Chapter 22
Deep beneath the Vener Estate lay a prison.
By sheer size, it could easily hold hundreds of inmates, its breadth startling for a noble’s basement.
It was an odd place to exist under the grand residence of Count Vener, especially since a separate detention facility already stood outside the estate.
So why did this underground prison exist at all?
Surprisingly, it had been built for just one man.
The damp smell of mold filled the air as Count Vener descended into the darkness, a candle flickering in his hand.
He walked all the way to the deepest cell.
There a man sat chained, his appearance unremarkable—yet he shared the count’s own golden hair and green eyes.
“…Romulu,” Vener said in a low voice.
“Ah…”
Romulu slowly raised his head, finally noticing his visitor.
“It’s been a while… my lord…”
His voice was raspy, metallic, the kind that would make most people shiver. Vener, however, seemed unfazed.
“Have you reflected on your deeds?”
“Heh… of course.”
Three years had passed since Romulu was imprisoned here.
He was an infamous black-magician of the Vener domain.
Officially, the world believed he’d been executed, but in truth the count had hidden him away in this private dungeon.
His crime was the slaughter of the count’s own people.
Under the pretext of black-magic research, Romulu had killed more than a hundred residents.
By law he should have been executed without question.
Yet Count Vener had kept him alive—just in case he might prove useful one day.
It was a perilous gamble.
Under the laws of the united kingdoms, black magic warranted immediate death.
Merely concealing a black-magician was a serious crime.
I’d hoped I’d never need him…
But Vener’s resentment burned too hot to ignore.
The Impera family—especially that good-for-nothing heir who had stolen the Baldig Dungeon—had to pay.
“There’s something I need you to do,” Vener said.
“Me? Haha… I’m afraid I can’t do much while chained like this,” Romulu replied, flashing a sly grin and glancing at his restraints.
Vener’s fists clenched. He wanted to strike the man, but he held back.
If it meant destroying the Impera family, he could endure the mockery.
“If you do as I say, I’ll release you,” Vener continued.
“But you’ll be exiled from my lands. If you ever cause trouble here again, I’ll cut off your head myself. Don’t even think of returning.”
“Heh! Of course. I’ve grown fond of this place, but I’ll follow your wishes.”
Vener could already tell the sorcerer would cause chaos the moment he was free, but revenge mattered more than any risk.
“So, what exactly is your request?” Romulu asked with feigned curiosity.
“Create a Corpse Bomb and set it off wherever the Impera heir is.”
The Corpse Bomb—a spell infamous even among black-magicians.
Black magic was repulsive enough, but this was the worst of it: a bomb made from a human corpse.
Its blast was massive, and depending on the caster, it could leave the land poisoned for a long time.
“A Corpse Bomb, you say? Ho ho… you must have quite a grudge against Impera.”
“Grudge? Hah! The very thought makes my blood boil! If not for that damned brat—”
“Easy, easy!” Romulu chuckled. “I can make one, certainly. But you’ll gather the necessary… materials, yes?”
The material was, of course, a corpse—a body filled with intense resentment.
Such remains rarely appeared naturally, so most black-magicians “produced” them themselves.
Anyone with a conscience would never attempt it.
But Vener’s vision was clouded by vengeance.
“When can it be done?” he asked.
“Anytime, provided I have enough material.”
“…Good. I’ll have it prepared at once.”
Later that night, I invited a certain companion for a drink, and he followed without complaint.
Our destination was the Blue Moonlight Tavern in a neighboring domain—the place where we’d first met.
On the way, he chatted nonstop, mostly crude jokes and pointless stories.
I humored him until a full spread of drinks and snacks lay before us.
“Long time no see, my dwarf friend,” I greeted.
“Ha-ha! Indeed! Come on, have a drink!”
The sweet grape scent of the wine hit me, almost dizzying.
Bronze Beard—true to his nickname—downed his cup like it was water.
“Pwah! That’s the stuff! This cheap, sweet brew—I missed it! Ha-ha!”
“Want mine, too?” I asked.
“What? Then you—”
“I’ve quit drinking. My health’s been off lately.”
“Heh, a lot can change in a year! Works for me—so long as you’re paying.”
“Of course.”
He happily kept drinking, emptying cup after cup as if trying to fill a sewer.
Only after draining nearly an entire barrel did he finally look pleasantly tipsy.
We traded idle chatter for a while before I steered the talk to something deeper.
“By the way, you said you almost died earlier,” I said.
“Heh… my apologies. My dreams have been unsettling lately.”
“Unsettling dreams?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm.”
“Curious?” he asked.
Inside, I cheered. Alcohol always loosened tongues—trust grew, secrets spilled.
“I am a bit curious,” I admitted. “Why guard your home with a golem? What’s worrying you that much?”
“Well…” His jovial grin faded into a somber look.
“My younger brother is trying to kill me.”
“Your brother?”
“Shh! Keep it down! Hardly something to brag about.”
“Fair enough.”
Lowering his voice, Bronze Beard began his story.
But it was full of holes—names left out, motives unclear.
He never revealed his true name, nor why his sibling sought his death.
“I thought coming to the far side of the world might help,” he sighed, “but he’s even hiring mercenaries to finish me off.”
“So that’s why you’re so on edge?”
“Heh, sorry about earlier. Does it make more sense now?”
“I suppose…”
Yet the more I listened, the more a suspicion grew.
A dwarf hunted by his own brother, wandering a foreign land…
A name flickered in my mind—a figure of immense significance in the novel I once read, though barely mentioned.
Could it be?
The dwarf kingdom of Zeigelond came to mind.
It appeared in the story’s later arcs, and not in a good light.
The reason: the King of Greed, Aluwin Ron Malach.
Despite already ruling, his avarice knew no bounds.
He lined his palace with gold and even broke an ancient taboo—awakening an ancient being deep in Zeigelond Mountain.
With the protagonist’s help, the creature was eventually defeated, but Aluwin died, and the kingdom nearly collapsed.
His son barely salvaged what was left, but most of the dwarves’ glorious technology was lost.
And yet, the rightful heir was never meant to be Aluwin.
It was said that his elder brother, Harun Ron Malach, had been the true successor.
On the night the throne was to be passed down, Aluwin staged a coup.
He tried to assassinate Harun and his supporters, taking the crown for himself, while spreading the lie that Harun had fled out of wanderlust.
Some whispered the truth, but it never spread far.
If my guess was right, this dwarf drinking before me was none other than Harun Ron Malach—the rightful Dwarf-King.
Come to think of it, I recalled, the air in his cave was strangely clean.
A rare ability called Pureblood could purify the air, appearing only in royal dwarf bloodlines (and sometimes among elves and other monarchs).
All signs pointed to him.
So what now?
Could I persuade him to work for me?
That was secondary.
The real problem lay in Zeigelond.
Would Aluwin stay silent if someone sheltered his elder brother, the true heir?
Despite the distance, Aluwin wielded far greater power than the small Isother Kingdom could ever match.
Ugh. Headache.
Yet the risk only made the prospect more tempting.
Letting the rightful dwarf prince simply walk away felt like a waste.
For now, I decided to wait and watch.
Even if I asked him outright after one night of drinking, he’d never agree.
Better to spend a week buying drinks, earning trust.
Tonight, I’ll let him drink his fill.
Bronze Beard emptied a second oak keg and finally looked content.
So much effort these past few days… was it all for nothing?
“Heh! I hope I’m not the only one drinking too much! Ha-ha!”
“I’m just enjoying the company,” I said. “If you’re up for it, I’d love to hang out a few more days.”
“A few more days?”
He seemed to hesitate.
“I’ll cover tomorrow’s drinks too. I just have a quick question I’d like to ask you.”
“A question? You should’ve said so earlier!”
“I forgot. If it’s tough, how about just tomorrow?”
“Heh… a few days is tricky, but one day I can manage.”
He reluctantly agreed.
A conscience must still beat in that chest of his.
Give it another day or two of food and drink, and he’d feel compelled to return the favor somehow.
If only my wallet can survive until then.
