Chapter 392| No One Was Coming

?The tremors persisted as Rianor stared down at the relief map before him. Subdued and constant, they hummed like a heartbeat rising from the earth’s deep belly. Unbeknownst to him, at the far end of the western tunnel, the battle was far from over.

?Riven’s axe clashed against steel for what felt like the hundredth time. The impact reverberated all the way up to his shoulder, but he refused to stop. Inside the narrow passage—barely two meters wide, sandwiched between the shattered stone bridge on one side and a sheer cliff on the other—twenty Dwarven warriors stood in a tight phalanx, their warhammers and axes glowing a fierce crimson from the runes etched into their handles.

?The Iron Empire soldiers kept coming. One after another. There was no formation, no strategy—only reckless desperation, as if sheer numbers could somehow overpower cold discipline.

?Parrying a downward slash with the haft of his axe, Riven pivoted, trapping the opponent’s blade between his weapon and forearm. He drove a hard knee into the soldier’s gut. The armored figure doubled over, crashing hard against the stone. Beside him, three Dwarves seamlessly plugged the gap before the next enemy could push through.

?"Hold the line!" he roared, his voice raspy yet thunderous against the clashing steel.

?The twenty Dwarves responded in unison, stepping forward as one to seal the freshly opened breach. The bandages wrapping Riven’s left arm were soaked through once more, blood seeping through the cloth and dripping onto the stone floor. The Wyvern claw wounds hadn’t truly stopped bleeding, but he had no time to dwell on it. The dull ache had faded into background noise, no more intrusive than the dust lingering in the air.

?Taking a heavy breath, he shot a quick glance across the magma chasm separating the tunnel from the opposite ridge. The stone bridge that once linked the two sides had collapsed on the first day of combat, leaving jagged stone remnants dangling over the abyss. Across the divide, the remnants of the Iron Empire’s 1st and 2nd Divisions were still gathered—yet they were no longer trying to find a route around.

?They were retreating.

?Not scattering in panic, but executing an orderly, disciplined fall-back, as if guided by a command pulling them away row by row, unit by unit.

?Riven furrowed his brow. Sacrificing four whole divisions just to pin down twenty Dwarves in a narrow tunnel? It made zero sense—unless this bottleneck was never their true objective to begin with. Unless the entire assault was nothing more than a diversion.

?"Something’s wrong," he muttered under his breath.

?The red-bearded warrior beside him—one of the most senior Dwarves in the ranks, with a prominent scar running across his cheek—nodded curtly. He had noticed it too, his eyes darting toward the chasm before snapping back to the front.

?But there was no time to ponder it further. Three Iron Empire soldiers lunged forward simultaneously, their swords raised in unison.

?Riven raised his axe. "Hold!"

?He met the trio head-on without hesitation, filling the narrow passage once more with the deafening din of clashing metal.

?• • •

?In another tunnel, far removed from the thunder of battle, the only sound was the controlled, muted rhythm of breathing.

?Borch led the way, his lean frame blending almost seamlessly into the shadows cast by moss-covered stone pillars. His long black coat rustled silently despite squeezing through cramped gaps draped with dangling stone-roots. The dagger in his right hand hadn’t dipped once since they stepped into the passage. Thorne followed three paces behind, short spear drawn, sharp eyes scanning every patch of gloom.

?The air here was cold and damp, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the main tunnel. Sockets of faint light filtered through the rocky fissures overhead, casting thin slivers that offered barely enough illumination to see.

?Thorne didn’t ask where they were headed. He trusted Borch’s instincts implicitly.

?The tunnel opened up ahead. Borch froze, raising a hand. Thorne flattened his back against the wall instantly, holding his breath.

?At the far end of the dimly lit chamber, four black-armored figures moved with rapid efficiency—no emblems, no sound. The black-ops unit.

?Borch counted silently. Four. Exactly as the courier had reported.

?Then, at a subtle fork cut into the cavern wall, two of the black-clad soldiers veered left. The other two pressed straight ahead, advancing down the tunnel leading to the throne room.

?Borch glanced at Thorne, nudging his chin toward the pair moving straight ahead. That was the route they had mapped from the start—the path to the King. Thorne gave a wordless, understanding nod.

?They moved out, stalking the two operatives heading toward the throne room—the location that, according to the courier’s report, was the true objective of the entire enemy operation.

?Neither of them spared a glance toward the dark, narrow left turn. Their focus was completely locked on the two targets ahead.

?Meanwhile, the other two operatives had already vanished down the left fork, heading in a completely different direction, accelerating their pace as the darkness swallowed them whole.

?Toward the command post.

?• • •

?Inside the cramped, obsidian-walled room, Rianor remained standing before the stone table, his right hand pressed against the relief map. Deep reddish-purple runes along the walls pulsed rhythmically, mirroring his breathing.

?Tremors from the main tunnel still traveled steadily through the floor—the constant, grinding rhythm of close-quarters combat. Riven was holding. That meant the western tunnel was secure for the time being.

?Rianor recalculated every factor in his head, a habit he fell back on whenever mapping out his next moves. Three couriers dispatched. The King alerted to the black-ops threat. Riven ordered to counter-attack in the western passage. Borch and Thorne deployed along the shortcut to intercept the infiltrators before they reached the throne room.

?Everything was proceeding according to plan.

?He traced the carved groove on the map connecting the command post to the throne room, his finger following the subterranean routes cut into the stone. Taking the shortcut, Borch and Thorne would need roughly fifteen minutes. The black-ops unit following the primary tunnel would take at least twenty.

?They would arrive first with time to spare—more than enough to set an ambush.

?Rianor gave a subtle nod, nearly satisfied with his calculations. Every variable factored in, every step locked into place.

?Then he felt it.

?Another vibration. Faint, almost lost beneath the heavy rumbles from the main tunnel. But it was there—and it originated from a different direction entirely. Not the route taken by Borch and Thorne, but a closer path leading straight toward this room.

?Footsteps. Two people. Fast, virtually silent—the hallmark of operatives trained to leave no sound behind.

?Rianor straightened up, his eyes narrowing behind the cracked glasses sliding down his nose.

?Two people?

?He shot a glance toward the doorway—shielded only by a heavy cloth curtain, unlatched and unguarded. He had neglected to station extra guards here, operating under the assumption that a room this small would never be targeted. A minor oversight that suddenly loomed catastrophic.

?He looked down at his left arm. The adamantite Arcanotech Bracer, which normally hummed with bright mana, hung lifeless—dead weight, no better than scrap metal. His right hand was fine, but an unarmed man stood no chance against two highly trained killers.

?He scanned the map again, searching for the anomaly he had overlooked. There was a side passage—one not even recorded on the old Dwarven maps—far too cramped for an army, yet ideal for two men to move undetected at top speed.

?His jaw tightened.

?He had miscalculated. Not all the black-ops operatives were targeting the King. A portion of them was heading straight here, using a route that wasn’t even on the official records.

?To the command post.

?To the mind behind the strategy—himself.

?The footsteps grew closer, abruptly halting right outside the curtain.

?Rianor clenched his right fist. No weapon in hand. No working Bracer to rely on. No time to call for help, and no one close enough to hear him if he did.

?• • •

?The curtain parted quietly.

?Two black-armored soldiers bearing no insignia stepped inside, their movements soundless. No ragged breathing, no rushed steps—only the cold efficiency of men trained to kill without emotion.

?They paused two steps into the room, their eyes conducting a swift scan: the stone table, the relief map, two wooden chairs, and the dimly glowing oil lamp resting on the table.

?Then their gazes locked onto the figure standing before the map.

?A young man. Lean and pale. A gray shirt soiled with dust. Thin, cracked glasses slipping down his nose. His left arm hung limp, encased in what looked like discarded scrap metal. His right hand was empty, devoid of any weapon.

?Not a Dwarf.

?A human.

?One soldier tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing through the slit of his steel visor. He shot a brief glance toward his partner, as if double-checking that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him in the dim light.

?His partner offered no reply. His gaze remained cold, a blend of confusion and suspicion. Intelligence reports indicated that the target in this room was the tactical mastermind behind the Dwarven defense that had held them at bay. Not a single report had mentioned a human.

?But the hesitation lasted for only a fraction of a second.

?A target was a target. Identity could be questioned later, once the mission was complete.

?One of them reached for the hilt of the sword at his hip, his fingers wrapping firmly around it.

?• • •

?Rianor didn’t move.

?His cracked glasses reflected the faint flicker of the oil lamp, obscuring his gaze behind a thin sheen. Outside, the distant thunder of battle echoed faintly through the stone walls, as if the world beyond was carrying on completely unaware.

?In the main tunnel, Riven was still holding the line, completely oblivious to what was transpiring here.

?On the shortcut, Borch and Thorne were still trailing the two operatives, pulling farther from the command post with every passing second, confident they were heading in the right direction.

?And in this cramped room, there was only him and two soldiers drawing their weapons.

?His mind raced at high speed, analyzing angles, calculating every remaining option. The stone table behind him, the two wooden chairs in the corner, the oil lamp resting on the table—all could be utilized, but none would suffice against two drawn blades. Without his Bracer, his only remaining weapon was his mind—and time was rapidly running out.

?The first soldier drew his blade completely. The steel reflected a faint glimmer under the lamp’s glow, cold and deadly, leveled directly at him.

?Rianor swallowed hard, but didn’t yield an inch. There was nowhere to retreat in a room this small anyway.

?Out there, no one knew he stood alone, facing two trained assassins completely unarmed.

?No one was coming.