No. 4 was conflicted.
Pink Puchi hadn't hugged it for three days.
And all because of its treasured trophy—a head from a cultist.
That group of cultists they'd encountered when first leaving Scarecrow Abyss wasn't coincidental.
Continental affairs were turbulent. The Hand of Passage was taking advantage to cause chaos everywhere. The buffer zones between national borders were precisely where they were most active.
Along the way, they'd detected traces of the Hand of Passage multiple times. Some were just vague rumors, others were stark tragedies.
Fleeing civilians mysteriously disappeared. Adventurer corpses discovered in remote caves had already been gnawed beyond recognition by monsters, with traces of sacrificial rituals remaining nearby...
Whenever sniffing out clues, No. 14 always insisted on investigating.
For this, the itinerary had already been delayed considerably.
If No. 10 were still here, it would probably already be arguing with No. 14 by now.
But currently present were No. 4 who didn't care about this, and Inanna who showed almost infinite indulgence toward Puchis.
Delegation steward Ronan had quite a few complaints about this, but he clearly couldn't manage No. 14.
No. 4 followed along each time. That head was one it personally severed, viewing it as proof of honor.
Unfortunately, Pink Puchi apparently didn't appreciate this honor.
On one side was the trophy it planned to bring back to show off to other Mushroom Tribe. On the other was Pink Puchi's warm, soft, complete massage service.
It agonized for a long, long time...
"No... Little Four, even if you stuff that head in your belly, I still won't hug you..."
"Besides, that head's starting to stink. You need a bath."
Belly bulging, No. 4 drooped its mushroom cap, utterly dejected.
It slowly shuffled to the roadside, with extreme reluctance extracted that already shriveled, darkened head, solemnly placed it on a short tree's branch, and performed a final farewell.
Then Inanna personally cast magic, carefully washing it from head to toe.
As the delegation entered mountain territory, cultist traces finally disappeared.
The roads began changing—no longer dirt paths through forests and wilderness, but neat stone roads hewn along mountain ridges.
The road surface was narrow, sometimes hugging cliff faces with mist-shrouded deep valleys on the outer side.
Mountains stretched endlessly. Exposed rock faces displayed iron-gray or dark red hues, with blade-leafed trees and clustered thorns stubbornly growing between them.
Distant higher peaks were covered with year-round unmelting snow, gleaming with cold silver light in the thin sunlight.
To allow carriages on such roads, before entering the mountains the delegation had to exchange the fine horses brought from the Kingdom for high-horned goats suited to mountain travel.
High-horned goats were good at climbing mountain paths with good endurance, though their appearance was far inferior to fine horses.
A day later, a city appeared at the horizon's end.
It wasn't built at mountain base or peak, but embedded in the mountainside—a medium fortress called Forge Ash City.
Viewed from afar, the city seemed to grow from within the mountain body. Large, heavy bronze-colored rocks formed its foundation and outer walls. Towering walls rose and fell with the mountain's contours.
Several square towers jutted from behind the walls. Tower tops weren't pointed but flat watchtower platforms, where heavily armored dwarf sentry silhouettes were faintly visible.
More eye-catching was the city's midsection, where several tiers of wide open-air platforms were hewn. On the largest platform, dark red firelight faintly showed through—visible even in daylight. That was the dwarves' never-extinguished public forge.
Several thick smoke columns slowly rose from holes at different mountain body positions, rising straight into clouds.
The final stretch of road to the city gate was a zigzagging steep ramp. Both side rock walls were carved with bold-lined massive reliefs depicting hammer-wielding warriors fighting alongside their best companions, griffins.
Unfortunately, given current griffin numbers, only royalty could possess a griffin knight company.
Border cities like Forge Ash City facing allied borders could only carve such statues as token gestures.
The delegation finally arrived beneath the city.
The heavy black iron gate was tightly closed, its surface studded with rivets, gleaming with the dull luster after years of smoke and rain washing. At the gate checkpoint, a team of chain-mail-clad dwarf warriors wielding battle axes coldly observed the delegation's arrival.
A dwarf whose beard was braided into thick plaits with captain insignia carved on shoulder armor stepped forward several paces, voice deep: "Who are you? What are you here for?"
Ronan's brow immediately furrowed tight. As an experienced delegation administrator, he'd dispatched fast horse messengers to notify ahead days ago.
By convention, even without grand welcoming ceremonies, the city gate should now be open with at least corresponding protocol officials waiting here.
No welcome—instead the gate closed tight with strict interrogation. Had his dispatched messengers met with misfortune en route?
He suppressed inner doubts and stepped forward with proper courtesy: "We represent the United Kingdom, here to discuss new alliance agreements with dwarf allies! Lady Inanna, daughter of Duke Alama and hero of the Battle of Dragonroar Valley, is also among the delegation."
He expected the other to change attitude due to Inanna's fame.
However, that dwarf captain merely listened expressionlessly, then curtly replied: "Understood. I'll report."
Immediately turned and left, actually leaving the entire delegation outside the closed gate on the bitter mountain road.
This far exceeded the scope of negligence or ignorance.
Ronan's expression darkened. Apparently the problem wasn't with the messengers, but these local dwarves were deliberately neglecting, even intentionally making difficulties.
Time slowly passed in silence. Mountain wind swept past cliffs, bringing distant forge roaring.
Only after a long while did those two massive black iron gates emit heavy, grating friction sounds, slowly opening inward just enough for carriages to pass.
The procession finally entered. The world behind the gate was filled with denser smoke, fire atmosphere, and metallic echoes. Streets were narrow and steep, with warm yellow light showing through stone house windows on both sides.
Just then, No. 4, which had been peacefully nestled in Inanna's embrace enjoying long-missed massage service, suddenly tattled through the mycelial network:
"Just now that... relatively short person, just slightly taller than me, was secretly cursing behind their backs calling 'them' faithless small people."
The "them" No. 4 mentioned referred to humans in the delegation. After all, it and Pink Puchi were both Puchis—couldn't be counted among those being cursed.
Inanna looked back and happened to meet that dwarf captain's disgusted gaze.
This left Inanna somewhat puzzled. Had they done something to make dwarves dislike them?
...
At the castle's highest point, inside a tower cast of giant stone and bronze, dwarf lord Badri Deepforge leaned on his runic battle axe, overlooking the slowly entering delegation below.
Tower-exterior mountain wind stirred his thick iron-gray beard. Metal ring clasps at braid ends collided with each other, making faint sounds.
"Allies? New alliance agreement?" Badri snorted dismissively. "A bunch of cunning humans—what trick do they want to use to drag people underwater this time?"
(End of Chapter)
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