Chapter 595: The Arrival of Hope ( 595 )

“Do we… have any way to fight those wyvern units?” Gumarak asked, his voice strained—more weary than furious.

Silence followed. A few commanders exchanged nervous glances.

One general finally stepped forward, eyes downcast.

“…I’m sorry, Chieftain. Our giant hawk unit… is down to just three birds.”

Gumarak’s eyes narrowed. “Three?”

“Yes, Chieftain. We’ve kept them ready only for one purpose… an emergency retreat for you.”

Gumarak’s voice dropped to a whisper. “For what?”

The commanders looked up, startled.

“For what?” Gumarak repeated, louder now. “So I can abandon my people? Watch from the sky while they die?!”

One advisor took a desperate step forward. “But Chieftain Gumarak! If you perish… the Dwarven Kingdom loses its last leader! Our legacy—our survival—goes with you!”

Gumarak stared at the war table, silent. Then slowly, he spoke again.

“Tell me…”

His voice was low. Bitter.

“How… are those giant hawks supposed to evade the wyvern units?”

The commanders fell silent again.

One of them, older and scarred, answered with pain in his voice.

“…They can’t. Not in open sky. The wyverns are too many. Too fast. Too well-trained.”

Another added quietly, “We kept the hawks hidden in the ravine caves. The only way they could flee is during a storm or mana interference…”

Gumarak’s hand trembled as he clenched the edge of the table.

“So… even our last wings are trapped like us.”

The grand war hall of the Dwarven Kingdom, once a symbol of pride and power, now felt hollow. Cold. And filled with despair.

The officers and high command stood still, their once-sturdy forms now frail and hollow-eyed. Skin clung to bone, armor hanging loose on their shrinking frames. The days of feasting and glory were long behind them.

The generals—heroes of a hundred battles—stood silent. Hungry. Tired. Beaten.

No supply routes.

No reinforcements.

The Human Kingdom swallowed one side.

The Halfling Kingdom consumed the other.

And all roads to the Beastkin and Elven Kingdoms? Sealed. Guarded. Controlled.

There was no escape. No hope.

Gumarak staggered. His legs buckled under the weight of failure.

He collapsed onto his knees, his massive frame hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. His breath hitched.

And then…

He cried.

Not the wail of a child—

But the silent, shuddering tremble of a broken man.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“…It’s all my fault.”

Everyone remained silent. No one dared interrupt.

“If I hadn’t claimed this damned Celestial…”

His hands clenched the stone floor until his knuckles turned white.

The twisted voice inside his head hissed once again.

Devour.

Kill.

Devour.

Kill.

It echoed endlessly, but he no longer fought it.

He simply lowered his head.

“I knew…”

“…I knew Edmund and Gurdan were after me. Because of this… thing.”

His voice trembled.

“I thought I could wield it. Use it to protect our kingdom… our pride…”

He looked up, eyes red.

“But I brought death. Nothing but death.”

The heavy stone doors burst open, echoing through the silent hall like a thunderclap.

“Chieftain!!” a soldier shouted, breathless, dust-covered, eyes wide with disbelief and hope.

Everyone turned. Gumarak lifted his tear-streaked face, his body still trembling on the floor.

“Aid! Aid has arrived at the east gate!” the soldier gasped.

The officers stirred. The commanders straightened. A flicker of life returned to the room.

“Food! Ten full caravans of supplies! Brought by dwarven soldiers from the third stronghold!”

Gumarak’s cracked voice barely escaped his throat. “W-What…?”

The soldier’s voice became stronger. “They said the one who conquered the third stronghold sent it. Said his name is Javier… Lord Javier.”

“Are you sure?!”

“Yes, Chieftain!” the soldier nodded rapidly. “They came under a black banner with a golden emblem—not any royal insignia we know.”

“Who escorted the caravan?” asked one of the generals, stepping forward.

“Five hundred knights clad in mithril armor. Towering warriors. Silent and disciplined.”

The room buzzed.

“And they were accompanied by our kin—two to three thousand dwarven soldiers, the same ones who defended the third stronghold.”

Gumarak, stunned, pushed himself to stand , lips parted, breath caught.

“…Where are they now?”

The soldier hesitated. “Outside the east gate. Awaiting your permission to enter. We… held them there until we reported to you.”

The room pulsed with new life. Starved hearts dared to feel hope again.

Gumarak stood fully now. His legs no longer shaking.

“…Then let them in.”

Gumarak’s voice echoed through the stone hall, firm once more.

“And call the commander to meet me. Now!”

“Yes, Chieftain!” the soldier saluted sharply and rushed out, boots pounding against the stone floor as he hurried toward the east gate.

The hall fell into tense silence again. Officers exchanged looks—some hopeful, some wary.

“I want to know the full detail of what happened. Who is this person who took one of our strongest fortresses… yet chose to spare our soldiers.”

He glanced at the nearby commanders.

“And why would he send relief caravans… now, when no one else dared?”

One of the generals spoke quietly. “Isn’t that a good thing, Chieftain?”

Gumarak didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the brazier, flames dancing.

“…It may be good.”

He turned his eyes toward the door.

“But we don’t know for sure.”

His words lingered in the cold air, heavy with truth. After all, in war, even gifts could hide blades.

After a long moment of tense silence, the war room doors creaked open.

The dwarven commander from the third stronghold stepped in, his armor still scorched and his beard untrimmed. He walked with a limp, but his back remained straight as he crossed the chamber. Upon reaching the center, he dropped to one knee.

“Chieftain.”

Gumarak stared down at him from the raised platform, his voice low and sharp.

“First, I must ask… Did you surrender to the enemy? Without fighting? And why?”

The commander bowed his head deeply. “Pardon me, Chieftain. It’s not as though we wanted to surrender. But by that time , we were facing one hundred twenty thousand halfling troops. Well-fed, high morale. They brought warbeasts too. Full force.”

A few officers murmured, eyebrows raised.

The commander continued, voice heavy with shame. “We had only ten thousand defenders left. Supplies were gone. We were barely standing. We believed it was only a matter of time until they crushed us.”

Gumarak remained silent, listening.

“But just before the halflings sounded their warhorns… he appeared.”

The room grew still.

“A human… wearing strange armor. Black. Lean. With an oni mask covering his face. He rode a bird-like beast—something we’ve never seen before. And he carried a long, thin blade. Not like any sword I’ve known.”

“A pekko,” one of the advisors murmured, eyes narrowing.

“He was followed by a line of knights. All clad in full mithril armor. Real knights—not one of them spoke. They moved as one. Stood as one.”

The commander’s hands clenched. “He raised a strange tool. A kind of speaking device—his voice was amplified. He warned the halfling army that the stronghold was his now. And told them to retreat… or surrender.”

Murmurs spread again among the officers.

“But the halflings laughed. Mocked him. They prepared to charge…”

The commander swallowed. “…And then he did something I’ve never seen before.”

“He raised his hand… and the gravity around the battlefield tripled.”

Everyone in the war room froze.

“Not just us. Not just them. Everyone. Every halfling. Every warbeast. Even we dwarves inside the walls… were slammed to the ground. We couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe properly. That… pressure… it nearly crushed us all.”

He looked up, eyes full of lingering awe and fear.

“And that was just one spell.”

( End Of Chapter )

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