Dwarves are not human, so they cannot be protected under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
The only international law that applies to you is the ‘Wildlife Protection Act.’

『Stalin’s response to the dwarven diplomats protesting the Soviet invasion.』

Jung Mapil raised his greatsword as he thought about the mission.

A mission assigned to him by Colonel Jung, who was full of ambitions to win stars, using half threats and half persuasion.

The best outcome for this mission would be if the opponent didn’t show up, and Jung could provoke them and leave.
Even that much would result in journalists flooding the internet with articles calling it the humiliation of the Seonjook Mercenary Corps, with comments mocking the group everywhere.
It was petty, but it would be the most satisfactory conclusion for both the military and Jung Mapil.

The next best option, middle ground, would be if Jung Mapil beat the opponent soundly.
Even in that case, the outcome wouldn’t change much, but it might stir sympathy for that kid named Yeomyeong, which was a problem.

And the worst case…

The worst case would be if the opponent was truly skilled enough to carve out a dragon’s rib.

‘Damn.’

Wooong—

As soon as he saw the mana gathering in Yeomyeong’s sword, Jung Mapil gave a bitter smile.
The mana he felt on his skin was not ordinary. Either he had learned a special martial art, or there was that much of a gap in skill.

• It's starting!
• That bastard Jung Mapil, how could he challenge someone young enough to be his son?
• Rookie! Cut off that bastard’s arm!

 

The jeers and curses from the spectators echoed, but Jung Mapil didn’t pay them any mind.
After all, wasn’t that why they sent him instead of a true military superhuman?

At this point, there was only one thing he could do.

‘Fine, let’s see how far I can go.’

Drawing mana from his chaotic thoughts, he brought down his greatsword.

Clang!

The sword of a soldier who had survived years in Manju clashed with Yeomyeong’s standard-issue iron sword.
The attack was a disgraceful first strike, but it had an effect.

Was it because his swordsmanship was lacking compared to his ability to wield mana? His opponent’s stance wavered.

Shiiik!

Jung Mapil didn’t miss the moment, swinging his sword again in quick succession.
The greatsword, aimed at the head, slashed horizontally and was barely blocked.

Trembling hands, resisting mana.
According to the original plan, this would be the perfect time for some provocation, but instead, he gritted his teeth and infused more mana into his sword.

His instincts, honed through actual combat, were warning him. This was not an opponent he could afford to be complacent with.

And those instincts were right.

After more than ten exchanges, the boy’s sword suddenly transformed.
The standard-issue iron sword accelerated in an instant, cutting through the air like a streak of light.

Clang!

The military greatsword barely managed to block it. The impact sent mana jolting back along the blade.
It was a strike that showed the difference in skill. Jung Mapil’s grip trembled, as if his hands would tear apart.

He tensed his muscles, holding his breath to block the next strike. Even if it meant losing an arm, he intended to protect his neck.
But contrary to his expectations, the follow-up strike didn’t come.
As if the previous strike had been a lie, his opponent swung his sword with overly large movements, almost deliberately slow, as if inviting him to block.

‘Not finishing it? This bastard, could it be…?’

Deliberate control of his strength, eyes glancing at the journalists.
He could sense it clearly, having crossed swords with him. The boy intended to use this fight as his debut.

The journalists and spectators gathered to humiliate the Seonjook Mercenary Corps were instead going to be turned into promoters for him.

“This crazy bastard.”

Jung Mapil was genuinely impressed. At the same time, he realized that losing an arm wasn’t the real issue here.
The petty plan to humiliate the boy was being completely reversed, and now it would become a chance to make the name ‘Yeomyeong’ famous?

‘The old bastards are going to lose their minds.’

This had to be stopped, at all costs. Or at the very least, he needed to show that he had tried to stop it, to avoid the wrath of the old men.

Having finished his thoughts, Jung Mapil swung his sword again.
This time, with deadly intent in each step, enough to make the spectators wince.

• What the hell is he doing in a duel?
• Did he lose his mind after taking one hit?
• The rookie’s going to die at this rate! You maniac!

 

I’m the one who's going to die, though. Jung Mapil smiled bitterly, as their swords clashed faster and faster.
The mana-infused blades sliced through the air. Dust and hair flew with every swing.

The journalists clicked their cameras in awe, but for Jung Mapil, it was torture.

‘At that age, to be this skilled?’

With each exchange, the difference in skill became more apparent. His rough breathing and the sweat running down his back were proof.
‘Is he even human?’

That brief moment of hesitation created a gap. In that instant, Yeomyeong’s golden eyes gleamed.
Through the opening in Jung Mapil’s guard, the standard-issue iron sword pierced through.

The tip of Yeomyeong’s sword curved toward Jung Mapil’s arm.

Saaak—!

The sword flashed, slicing through his forearm. The mana-infused blade was as sharp as a surgical scalpel, cutting through flesh and bone.

Thud. Jung Mapil lost his balance and fell onto his rear. And belatedly, both of his hands, still gripping the sword, fell to the ground.

Defeat. A total, humiliating defeat.

“That sword technique… what was that?”

Jung Mapil stared blankly between Yeomyeong and his severed arm. He couldn’t bring himself to ask if Yeomyeong had adapted his swordsmanship.
The contraction of mana, the movement of the wrist, the way he exploited the opening at the end.
Everything resembled his own swordsmanship, but… it was unbelievable.

Had he really stolen his technique in just a few minutes?

“Could it be, what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

A calm answer.
As Yeomyeong shook the blood off his sword, Jung Mapil couldn’t help but laugh. It was a laugh filled more with disbelief than despair.
Pain finally surged from his severed arm, but the corners of his mouth wouldn’t fall.

‘The old men definitely messed with the wrong person.’

"Wow, look at how cleanly it’s cut. With just one healing priest, that arm could be reattached right away, don’t you think?"

On the roof of a military building overlooking the mercenary camp, Wallad marveled at the fight between Yeomyeong and Jung Mapil. If only he could have seen it up close like the other spectators.

He barely managed to swallow the words that were writhing inside him. After all, he was standing in the presence of someone he respected deeply — his elder sister.

"Wallad."

"Yes, sister."

"That child, what do you think of him?"

Morine, the woman wearing a blue coat and a rat mask that concealed half of her face, asked.
Though the question was brief, Wallad understood the deeper meaning behind it and responded accordingly.

"In ten years, he’ll be a VIP for our company."

"That’s quite a high assessment."

"When it comes to growth speed, there’s no one who can match him. Not since Jeon Yunseong."

The moment the name Jeon Yunseong was mentioned, Morine pursed her lips. To think he was being compared to the pride of America.
She remained silent for a moment, gazing down at the mercenary camp. Amidst the Seonjook Mercenary Corps, who were now boarding the truck and readying to leave, one mercenary in a poncho caught her attention.

Despite carrying two automatic rifles, three revolvers, and clutching an anti-tank rocket launcher, the woman mercenary still seemed to need more weapons.
Even without anyone telling her, Morine knew. That was her beloved daughter, the Saintess.

Fortunately, none of the onlookers had realized her true identity.

Well, who would ever think that was the Saintess?

Morine smiled faintly and spoke again.

"The task I ordered?"

"…It’s been taken care of."

"No loose ends?"

"You know our skills. Even if someone in our industry investigates, they won’t be able to find out that he was once a dung beetle."

Wallad couldn’t hide his fatigue. After all, erasing someone’s past in just two days wasn’t an easy feat.
The paperwork was the easy part, given that he was already reported dead…

"How many people did you have to deal with?"

"There was only one, a cleaner named Park Gushik."

"…Only one?"

Wallad shrugged and pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket, a spell sheet inscribed with a memory pre-modification spell, a pride of the Blue Rat.

"It’d be better if you checked for yourself."

Taking the spell sheet, Morine immediately infused it with mana. In an instant, memories and information about the so-called dung beetle flooded her mind.
She carefully sifted through the information on the cleaner.

A back-alley cleaner with no family, one of the many third-rate lives scattered in the slums.
There was simply too little information about him.

It was impossible to know how he had lived, but his education amounted to nothing more than a high school equivalency, and he didn’t even have a registered phone.
The only notable detail was the foreman who had taken him in and raised him.

Other than that, everything was as she already knew.
He had been reported as killed by the Incheon Murderer, but in fact, he had survived and was still active.
There was even a corpse photo — how had he survived? Unknown.
How had he become a superhuman? Unknown.
What martial arts had he learned? Unknown.
He seemed connected to a series of recent incidents in Incheon, but again, details were unknown.
This is unknown, that is unknown.

Digging into the old man named Jang Mani might uncover something, but…
He was someone her daughter had promised protection by pledging a sacred relic to ensure his safety.

There was no way she could investigate him further when they needed to protect him.

Having followed that line of thought to its conclusion, Morine spoke once again.
Just as Yeomyeong was climbing onto the truck amidst the cheers of the onlookers.

"Keep managing the identity of ‘Yeomyeong.’ If there are any gaps, fill them. If anyone tries to trace him, find them first… You know what to do, don’t you?"

Wallad nodded.

"I understand. Sister, however…"

"However?"

"…Is it really worth investing so much in that boy? Erasing his past, protecting his information, even giving him the ‘Key of Blood Tears’... Isn’t that too much for someone you’ve only met once?"

"Are you dissatisfied?"

"I did say he’ll be a VIP in ten years, but… this is just someone you’ve met once. Even the Saintess seems involved... Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re going this far for him."

Morine, still watching the mercenary corps’ truck prepare to leave, responded.

"…Wallad, are you doubting me? Your words are unusually long."

"We’ve always been on your side. But… the board of directors isn’t quiet. Some of them may use this as a pretext to stir up trouble."

"Let them. It doesn’t matter what the remnants of a fallen nation do."

Morine’s voice grew colder. She seemed on the verge of saying something more but then stopped.

A sudden silence.
Wallad, wondering what had happened, glanced at her and quickly understood the reason.
The mercenary truck was leaving the Manju base.

Wallad knew better than to break this silence. After all, wasn’t this a mother watching her daughter leave? He had enough sense for that.

Only after the truck had disappeared beyond the horizon did he speak again.

"…Sister, did you make some kind of deal with that boy?"

It was an unexpectedly sharp question. Morine looked at Wallad and answered.

"Does it seem that way?"

"You used a telepathic spell sheet. I’m not entirely clueless, you know."

Clueless, are you? Morine chuckled softly.

"A deal, huh… If you want to call it that, then yes, it’s a deal."

"Does the Saintess know… Ah, of course she doesn’t."

"She’d better not know. What, are you going to tattle on me?"

Wallad knew it was the right moment to laugh, to throw in a lighthearted remark.
But faced with his sister’s chilling smile, he found himself unable to laugh.

"Is this really okay? The hero candidates we found…"

"They’re all worthless, unrelated to my daughter."

"…That’s blasphemous. Sister, what if the gods become angry?"

"Hmm. If they were going to be angry, they would have done it when a Soviet-born commie gave birth to a Saintess."

At that, Wallad finally laughed. It was always an absurd laugh whenever the fall of his homeland was brought up.

"…Heh, wow. That’s something to say, coming from someone married to a paladin."

"Family and faith are separate things. Think about Stalin’s mother."

After that short exchange of jokes lightened the mood a bit, Morine turned her gaze back to the dispersing journalists and spectators.

"Wallad. One last thing to do."

"…Sister, if you pile more work on me, I’m going to die."

Wallad’s voice was filled with desperation, but Morine ignored him completely.

"Contact the major journalists who were gathered in front of the mercenary corps earlier."

"…."

"Make sure they write positive articles about Yeomyeong. It shouldn’t be too difficult, right?"

"It’ll be hard, but…"

Wallad trailed off but didn’t outright refuse. He sighed deeply instead.

If she said jump, you jumped.
That was the age-old tradition of the Rats, passed down since the days of Siberia.