line equipped with Northreach’s encrypted ciphers.

​A young communications officer rushed to tear the paper tape from the machine. His eyes scanned the lines of code, and his face instantly drained of color.

​"Report," Borch commanded without turning around, his voice as deep as the roaring waves.

​The young officer swallowed hard, taking a stiff step forward. "B-black code emergency message, Commander! From the Forward Military Outpost in the Eastern Mountains. Authentication cipher... Lady Rumina Sudrath."

​Borch slowly turned around. His thick eyebrows knitted together. Black code. The catastrophe protocol.

​"Read it," Borch cut in coldly.

​"Military Outpost under attack," the officer read, his voice trembling against the night wind. "Wyvern infiltration. Two infantry companies and Iron Empire Siege-Tanks spotted making aggressive maneuvers at the West Gap. Diplomatic expedition... Lord Roland, General Riven, and Lord Rianor... trapped underground. Contact lost. Anticipating artillery annihilation in three days. Requesting instructions."

​A crushing silence instantly descended upon the bridge. Several officers held their breath. Three princes of Northreach were trapped in a slaughter zone.

​Naya pushed off the pillar. Her eyes flashed sharply at Borch.

​Borch walked slowly toward the tactical map table. His calloused index finger tapped lightly against the wooden surface. Once. Twice.

​The sea had taught him that panic was merely an anchor that sank ships.

​"I will not steer this ship into war," Borch murmured sharply. His eyes swept across every officer on the bridge. "The NRS Orion stays in port. Let the Iron Empire think we’re just passive cargo awaiting orders."

​He turned his head, looking at Naya. "You, me, and Dom. Just the three of us. We move silently."

​Naya gave a slow nod. Her hand stopped playing with her dagger. "Gather intel first?"

​"Exactly." Borch tapped his finger on the map, right on the coordinates of the Eastern Mountains. "We don’t know the delegation’s status. We don’t know the terrain. Rolling in with a full ship is suicide and an act of open war. Ghost Squad doesn’t operate like that."

​He turned around, sweeping his steely gaze across his officers.

​"We move out tonight. No authorization, no protocols. I take full responsibility."

​The communications lieutenant stammered. "C-Commander... if we’re caught, it’ll be considered desertion—"

​Borch leaned forward, locking eyes with the young Lieutenant. His gray eyes blazed.

​"We will lose the three princes we were sworn to protect if we do not move," Borch growled with absolute finality.

​He strode firmly toward the bridge doors. Naya trailed closely behind him like a grim reaper’s shadow.

​At the threshold, Borch paused and glanced back.

​"Send a reply to Lady Rumina," he said coldly. "Just one line: We are coming."