CHAPTER 114: VILSKAPA’S POV

We are the Nor-dwarves.

And we’ve been living in seclusion for millennia—together with the other Nor-dwarves in a small, tucked-away dimension.

This was because our race has a unique gift: the ability and intelligence to craft. We create works of art so fine, even gods give us commissions. Bothersome? Absolutely.

But hey, it boosts our prestige and glory, so why not?

Although... a few centuries ago—300 years now, if I’m counting right—one of our master craftsmen, a guy who hadn’t spoken a single word since the war 4000 years ago, suddenly broke his silence.

"I see it," Sir Brokkr whispered. "The birth of the Black Haze that trampleth on all. He requires my service."

"Weird thing to say, especially after going four whole millennia without speaking. But we still love you, boss!

We’ll follow you to hell, in fact...! Except if that’s actually where you’re going.

It kinda sounded like a figure of speech, but we don’t literally expect you to take us to hel—"

Anyway, we, his apprentices and loyal followers, immediately dropped everything and followed Sir Brokkr to Hades Border. Just a bit more and we would’ve actually stepped into hell.

So yeah—we left our countrymen behind and set up in Hades Border, in a world called Pison—one of the four Heavenly Pieces that’s been getting kinda famous lately.

And over here? We kept doing what we loved: Crafting.

For no real reason in particular...

Until Freya—that bastard—caught us.

Now we occasionally work for her.

Why didn’t we fight back?

Why didn’t we remind her that we can do whatever the hell we want—this isn’t Asgard?

Well... fair point. But we’d rather take our chances walking into Hades. We’d be dead either way.

Freya’s notorious for being petty, bratty and genocidal.

Ugh. The last thing I want is another Asgardian troublemaker showing up.

But on the bright side, these lands—being so close to Hades and constantly absorbing negative and cursed energy—made it easy for us to get our hands on *Darkiods.

(*Dark minerals infused with absurd levels of dark-attribute mana or cursed energy.)

These things were supposed to be as rare as flying pigs. Or humans crafting something better than dwarves (no. That one is just plain impossible).

But here? They’re everywhere—like strategic mosquitoes just waiting to be swatted.

And hell yeah—we swatted a lot of Darkiod mosquitoes!

Not even a second after we reached Pison, Sir Brokkr immediately began setting up and got to work—

"These lands should be bountiful with Darkiods... Bring me a great many."

"Of course, boss. Whatever you say. But you could at least join us for a drink! You haven’t had beer since...I don’t know...literally four thousand yea—"

Yeah. We were ignored.

He only ever spoke to ask for free things—and even that happened maybe once every few decades.

In fact, we had to build a workshop around him since the guy wouldn’t even budge.

Centuries passed.

He just kept crafting. Blacksmithing. Creating. Plundering our reserve of Darkiods like that was the main reason we came out here in the first place!

Sigh...

We had no idea what he was actually building. We just knew whatever it was needed a ridiculous amount of Darkiods.

Now that I think of it... some of those minerals should’ve evolved by now.

Anyway, it’s been exactly 320 years since we first set foot here. With some of the apprentices bringing along their wives and kids, the place had become pretty lively and warm.

...If you ignore the unmerciful sun, that is.

So we cast an enchantment over the area to keep our metals—and our organs, and the young ones—from melting.

It’s been peaceful.

Until he came along.

That arrogant piece of dirt: Sarvest.

He set his evil little sights on us just a few days ago.

The so-called Satanas proxy.

"Serve my cause," he said—as if that wasn’t gonna land us straight on the Heavenly Beings’ watchlist. "And I shall greatly support your craftsmanship forever."

"Uhm, bro? We’re literally having a blast here. And if we forget that Freya sometimes drops in to ruin the vibe, then we’ve got no problems.

And I’m not trying to diss you or anything, but I swear we don’t need your evil ass—"

That was our Chief, Valhugr.

Leader of our village—when he’s not stealing panties, drafting master plans to peep at our females, or pretending to be someone of high status.

But hey, he’s got a big mouth and charisma, so sure—he can represent us.

After all, he’ll be the first to die on the frontline if things go south.

Nevertheless, we firmly refused Sarvest and hurled insults at him.

He looked like he wanted to cry...

Actually, that’s not true. He was as expressionless as always—just like his Lord, Satanas, was when he deceived Sir Brokkr and Sir Sindri. What a bastard.

Of course, we kept our distance. Sarvest is known for snapping necks without warning. But he’s also known to be persistent when something catches his attention.

Poor us.

And most of the time, things don’t end well for those who refuse him. It’s like a portable apocalypse for them.

So, we began to play the drums of war, bracing for a major clash.

Actually, we begged the heavens for a miracle—that he’d suddenly forget about us and move on to more important things. But we also readied our most dangerous artifacts. Just in case.

Seven days passed, and we hadn’t heard from Sarvest.

"Ah, thank the heavens. The bastard must’ve forgotten all about us with his tight schedule—Ah! Incoming! Intruders, and they look like they’re sent straight from Hades!!"

"What?! Get the Chief! He has to be on the frontline!"

"As common sense dictates!"

We spotted four individuals of immense presence wandering our way in the Hades Border, as if they were part of its creation.

Undoubtedly, they were sent by Sarvest.

"Chief!" I flung open the fur curtain and barged into the Chief’s room. "We’ve got intruders coming from the coastal area of Hades Border... Uh, what are you doing with Val’s daughter? He’ll get angry with you, you know?"

"I don’t care about any intruders," Valhugr, with panties on his head, whispered seriously. "If it’s just four of them, it’s not a problem, right? And Miss Rock here is already 59 years old—she can take care of herself... and Val can do whatever he likes."

Val was our most powerful fighter. A real monster, actually. But he was always off training, so we rarely saw him.

The petite young lady in Valhugr’s arms was his adopted daughter—not a dwarf, but a dark elf—who apparently was curious.

"Chief, her name is Veronica. And you; You’d better stay away from the Chief," I warned. "He’s a scumbag who only wants to see what’s in between your legs. Just watch this—"

I turned to the pouting Chief.

"Chief!" I yelled. "We have four intruders approaching—four extremely beautiful, goddess-like wome—"

"What?!"

"There’s the bite."

"Then sound the alarm! We’ve got to greet—I mean, intercept them! Let’s goooooooo!!!"

As Chief sprinted off toward the warehouse with panties on his head, ready for war, I turned to the stunned Veronica.

"You’ll get used to it eventually—hating his guts, but still tolerating him enough to leave him in charge."

Before coming to drag our morally derailed Chief, I had already sent a Hell-rat to hail the guests.

Seven feet long, and overflowing with sheer audacity.

Aside from some gods, the only thing that could scare a Hell-rat was Sarvest. These rodents would jump into lava if it meant putting food on the table.

And let me tell you, taming them is a real pain in the ass.

Actually, no—it’s pretty easy. Just keep feeding them consistently for about 20 years, and eventually they’ll start thinking, "Maybe this one’s my chef?"

Anyway, we sent one off as bait.

Of course, it was just a sacrifice—one less oversized mouth to feed. Plus, it would give us some insight into what we were dealing with.

But little did we know... Hell-rats actually do want to live.

Everything was fine until it got too close to the strangers.

The moment it entered the danger zone, the poor bastard realized it messed up.

Screaming all the way, it did everything in its power to stop its momentum—but inertia and gravity didn’t give a damn.

Somehow, miraculously, it swerved at the last second and launched itself into the horizon, rocketing away.

"Ungrateful bastard!!" I yelled after it.

But... yikes. I couldn’t even be properly mad. That level of terror was justified.

The four newcomers were terrifying, judging by their auras—especially that young blonde girl.

Still, they were within range for a Hell-rat to strike... and die, sure, but still strike.

However... that other one. The lady with red eyes. Striking. Ethereal. Almost adorably beautiful.

She was the real threat. Their boss, probably.

Her energy wasn’t flooding the area—it was leaking out. Warping the air subtly, like unseen eyes were peering through the seams of space itself.

And from here, nearly 300 meters away, I could feel every hair on my body standing on end.

She wasn’t just strong. She was bad news.

The kind of presence you’d expect from one of the Lords of Hades.

It’s a mystery, though—why she’s all giggly and bubbly with the others. Even carrying the blonde.

A psychological trap, maybe?

The Chief gave them a look too, and I think he might’ve sensed their dange—

"Ah, they’re sexy indeed."

...On second thought, never mind.

"Vilskapa, Einndriva, Kraft, Lambrinth, Hulin, Vernd!" Chief called out to our top-tier combatants.

"Yes, chief!!"

"Even if they’re hot and can make us drool, we must not let ourselves be carried away, okay?! Let’s go defend our village!"

"RAAAARRRR!!!" We all roared in unison—though deep down, every single one of us was thinking, "WE should be telling you that!"

And so, we marched off...

To face these bringers of calamity.