The staircase was long and steep. As Aino descended, the surroundings grew increasingly dim. The modern decor gradually gave way to a setting that resembled an abandoned castle.

It was said that dwarves preferred to live underground, and it seemed likely that the underground portion of this building was far larger than what was visible above ground.

Finally, the staircase ended, leading to a vast open space. Despite the dim environment, some unknown light source maintained enough visibility. Not that it mattered to Aino—her eyes were perfectly adapted to see even in total darkness.

Night vision was a common trait among magical creatures, and even more so for dragons.

In the middle of the open area stood a tall dwarf, his hands resting atop the hilt of a sword. The blade was buried into the ground, its sharp edge piercing deeply into the surface.

This dwarf was far taller than the average of his kind, with a robust and imposing frame. His entire body was enveloped in a long robe reinforced with armor. His hair and beard were thick but meticulously groomed, adding to his regal and awe-inspiring appearance.

The dwarf made no effort to conceal his presence. A powerful aura emanated from him, so potent that the enclosed space seemed to hum with the sound of wind. Just standing there, his mere presence caused the environment to shift.

Neither did he hide his hostility.

His hawk-like eyes locked onto Aino, sharp and penetrating. His face was an emotionless mask, but the unsheathed sword in his hands was enough to convey his intent.

So, once again, she was being judged as a dangerous creature due to the malevolent and violent aura emanating from her. Aino was no stranger to such situations.

It couldn’t be helped. Black dragons were inherently fierce, and the long history of Tananorn’s predation and slaughter had soaked this body in murderous energy, impossible to suppress.

Well, if a fight was inevitable, so be it.

After years of journeying, Aino had long ceased to fear life-or-death battles. In fact, her naturally combative and bloodthirsty nature meant she even relished them to some extent.

Finding a worthy opponent who allowed her to fight without holding back was a rarity.

Years ago, she had reached a level where she could rival those deemed “noteworthy” by Tananorn’s standards—some of the strongest on the continent.

And now? While it was hard to quantify her current strength in the absence of ranks or levels, Aino was confident she could easily overpower her past self from that era.

The Dwarven King, Solgor, was undoubtedly a formidable adversary, but honestly, he was only “formidable.”

As their gazes met from across the vast space, Aino’s thoughts wavered.

One could never afford to be careless. She was well-acquainted with the concept of an “upset.”

Moreover, there was Chloe to consider. A fierce battle today could jeopardize her upcoming reunion with Zola and the others.

What should she say? Coming across as overly aggressive could worsen their relationship, but appearing weak was even less acceptable.

When no words came to mind, she decided to let him speak first.

Thus, the two stood in a bizarre stalemate, neither moving nor uttering a word, as if frozen in place.

After what felt like an eternity, the Dwarven King finally broke the silence.

“The malice radiating from you is deep and overwhelming. It is a threat to my city,” he said, his voice low and resonant, each word deliberate and measured.

As a king among dwarves and a ruler for untold years, his aura carried the weight of his status, something no ordinary warrior could emulate.

Aino, devoid of such grandeur or eloquence, decided to address the matter directly. If conflict was unavoidable, so be it.

“My emotions are perfectly stable. I have no intention of violating any city regulations. If Your Majesty insists on attacking me without cause, then I will defend myself.”

Aino refrained from releasing her own magic but ceased suppressing it. To Solgor, it was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing the depth of her magical power.

Upon sensing her magic, Solgor’s mouth twitched slightly, and his frown deepened into a pronounced crease.

Troublesome. Extremely troublesome.

Her ability to conceal such immense power was extraordinary. He hadn’t detected anything amiss until she was well within the city. Had he noticed earlier, he would have intercepted her before she entered.

A confrontation now would be disastrous, regardless of the outcome. The city would undoubtedly suffer heavy casualties.

The optimal course of action was to avoid hostilities altogether.

After a brief pause, Solgor inclined his head slightly, his tone softening.
“This king has no desire to make an enemy of you. Today was merely a test of your intentions.”

With that, he pulled the sword from the ground and, with a flourish, swung it through the air.

The movement was so swift that even with her enhanced perception, Aino struggled to track it. Yet, despite the speed, each strike carried overwhelming power.

Forceful yet fluid, the Dwarven King’s mastery lay not in raw strength or magic but in the art of swordsmanship itself.

This was a realm entirely unfamiliar to Aino.

When Solgor first planted his sword into the ground, Aino had deemed him merely a “troublesome” opponent, someone whose magic power was far inferior to hers and posed little threat.

But now, watching his swordsmanship, she realized she would struggle to escape unscathed if they fought.

A purely defensive approach would leave her entirely on the back foot, while an all-out offensive would expose openings for him to exploit.

In her mind, Solgor’s display elevated his threat level significantly.

This was a life-threatening adversary—a legendary figure even a century ago, not only the Dwarven King but also a Sword Saint.

And yet, despite the typical lifespan of dwarves being only three or four centuries, Solgor showed no signs of aging. His hair and beard were still jet-black, unlike the white-bearded dwarves commonly seen on the streets.

Thankfully, Aino had exercised caution, refraining from any show of force or magical intimidation.

After demonstrating his swordsmanship, Solgor sheathed his blade and began walking toward Aino.

This act was inherently dangerous—a warrior of his caliber approaching a magic-user unarmed.

Most magic-users dreaded close combat, as being within striking range of a Sword Saint meant near-certain death before they could even cast a spell.

Solgor’s approach was both a display of dominance and a psychological tactic.

If Aino stepped back, it would be seen as a loss of both face and composure. But if she allowed him to close the distance, who knew what this Sword Saint might do?

However, exceptions always existed.

Aino, being a dragon, was one such exception.

Master of both magic and physical prowess, she possessed centuries of magical refinement and the near-indestructible body of a dragon—a combination of durability and firepower.

Unperturbed, she stood her ground as Solgor approached. Slowly, she extended her hand and met his outstretched one in a handshake.

Solgor’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of intrigue flashing across his face.

“Interesting. You’ve already chosen... the path to destruction?”