Translator: CinderTL
When the word "mind flayer" escaped Durga's lips, Roland's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
The life-or-death struggle in Howling Gorge flashed before his eyes, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
If not for the narrow passage restricting the monster's movements, the Steel Will's spiritual resistance shielding him from its most lethal psychic assaults, and his own relentless, close-quarters attacks that denied the creature any opportunity to calmly unleash its terrifying psionic abilities, he would have had no chance of survival.
Even so, in the battle's final moments, the mind flayer's colossal, canyon-shaking beast nearly buried him alive.
Yet this dwarf, claiming to be Durga, dared to boast of capturing such a powerful, cunning, and dangerous creature alive?
Roland's gaze sharpened, locking onto Durga's silver-white eyes like a hawk eyeing its prey. He searched for any flicker of hesitation, deception, or bluff.
But there was nothing.
Those eyes held only the icy hatred of countless ages, and a near-pathological sense of pride in his achievement.
This didn't sound like a lie, but rather a declaration of a cruel truth he reveled in.
What if...
What if he's telling the truth?
Once this thought took root, it spread through his mind like wildfire.
He did indeed harbor an extraordinary interest in mind flayers. The source of this fascination wasn't the monsters themselves, but the still-mysterious Hidden Profession:
[ Psion ].
Though Roland had only scratched the surface of psionic energy, mastering just one skill—[ Psionic Self-Shaping ]—even this rudimentary application had already brought him significant advancement.
And mind flayers were the pinnacle of psionic mastery he had personally witnessed and experienced.
They were natural-born psionic masters, their understanding and application of psionic abilities having reached a state of perfection.
A living mind flayer, especially one in captivity...
For Roland, who yearned to deepen his understanding of psionic energy in order to complete his [ Psion ] class advancement, its value was immeasurable.
This might be the only shortcut currently within his reach—a way to quickly break through his bottleneck and grasp the deeper mysteries of psionic energy.
After several emotional fluctuations, Roland finally suppressed his thoughts.
He shifted his gaze from Durga's face, scanning the oppressive darkness around them.
His senses told him that numerous gray-skinned dwarves remained hidden in the shadows and caves, like coiled vipers awaiting their chief's command.
But to Roland, this force posed no real threat.
Numbers were meaningless in the face of overwhelming power.
He was certain that even in this pitch-black environment, so disadvantageous to humans, these gray-skinned dwarf warriors—who hadn't even touched the threshold of transcendence—couldn't inflict any substantial harm on him, no matter how many there were.
This held true even for Durga himself.
Roland's senses refocused on the enigmatic gray-skinned dwarf.
The iron gauntlet restraining Durga's right hand was indeed peculiar, its faint aura of divine authority sending a chill down Roland's spine, warning him not to underestimate it.
Yet the contradiction lay in Durga's own aura, which was remarkably weak, almost as frail as that of a newborn infant.
This stark contrast was deeply puzzling.
In Roland's assessment, he remained confident that even if Durga suddenly attacked, his current strength would be more than sufficient to handle it.
Beyond the irresistible allure of the mind flayer, what truly solidified Roland's decision was Durga's persistent, unsettlingly familiar demeanor.
That tone, that gaze...
It was too natural, too genuine, utterly impossible to feign.
"Our agreement from long ago..."
"The weapon I forged for you back then..."
"It's been too long, old friend..."
Durga's earlier words echoed in Roland's mind.
He meticulously searched his memories, finding no trace of this gray-skinned dwarf claiming to be Durga.
This was his first time setting foot in the Stone Kingdom. Before this, apart from Noel and Master Griffin of the Blacksmith's Guild, he had never shared such a deep connection with any dwarf.
So, where did this "familiarity" come from?
Who exactly did Durga mistake him for?
Or...
Could this involve secrets even he himself was unaware of?
The combination of uncovering the truth behind this "familiarity" and obtaining the psionic mysteries potentially held by the mind flayer finally tipped the scales in Roland's heart.
Yet he didn't respond immediately.
With a subtle mental shift, an invisible ripple, existing only on the spiritual plane, quietly emanated from him.
[ Zone of Truth ].
He needed final confirmation.
Durga immediately sensed the probing force, but his silver-white eyes showed no hint of offense or anger. Instead, they reflected a weary indifference, as if this were a routine occurrence.
He stood calmly, allowing the invisible domain to wash over him, patiently answering Roland's questions. Except for one:
"Let's save the reminiscing for after all this is over."
When Roland asked about how they had first met, Durga waved his hand dismissively.
"You know, I can't be bothered with such trivialities without some good wine."
Faced with this response, Roland had no choice but to drop the matter for now.
Having confirmed the truth of Durga's earlier statements, the last trace of Roland's icy aura finally dissipated.
He nodded slightly, making his decision.
"Lead the way, Durga. Show me your 'prey'."
Seeing Roland finally lower his guard, a nearly ferocious grin spread across Durga's weathered face.
Without another word, he turned and strode deeper into the village.
The group moved through the deathly silent village, the shadows teeming with gray-skinned dwarf warriors.
Like silent stone statues, the gray-skinned dwarves lowered their heads and retreated to the sides as Durga passed, clearing a path for him.
Their posture seemed less like respect for their chief and more like...
reverence for some supreme authority.
However, Roland keenly observed that beneath their lowered eyelids, the dwarves' gazes weren't focused on Durga himself.
Instead, their eyes were fixed, with an indescribable mixture of fear and awe, on the heavy, spiked iron gauntlet on Durga's right hand.
It was as if that was the true object of their fear and submission, rather than Durga the man.
Durga seemed either long accustomed to this or utterly indifferent to it.
With steady strides, he led Roland's group toward Stone Furnace Fortress, the site of the recent conflict.
As they approached the fortress, the stench of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder grew increasingly intense.
When they passed through the violently breached main gate, the scene before them had been utterly transformed.
The once-imposing stone fortress now bore the scars of fierce battle everywhere.
Shattered weapons, scorched craters from explosions, and congealed, blackened blood splattered across the walls and ground.
The corpses of dwarf guards and gray-skinned dwarf attackers lay intertwined, silently testifying to the brutal bloodbath that had recently taken place here.
In the center of the courtyard, atop a gruesome monument hastily constructed from corpses and shattered armor, a crude wooden stake stood tall.
Impaled at the stake's peak was a head, its hair and beard bristling wildly, eyes wide and staring. It was Balin, the arrogant dwarf royal who had once tried to intimidate others with his status.
His face, once brimming with arrogance and malice, now bore only the stiff, frozen expression of death, a mixture of shock and fury.
Durga stopped before the pile of corpses, following Roland's gaze to the impaled head. He let out a mocking snort.
"Look, our 'noble' Prince Balin," Durga said slowly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I warned him that the Stone Furnace Family's arrogance would lead to their downfall... But like his father, rotting in his tomb, he refused to heed unwelcome truths."
He paused, turning his head to glance at Roland with his silver-white eyes, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
"Now, I imagine he finally understands that here, it's not bloodline that determines whose head ends up on a stake, but... strength."
With those words, the gray-skinned dwarf leader lingered no longer. He led Roland and his party to the rear of the fortress, where a mining tunnel entrance had been carved into the mountainside.
The entrance had clearly endured the passage of countless ages. The once-sharp edges of the arched doorway had been weathered smooth, and the deep tunnel stretched inward, quickly swallowed by an unsettling darkness.
The air hung thick with the cold, earthy scent of dust and rock. Occasionally, a frigid wind surged out from the cave's depths, carrying a bone-chilling chill.
"Wait here a moment," Durga said, stopping at the entrance. He flexed his iron-gloved right hand and turned to Roland. "I need to temporarily disable some of the defenses inside. I don't want to trigger any unnecessary trouble."
With that, he stepped alone into the profound darkness. His heavy footsteps soon faded into the depths of the mine.
Bronson, who had been silently observing their surroundings with vigilant eyes, immediately hurried to Roland's side once Durga was gone. His brow furrowed, and he lowered his voice, his tone unusually grave.
"Roland, if my observations and deductions are correct, the symptoms these so-called 'Stone-Tongue Syndrome' infected dwarves are exhibiting—their collective mutations and behavioral patterns—they might actually be..."
"Grey Dwarves," Roland finished calmly, his voice clear and certain.
(End of the Chapter)
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