The dwarves of Earth do not live in the mountains.

Their traditional underground stone homes were replaced long ago by apartments, and the ancestral palatial halls in the mountains were exchanged for modern mansions.

The dwarves’ kin back in their homeland, along with other races, often mocked this transformation, calling it a betrayal of tradition and abandonment of their roots…

But the dwarves of Earth merely scoffed.

Betray tradition? Not at all. They still exchange pickaxes as coming-of-age gifts.

They wear ceremonial garments woven from mountain goat wool for weddings, celebrate holidays with barley stone bread and beer.

They don't ignore tradition; they simply refuse to be shackled by the past.

After all, the miners who spent their lives digging the earth and the artisans who lived and died for their masterpieces—most of them were already buried beneath mustard gas long ago.

Modern dwarves are no more than capital-worshiping entrepreneurs or wage-driven workers.

…Of course, as is always the case, there were exceptions.

A few old-fashioned dwarves still prattled on about tradition and vengeance.

Elders who had been born before Stalin’s invasion.

"…Damn old geezers."

Darulma Dune despised them.

He detested how they built bunker-like homes underground when perfectly fine apartments were available and hated how they treated the clan's corporations as if they were personal property.

A company solely for dwarves, by dwarves?

What kind of nonsense was that in this age of globalization?

Had they simply focused on mergers and acquisitions with Earthlings, the company could have been several times larger by now.

But it wasn’t just the size of the company that mattered.

The real problem was their selfish mindset—that as long as their own kind thrived, nothing else mattered.

What was the point of dwarven corporations making donations, spreading advertisements, and cultivating a positive image?

All it took was one Earthling appearing on the news saying, “I lost my job because of dwarves,” and years of goodwill would vanish in an instant.

Even now, a lunatic running for president as the Republican candidate was calling to restrict dwarves’ voting rights.

If the dwarves didn’t want to become the next Jews of history, they had to change their attitude now and actively cooperate with Earthlings…

“...Darulma.”

The voice from ahead startled Darulma, breaking him out of his thoughts.

He looked up to see the worried eyes of the old dwarf guiding him.

Darulma instinctively bowed his head and responded.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“I called out because your expression didn’t look good. You seem to have many worries for someone visiting the family head after so long.”

“….”

“Don’t worry too much. If you have a valid reason, the family head won’t be too harsh. After all, isn’t he still your father?”

Darulma remained silent. The old dwarf, whom he called uncle, didn’t seem to expect an answer and simply urged him to continue walking.

Step. Step.

Their footsteps echoed for a long time through the hallway designed to replicate the underground passageways of the past.

When the two finally reached a massive iron door, the old dwarf spoke again.

“From here, you’ll go on alone.”

“And you, Uncle…?”

“I’ll wait here. Don’t worry about me. Take your time catching up with your father.”

If there’s anything to catch up on, Darulma thought, swallowing the words that rose to his throat. Instead, he bowed to his uncle.

Creeeeak!

The grating sound of the iron door opening reverberated chaotically as Darulma stepped inside.

++++

“Tsk.”

The moment Darulma stepped inside, he clicked his tongue unconsciously.

It was a sight he could never get used to, no matter how many times he saw it.

“Still living like this, are you?”

The first thing to catch his eye was the massive room, filled wall-to-wall with display cases.

Like shelves in a grand library, the cases were crammed with objects that all looked strikingly similar.

Heads of Stalin statues.

Different materials, sizes, and designs—all genuine pieces taken from various Stalin statues once erected in communist nations.

A scene brimming with the unrelenting vengeance of a dwarf spiraling into madness—or perhaps, already lost to it.

Fearing that such hatred and insanity might infect him, Darulma averted his gaze and hurriedly weaved through the display cases.

After about a minute of walking, a pungent stench assaulted his nose.

A sharp, sour odor, reminiscent of rotting beer.

Darulma stopped in his tracks and looked toward the source of the smell. In a shadowy corner, an old dwarf sat hunched over a small desk.

"Oh, Five Gods…”

A thin frame unbefitting a dwarf, sunken eyes, and a beard that stretched down to the floor.

That old dwarf was none other than Skelma Dune—the former head of their clan and Darulma’s father.

“...Who’s there?”

Without even glancing at him, Skelma spoke. Darulma bowed deeply and responded.

“It’s me, Father. Darulma.”

Before the awkward greeting could settle, Skelma rose from his seat, holding a small piece of a Stalin statue’s head in his hand.

“Darulma… my son, the one who caused trouble in Manchuria.”

“...Trouble? I handled everything as you ordered. I even prevented Manchuria from falling.”

“Handled? Handled, you say? Do I need to list every mistake you’ve made, or will you confess them yourself?”

Darulma swallowed hard, bowing even lower but staying silent.

A tense, wordless protest filled the space between the two dwarves, only to fade just as quickly.

“Fine. If you won’t speak, I’ll spell it out for you. First, the World Tree crystal. Where is it?”

“That….”

“It was meant for the Cardinal of the Holy Nation. And yet, you gave it to a mere mercenary. You, of all people.”

Darulma opened his mouth to argue, but his father was faster. Skelma hurled the piece of the Stalin statue’s head at him.

Thwack!

The fragment struck Darulma’s forehead, knocking him to the floor. He clenched his teeth to stifle a cry of pain.

“If that were all, I might have let it slide. But the golden seal? You even gave that to him?”

Skelma shot to his feet, striding over to the fallen Darulma as he continued.

“Son… have you already succumbed to dementia? Do you not understand how important the seal is?”

“I haven’t forgotten….”

Darulma’s voice trailed off. The golden seal, a symbol of the dwarf king, was of immeasurable importance. But…

“The seal recognized the mercenary as its rightful owner. How was I supposed to take it back?”

“What?”

“Don’t ask me how it happened. It’s already done. After he released the dragon, the seal only responded to his mana!”

Darulma spoke the truth, but truth and persuasion were two different matters.

Even he struggled to believe what he had witnessed. How could his father?

“You call that an explanation?”

As expected, his father didn’t believe him.

Skelma, now standing directly before him, glared down with fiery eyes.

“The former king, Dabhal, has long since passed! No one can transfer ownership—not the dragon, not me, not even the Five Gods!”

The old dwarf’s eyes gleamed with madness, spittle dripping from his mouth.

“And yet, a mere Earthling has claimed ownership of the seal? You dare to spout such nonsense to me?”

“....”

“Even if that were true, as a dwarf, you should have… killed him and taken it back! Not returned empty-handed! You should have brought the seal yourself!”

Darulma shut his eyes tightly. How could this stubborn dwarf be the father he once respected? What had turned him into this?

Fighting back tears, Darulma answered.

“Father… kill him? Are you serious? Have you gone blind following those idiotic tabloids?”

“You insolent wretch!”

“The media credits the Saintess, but I saw it with my own eyes. He’s the one who felled the dragon. Killing him would be sheer madne—gack!”

Skelma grabbed Darulma by the collar and hoisted him up. The old dwarf’s frail appearance belied his immense strength as he choked his son.

“Darulma.”

“Khh… Father….”

“Let’s say everything you’ve claimed is true.”

Skelma’s trembling hands tightened around his son’s neck, as if he were holding onto his last shred of sanity.

“But you know as well as I do… we need that seal. We all do. Don’t you?”

“Guh….”

“Without the seal’s power, we can’t track down Stalin!”

Darulma wanted to say it was nothing more than his father’s delusion.

The idea that Stalin was alive in another dimension was absurd.

But he couldn’t say it.

Just as the dragon in Manchuria had proved, no logic or reasoning could pierce the all-consuming fire of vengeance.

“I… have a plan….”

Skelma remained silent for a long time after hearing those words. His hands trembled as Darulma’s breath grew faint.

“Speak.”

Finally, the pressure on Darulma’s throat eased. Feet firmly on the ground again, he gasped for air before replying.

“I’ll… win him over… and make him a thousand-strong ally for our cause.”

Skelma’s brow furrowed. He didn’t strike his son again—perhaps holding onto one last sliver of belief in him.

“I’ve already built rapport. We’ve granted him access to our forges, provided him elixirs, and leaked stories to the media about our special relationship.”

“Hmm.”

“When the time comes, he’ll gladly lend us the seal’s power.”

Skelma remained silent, prompting Darulma to keep speaking to mask his growing anxiety.

“And… should we find Stalin, his strength will be an invaluable asset. Why else would we sponsor a mercenary guild?”

“That’s….”

“Isn’t it to secure power beyond what money can buy? That thousand-strong force is exactly that.”

Darulma observed his father carefully as he finished speaking. Skelma stroked his beard thoughtfully, his expression calculating.

“So, he’s the one who felled the dragon.”

“Yes. Commander Kwon Mongju himself confirmed it. He severed the dragon’s wings and legs on his own.”

“A talent close to that of a dragonslayer… How old is he?”

“A first-year at the academy.”

Darulma didn’t stop there. He went on to recount how the mercenary was the academy’s first and only transfer student and had thwarted a terrorist attack.

Had his words struck a chord? Skelma’s response wasn’t as severe as before. The madness in his eyes subsided, replaced by a flicker of the sharp intellect that once built an empire.

“So, when is he coming to our forges?”

“We… haven’t received word yet. He’s an academy student, so it’ll likely be during the next vacation….”

“That’s too late.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Humans forget easily. A few months is enough for them to move on.”

A sense of foreboding crept over Darulma. Before he could ask, Skelma picked up the Stalin fragment he’d thrown earlier.

“What weapon does he use?”

“Primarily a sword.”

“A sword… it’d take half a year to craft one from dragon bone. By then, it’d only be a second-year gift.”

“....”

“Son, do you know how much time is left until the Superhuman Olympiad?”

The Superhuman Olympiad—an event held every three years, where young prodigies competed to prove their mettle.

“It was delayed due to the recent attacks, but it’ll be held within half a year at most.”

Darulma couldn’t not know; Dune Heavy Industries was one of the event’s sponsors.

“Exactly, half a year at most. So tell me, son, should we give him a weapon before or after the Olympiad?”

“...We should commission it now. If the artisans work hard, it can be ready in time. I’ll contact them immediately.”

Darulma stood to leave, eager to escape the room, but Skelma stopped him.

“Wrong.”

“...What do you mean?”

“If you want to win his loyalty, ordinary methods won’t suffice. Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?”

Darulma bowed his head, suppressing a surge of emotion at the memory of his father before the madness took hold.

“Then… what should I do, Father?”

“Not contact him. Go to him yourself.”

“Go… myself?”

Skelma ignored Darulma’s hesitation and continued.

“Even if you pressure the artisans, a sword made under a time crunch won’t be a masterpiece. Don’t commission a weapon—bring him a better one.”

Before Darulma could respond, Skelma hurled the Stalin fragment at him again. This time, he caught it instinctively.

“Take one… no, take all the swords from the family vault and let him choose.”

“....”

“Do it publicly. Show everyone that we are his patrons. Do you understand?”

Darulma nodded silently, signaling the end of their conversation.

He turned without another word, and as his figure receded, the glimmer of sharp intellect vanished from his father’s eyes.

Step. Step.

The soft sound of footsteps echoed through the room, surrounded by countless Stalin heads watching in silent judgment.