Translator: CinderTL
Roland narrowed his eyes slightly.
A riot? Or a long-planned rebellion?
The thought flashed through his mind like lightning, and his body moved instinctively.
Grabbing his Mithril Longsword, Roland swiftly turned and left the room, whispering to awaken Bronson, Hoby, and the others who were still asleep.
Just as the group gathered, before they could even grasp the situation, the village's tranquility shattered completely.
The once lively plaza below was now filled with screams and shouts.
Thanks to the Noel Family's manor being situated on higher ground, Roland focused his gaze downward.
In the pitch-black night, trained black figures emerged like phantoms from building shadows and alley corners.
Their movements were precise and efficient, their coordination seamless.
Leveraging their numerical advantage and the element of surprise, they swiftly used weapons and force to corral most of the bewildered dwarf villagers into the center of the plaza.
In the distance, the towering flames of Stone Furnace Fortress still flickered, casting an eerie, flickering light across the chaotic scene.
Under that unstable illumination, Roland clearly saw the faces of the attackers.
Their gray-white skin gleamed coldly in the firelight—these were the gray-skinned dwarves infected with Stone-Tongue Syndrome.
The sudden shift in the situation elicited varied reactions from the group.
Bronson's face instantly paled, his lips parted slightly as he nervously wrung his fingers.
Hoby's expression tightened, his breathing quickening. Having already experienced several battles, he quickly suppressed his initial panic. Gripping his longsword at his waist, he turned to Roland and whispered, "Mr. Roland, what should we do now?"
Freddy, the taciturn orc warrior, remained silent. He was the first among them to enter combat mode. His massive frame stood like an iron tower before his companions, his heavy battleaxe firmly in hand, his murky eyes scanning the surroundings with vigilant alertness.
Tracy, the petite pixie, was also awakened by the commotion. Peeking out from Roland's collar, she rubbed her sleepy eyes and asked in her high-pitched, confused voice, "Roland, it's so noisy outside. Are they playing a game?"
Only then did Noel hastily throw on a robe and emerge from his room.
When he clearly saw the leader calmly directing the other gray-skinned dwarves in the plaza below—a particularly burly figure—he shuddered violently, his face contorted with disbelief and terror.
"No... this can't be..." he whispered, his voice hoarse with fear.
"That's... Master Kruna? One of the most respected elders of the Blacksmith's Guild... But... but the official report said he died in a mine collapse half a year ago!"
"Everyone, stay calm!" Roland's deep voice cut through the night, attempting to steady the crowd's nerves.
"The situation is unclear. We..."
Before he could finish, his keen senses detected an extremely faint sound—a subtle shift in the earth beneath his feet.
Without hesitation, a cold glint flashed in Roland's eyes.
With a snort, he raised his right foot, Battle Qi instantly coalescing beneath it like a heavy warhammer. He slammed his foot down violently on the ground to his right!
Boom!
A thunderous roar erupted across the courtyard.
The solid ground, paved with compacted earth and crushed stone, buckled inward, forming a shallow crater. Spiderweb-like cracks radiated rapidly outward from the point of impact.
The earth and shattered stones, blasted skyward by the immense force, shot out like arrows in all directions.
Amidst the swirling dust and smoke, a gray figure, accompanied by a muffled groan of pain, was violently hurled from the forcibly breached underground tunnel.
The figure crashed to the ground a few steps away like a discarded rag doll, struggling to rise before suddenly spitting out a mouthful of blood and losing all signs of life.
But this was only the beginning.
As if in response to Roland's kick, the next moment, the sound of shifting earth erupted from the darkness surrounding the courtyard like a dense rain, a continuous rustling that filled the air.
Yet Roland's thunderbolt tactics had clearly exerted a powerful deterrent effect; no more attackers dared to emerge directly beneath their feet.
Under the flickering firelight intertwined with the deep night, one gray figure after another slowly rose from the earth, silently taking their positions beyond the courtyard's low walls.
Their exact features remained indistinct in the darkness, but their pairs of pale gray eyes shone clearly.
Burning within those eyes was a cold, pure hatred and resentment, transforming these gray-skinned dwarves into a pack of masterless wraiths, hungry for vengeance.
In the oppressive silence, a raspy voice suddenly broke the stalemate.
"You... won't be going anywhere."
Before the words had fully left his lips, a figure strode forward with heavy steps.
As the firelight illuminated his weathered, gray-white face, etched with deep wrinkles yet radiating unwavering resolve, Noel gasped in shock.
"Uncle Barick?"
The young dwarf's face was a mask of disbelief and panic.
"What... what's happening here?"
Barick didn't even glance at his nephew, speaking softly.
"Noel, come here."
"These alien races... must be silenced forever in this place."
The color drained from Noel's face, but he abruptly spread his arms wide, resolutely positioning himself between Barick and Roland's group.
"No! Uncle Barick, there must be some misunderstanding!"
His voice trembled, yet carried an undeniable firmness.
"Mr. Roland is my friend. He's not our enemy! Why... why are you doing this? Haven't we always...?"
As Barick watched his nephew stubbornly defend Roland and his companions, the last trace of warmth vanished from his eyes.
"Noel, my child," he rasped, his voice now as rough as grinding stones. "Since you insist on traveling with them..."
Barick raised his hand slightly. Around him, the gray-skinned dwarves took a synchronized step forward, their silent pressure almost suffocating.
"Then, for the true rise of the gray dwarves... you shall follow these alien races into eternal silence here."
The moment the words left his lips, a palpable wave of icy killing intent surged forth like a tidal wave.
Even before the last syllable had faded, the gray-skinned dwarves surrounding the courtyard moved.
There were no roars of fury, no battle cries—only a chilling, deathly silence.
Like a ghostly gray tide, they surged inward from all directions, their movements perfectly synchronized and ruthlessly efficient.
The gray-skinned dwarves facing the courtyard raised their crossbows, the poison-tipped bolts gleaming with an eerie blue light under the moonlight, each one locked onto a figure in the courtyard's center.
The attackers on both sides crouched low and charged forward, their curved battle axes and spiked iron shields forming a deadly mobile wall.
Even more unsettling was the faint tremor that rippled through the ground beneath their feet once again.
Clearly, more ambushers lay hidden underground, poised to deliver a fatal strike at any moment.
Though the attacks hadn't yet reached them, the crisscrossing arrows, flashing axe blades, and the lurking menace from below had already woven a suffocating net of despair and danger, compressing it all within the small courtyard.
The air hung taut as a fully drawn bowstring, as if it would be torn apart by blood and metal in the next instant.
Yet facing this overwhelming assault—a deadly tide surging from all directions—Roland's expression remained utterly unchanged, as calm as a deep pool.
He didn't even glance at the approaching blades and arrows, merely patted Noel's stiff shoulder—frozen with fear—in a gesture of reassurance.
Then, just before the countless cold glints of steel were about to pierce him, he slowly closed his eyes.
When he opened them again...
In that instant, the world seemed to freeze.
The pupils that had once belonged to a human had completely transformed into two cold, molten-gold vertical slits.
There was no roar, no incantation, not even a superfluous movement.
Dragon's Might had descended.
An invisible, intangible, yet abyss-like terror erupted from Roland's center.
It was not a sound, yet it made everyone's eardrums ring.
It was not an impact, yet the air in the entire courtyard instantly solidified like iron.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
The gray-skinned dwarf warrior charging head-on, his ashen eyes burning with hatred and bloodlust, were instantly flooded with boundless fear in a fraction of a second.
His forward momentum ground to a halt as if he had slammed into an invisible wall of sighs.
Clang!
The battleaxe slipped from his grasp and crashed to the ground.
The archers flanking him bore the brunt of the force.
A primal terror rooted in the depths of their souls froze their fingers on the crossbow triggers, the cold metal suddenly burning hot and impossible to hold.
Thud... thud...
Like stalks of wheat being harvested, the warriors collapsed one by one.
Inside and outside the courtyard, every gray-skinned dwarf who had charged forward lost control of their bodies simultaneously.
The closest ones rolled their eyes back, foamed at the mouth, and collapsed unconscious.
Those slightly farther away found their knees buckling, involuntarily dropping to the ground, their bodies trembling violently like winnowed grain. Even lifting their heads became an impossible task.
The once-impenetrable encirclement crumbled in an instant.
All it took was a single gaze.
The courtyard, once seething with murderous intent and sealed off completely, now lay strewn with unconscious gray bodies.
Amidst this scene, Barick stood frozen, the only one still upright under the scrutiny of those golden vertical pupils. His face was as pale as paper, his eyes wide with disbelief and terror.
(End of the Chapter)
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