A metallic stench—like a mix of rusted iron and aluminum—clung to the air, thick and oppressive. The cave was dark, the ground beneath their feet a strange patchwork of damp and dry soil. The deeper they went, the darker it became, until even the ground underfoot felt uncertain.

  “Cover your nose from this point on,” Mahnaka said, stopping at the top of a descending staircase. “One breath down there and you’ll be out cold. If no one pulls you out in time, you’ll die.”

  “How long’s the path?” Pronto asked.

  “Ten steps down, twenty meters across, and another ten steps of descent,” Mahnaka replied, then took a deep breath. Once ready, he dashed down the stairs.

  As his foot hit the first step, Pronto’s brow furrowed. ‘Metal?’

  The fact that a prisoner was freely using his authority, completely unsupervised, raised questions. ‘What’s keeping this Dwarf locked down here?’

  The entire floor—down the stairs, through the path, and along the second descent—was metal. Curious, Pronto conjured a tiny flame. It vanished the moment it formed. ‘No oxygen. Probably carbon monoxide,’ he reasoned. ‘Explains the Elf’s warning.’

  The path was narrow, just wide enough for one person. The darkness didn’t bother Pronto. He moved with precision, each step measured, allowing him to sense the second set of stairs and descend without hesitation.

  “Puhaa!” He took a long, refreshing breath as soon as he reached the bottom. He stood in a circular pit, about ten meters deep, open to the sky above. The floor and walls were fully covered in metal.

  The pit had a radius of roughly forty meters. In its center lay a mountain of weapons—swords, spears, ballistae, caltrops of all sizes. Some looked brand new, others corroded from exposure to air and moisture.

  A brook trickled down the wall, forming a small, artificial waterfall that splashed into the pit. At its base sat a cluster of smooth riverbed rocks, and as the water fell, it produced a soft, calming sound.

  A semi-circular metal pool—three meters wide and two meters deep—collected the water. A small outlet at the base kept it fresh and flowing.

  To one side of the pool stood a row of fruit trees. On the other side, a patch of shrubs grew: potatoes, carrots, and the like. It was the only place in the entire pit where real soil could be seen.

  Bending over the pool was a stocky figure, scooping water with a metal ladle. He was short—barely 110 centimeters—but built like a boulder, his muscular, hairy arms thick as tree trunks. In his grip, the ladle looked like a fragile twig.

  He poured the water over a nearby shrub, then froze mid-motion. His hand clenched tighter as the ladle suddenly began to spasm—twisting, warping, writhing in his grip until it was completely deformed.

  With a growl, he hurled it across the pit. “Argh!”

  The Metal Race of Dwarves.

  “Die!”

  A metal hammer formed in the Dwarf’s hand as he slammed it into the pool, thrashing wildly. Water splashed out, flooding the metal floor, which rippled like waves—mirroring the Dwarf’s mind, teetering on the edge of madness or already drowning in it.

  “Die! Die!” he shouted again, hammer flailing for a few seconds before he hurled it at the pit wall. It clanged loudly as it bounced and rolled to the bottom.

  “AARRGGH!” he roared.

  “Huff… puff… phew…”

  Each exhale made his scraggly beard dance. Noticing the visitors, he turned—his sleek black hair falling like he was auditioning for a hair tonic commercial made by Elves. His black eyes, streaked with cloudy silver, sized up the two. His moustache twitched as a gravelly voice, slurred like a drunk at dawn, croaked out, “Which flippity fart sent you?”

  “I’m here for the usual,” Mahnaka said, giving a short bow before walking toward the line of trees. He placed a hand on one, and it instantly began absorbing nutrients faster. Within seconds, it was heavy with fruit.

  He moved down the row, doing the same with each tree, then turned to the shrubs. Once a week, Mahnaka came to tend the garden in the Dwarf’s prison cell, making sure it yielded enough food for the grumpy inhabitant.

  “Gracious doomsqueak, I don’t need a squeaky Elf’s help.”

  The Dwarf conjured a spoon and flung it at Mahnaka, who sidestepped out of habit and kept working. The spoon was tiny, barely a few grams—harmless even if it hit.

  Not that the Dwarf had thrown it with any real force. But he didn’t stop there. He kept chucking spoons—one after another—until Mahnaka finished his task.

  “Run off now! I need to puke out all this damn Elf air.”

  “I was also asked to bring him here,” Mahnaka said, pointing at Pronto.

  “Nothing I have to say to a fucking Human!”

  The Dwarf growled, kicking a spoon and stomping back to the broken pool. With a touch, the metal healed and reformed.

  “I—” Pronto started to speak, but froze.

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  A spear had shot up from the floor, its point hovering just inches from his right eye.

  “One fucking word outta you, and I’ll lop your head off,” the Dwarf muttered, patting the pool and scratching off a patch of rust with a metal fingernail, humming something that sounded like a war chant or a lullaby.

  ‘This… bastard!’

  Pronto’s anger flared, and he nearly lashed out. But before he could move, his mind caught up and scanned the room. In the corner, he spotted a massive helmet.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Metal Race of Dwarves—Level 3 (Relic)!

  The Dwarf locked up in the Elven Prison wasn’t just any grunt—he was someone at the very top of their kind, equal in rank to the Warden.

  Dwarves were notoriously hard to kill and even worse to deal with—whether out in the wild or on a battlefield. They held dominion over Metal, turning themselves into walking tanks. Among all the enemy races, they remained one of Humanity’s most dangerous and persistent foes.

  But Level 3 Dwarves? They were pure nightmares.

  Every Human scholar who’d studied them in wartime came to the same conclusion:

  “Even if you manage to kill one, his blade will hunt you down for eternity.”

  And the reason was the Dwarven Relic—believed to be the strongest one on all of Gangnea.

  Metal Relic of Dwarves—Living Armour!

  These weren’t just suits of armor. They were perpetual motion machines, crafted to follow preset instructions, traveling wherever they needed to finish the task they'd been built for.

  In battle, a Level 3 Dwarf didn’t even need to fight directly. He could just create Living Armours and let them do the work.

  ‘Before my flames even touch him, I’ll be skewered. And even if I burn him somehow, his armour will kill me,’ Pronto thought, his back drenched in sweat. He hadn’t come here to fight—he was here to ask for help. So he kept his mouth shut.

  Instead, he took out the scroll the Warden had given him and gently rolled it toward the Dwarf.

  The Dwarf glanced at it—then burst into laughter. “Hahahaha! Finally!”

  “I’ll kill him this time!” he shouted, clutching the scroll with both hands and flashing a wide grin at Pronto. “You must be important to the Humans. Otherwise, the Warden wouldn’t have traded his life for yours.”

  ‘What?’ Pronto froze at the words, blinking as a spiral staircase formed in the pit, leading up to the surface.

  “Get out and wait on the surface. I’ll be up shortly,” the Dwarf growled.

  Before Pronto could respond, metal shoes shot out from the floor, clamped onto his feet, and dragged him up the stairs.

  They let go only after he was tossed onto the ground above.

  The Dwarf then turned to Mahnaka and clapped twice, loud and rude. He jabbed a finger toward Mahnaka’s usual route out. “Get lost!”

  “Help me—just this once!” Mahnaka said quickly, taking the chance now that Pronto was out of earshot. “We’ll repay you when we’re out of this prison.”

  “You’re dreaming, baby Elf,” the Dwarf snorted. “Not interested in your little sob story.”

  “We’ve got a real plan to break out,” Mahnaka pressed. “If you’re in, we will escape.”

  “Escape?” the Dwarf chuckled. “You think I’m trapped here?”

  “Flippity idiot.” He strolled over to a nearby fruit tree, plucked a bunch of fruit, and tossed them into a strange metal device. With a touch, it whirred to life and poured out a jug of ale. He brought it to his nose, took a whiff—“Ahh!”

  Then he chugged it in one go. “That hits the spot.”

  “I can help with whatever you need,” Mahnaka said, desperation creeping into his voice. His time was almost up. If he stayed past ten minutes, Rachad would beat him half to death.

  “The Warden’s head. Bring me that, and I’ll free all the Elves.” The Dwarf grinned, pouring himself another jug and downing it. “Hell, I’ll even protect you hatchlings till you can fend for yourselves.”

  “Can’t do it?” he slammed the jug onto the machine. A heavy silence followed.

  “The Warden stole my father’s Living Armour. And now, somehow, he’s using it.”

  “So yeah, I’m here for one thing—his head,” the Dwarf said, tapping the scroll. “Know what this is? A token that lets me challenge the Warden once—no consequences.”

  “Even if I lose, I won’t be killed. Every time I help the Warden, he gives me one of these tokens . In return, I earn another chance at his life.”

  “Either bring me three of these tokens… or the armour itself.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Otherwise, scram.”

  With a click of his tongue, the metal floor shifted, carrying him smoothly up the spiral stairs to the surface.

  “Dammit!” Mahnaka collapsed to the ground, frustration etched across his face. ‘I failed again!’

  Seeing his time was nearly up, he bit his lip in regret and started heading back.

  “You’re punctual, huh?” Rachad sneered, sliding the curtain of lava shut behind him. The curtain wasn’t there to hold the Dwarf in—but to keep nosy Elves from sneaking in and begging for help.

  Mahnaka didn’t respond. He just trudged along the winding tunnels beside Rachad, eyes heavy with defeat. When they finally reached the Elf quarters, Rachad walked off, clearly disappointed. He hadn’t gotten the chance to whip anyone today.

  Mahnaka, meanwhile, headed toward his allotted hectare of land. With a tired sigh, he picked up his tools and returned to farming.

  ???????????

  On the adjacent plot, Pinaka was grinning like a model on a runway, strutting along the top of the wall like it was his personal catwalk. A few minutes later, he leapt down and landed smoothly, posture sharp and focused, like he was deep in thought. Then, he willed it.

  In an instant, a thin layer of wood wrapped around his feet—soft and flexible for movement, yet strong enough to carry his weight. Roots burst out from underneath, coiling tightly to form sturdy soles, ready to dig into any surface for grip.

  Pinaka watched closely as the shoes split open, a new pair forming immediately after. Another second, another pair. Over and over, he repeated the action, pushing his control to the limit. Finally, it happened—his Status Window pinged.

  [Spell: Root Glove]

  The shoes formed on his feet in a tenth of a second. With a Control Factor of 2, he could cast it on both feet simultaneously, allowing a full pair of Root Gloves to appear almost instantly. ‘It’s done!’

  “Now I can scale this prison wall without a problem,” Pinaka muttered, eyeing the towering barrier surrounding his land. He tensed his legs, and the failed shoe attempts from before turned into sawdust. He scooped up a handful and sprinkled it over his crops. “Good manure… I think.”

  “Heh… hehe, this is exciting,” he chuckled to himself, now proud owner of two Spells. With a glint in his eyes, he looked toward Mahnaka’s land. ‘Now if I can just figure out whether Mahnaka has any unique Spells… that’d help a lot.’

  ...