There Is No World For ■■

* * *The dwarves on Earth no longer lived in the mountains.

The traditional underground stone homes had long been replaced by apartments, and their kin’s mountain range palaces exchanged for modern mansions.

While the kindred from his homeland, along with the other races, would look at them and ramble on about how they had abandoned their traditions or betrayed their homeland, Earth’s dwarves would simply scoff in return.

Had they betrayed their traditions? Hardly so.

They still exchanged pickaxes during their coming-of-age ceremonies.

They also wore ceremonial outfits made from mountain goat fur at weddings, ate barley stonebread and drank barley beer during holidays, and celebrated together.

They didn’t ignore their traditions; it’s just that they were no longer bound by the past.

Because the miners who had spent their lives excavating, and the craftsmen who lived and died for their masterpieces, had already perished during ‘Yellow Winter’.

The dwarves who had stayed back in the modern world were nothing more than capitalistic entrepreneurs and workers chasing after paychecks.

…Of course, as with any place, there were exceptions.

A few outdated dwarves still babbled on about tradition and vengeance.

These were the old kin, born before Stalin’s invasion.

…Damn old-timers.

Darulma Dune hated them.

He hated how they lived in a house that was no different from an underground bunker even though they had perfectly good apartments, and how they ran the clan’s business as if it were their own personal empire.

A business exclusively for dwarves, run by dwarves? What a load of nonsense.

How could anyone still be so foolish in this era of globalization?

If only they agreed to a merger with the Earthians, the company could have grown severalfold by now.

But this wasn’t just about the size of the company.

The biggest stumbling block was their selfish mindset—thinking it was enough as long as their own race was well-fed and living well.

What good was it for the dwarven company to make donations, start an ad campaign in the media, and build a good public image?

All that reputation would simply vanish overnight as soon as a jobless Earthian went on TV and said, ‘I lost my job because of the dwarves.’

It didn’t help that the Republican Party presidential candidate was a lunatic calling for the restriction of dwarves’ voting rights.

If dwarves didn’t wish to become the next Jews, they needed to change their attitude and start actively collaborating with humans.

“…Darulma.”

At the voice coming from ahead, Darulma flinched and snapped out of his thoughts.

When he looked up, he saw the worried eyes of the old dwarf who had been guiding him.

Darulma lowered his head almost instinctively and responded.

“What is it, uncle?”

“I called out because you look a bit pale. I guess you are worried considering that you’re meeting the family head after so long.”

“…”

“Don’t worry about it too much. As long as you have a just reason, even the family head won’t be able to reprimand you harshly. After all, he’s still your father.”

Darulma said nothing, and the old dwarf, whom he addressed as eldest uncle from his paternal side, didn’t seem to be expecting a reply either. He simply resumed walking.

Step, step.

The sound of their footsteps echoed through the corridor, a recreation of the old underground passageways.

And after they arrived before a massive iron door, the old dwarf spoke again.

“You’re on your own from here on.”

“Uncle, aren’t you coming…?”

“I will be waiting here. Don’t worry about me. Seeing that it’s been a while, take your time catching up with your father.”

Catch up? Darulma swallowed the words rising in his throat and simply bowed to his eldest uncle.

Creak!

As the sound of his eldest uncle opening the iron door resounded, Darulma stepped inside.

* * *Tsk.

The moment Darulma stepped through the door, he unwittingly clicked his tongue.

He could never grow accustomed to the sight that greeted him, no matter how often he saw it.

Is he still living like this?

The first thing that caught his eye were display cases filling the enormous room.

Like the bookshelves in a grand library, the cases were packed with similar items.

The severed heads of Stalin’s statues.

The busts, varying in material, size, and shape, were authentic pieces taken from various Stalin statues erected in communist countries.

It was a scene that truly conveyed the vengeful spirit of a dwarf on the brink of madness, or rather, one who had already gone mad.

Avoiding eye contact, Darulma hurriedly crossed between the display cases, afraid that the hatred and madness might infect him as well.

After walking for about a minute, he was hit by a foul stench.

A sharp, sour stench, similar to rotting beer, filled his nostrils.

Darulma stopped in his tracks and looked toward the source of the smell. An old dwarf sat hunched over at a small desk in a corner of the room.

“O Five Gods…”

A thin, emaciated body, uncharacteristic of a dwarf, with sunken eyes and a long beard that extended down to his feet.

That old dwarf was Skelma Dune, the former head of their clan—and Darulma’s father.

“…Who is it?”

Skelma asked without even sparing him a glance. Darulma bowed as he answered.

“It’s me, Father. Darulma.”

And as soon as that awkward greeting came to an end, Skelma rose from his seat.

In his hand was a small piece of Stalin’s severed bust.

“Darulma… my son, the one who brought about that disaster in Manchuria.”

“…Disaster, you say? I resolved everything you asked me to— the dragon and I even stopped Manchuria from collapsing.”

“Resolved? You call that resolving the issue? Do you need me, your father, to list out your mistakes one by one, or will you confess them yourself?”

Darulma gulped, bowing even deeper, yet remaining silent.

The tense silence between the two dwarves hung in the air fleetingly, then dissipated.

“…Fine, if that’s how you want to do it, I’ll spell it out for you. First, the World Tree’s crystal. Where did you use that?”

“That…”

“That was intended for the cardinal of the Holy Nation. But instead, you gave it to some mercenary? And on top of that, you did it yourself.

Darulma opened his mouth to counter, but his father was quicker, hurling the bust in his hand straight at him.

Thud!

The bust struck Darulma’s forehead, sending him crashing to the floor. He clenched his teeth, stifling a cry of pain.

“I could have overlooked that. But the Seal? How could you give him the Golden Seal as well?”

Skelma shot to his feet, striding toward Darulma who was still lying on the ground.

“Son… have you gone senile already? Did you forget about the importance of the Seal?”

“I haven’t forgotten….”

Darulma trailed off. The Golden Seal, the symbol of the dwarf king, a priceless dwarven treasure. But…

“… What could I do? The Seal recognized the mercenary as its owner. So how could I have taken it from him?”

“What?”

“Don’t ask me how it happened. It already did! The Seal only accepted his mana after he freed the dragon!”

Darulma spoke the truth, but truth and persuasion were two different things.

It was hard for him to believe even after seeing it with his own eyes, so what about his father?

“You call that an explanation?”

As expected, his father didn’t believe him.

Skelma, who had somehow managed to close the distance between them, glared down at Darulma with blazing eyes.

“King Daval, the former owner of the seal, has been dead for ages! No one else can transfer ownership! Not the dragon! Not me! Not even the Five Gods!”

The old dwarf’s eyes flared with madness, drool dripping from his mouth.

“But you expect me to believe that a mere Earthian was able to obtain the ownership of the seal? That! Do you even realize how absurd that sounds?!”

“…”

“Even if it were true, if you were a real dwarf…! You would have killed him and taken it back! And returned with the Seal in hand, not empty handed!”

Darulma clenched his eyes shut. He found it hard to believe that this stubborn dwarf was someone he once respected as a father. What made him like this?

Fighting back his tears, he replied.

“…Father, you said kill him? Who was I supposed to kill? Have you gone blind from following those idiotic press?”

“You insolent wretch!”

“While the media is clamoring that it’s all thanks to the Saintess, I saw it with my own eyes. He is the one who defeated the dragon. Attempting to kill him would be madness… cough!”

Skelma grabbed Darulma by the collar. The strength not befitting his old body squeezed his son’s neck.

“Darulma.”

“Keuuuh, cough… f-father….”

“Let’s say… let’s just say that everything you said is true.”

His father’s hands, which were choking him, trembled violently, as if struggling to hold on to his last thread of sanity.

“Regardless, we need the Seal… I need… no, we all need the Royal Seal. You know that, don’t you?”

“Co-cough…”

“We need the Seal’s unlocking ability to find Stalin!”

Darulma wanted to tell his father that it was just his delusion.

How could Stalin possibly be alive in another dimension?

However, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Just like the dragon in Manchuria, the thirst for revenge that burnt even oneself was immune to any logic or persuasion.

“I… I have… cough… a plan…”

Skelma remained silent for a long time even after hearing the answer. As the hand around the neck trembled and Darulma’s breath became more labored…

“Then speak.”

Only then did the pressure around his neck ease.

Back on his feet, Darulma coughed and gasped for air.

“I will… sigh make Cheon Yeomyeong our ally.”

“…”

Skelma frowned. Perhaps due to the last sliver of faith he still held for his son, he didn’t lash out.

“I’ve already built a rapport with him. I’ve also given him access to our workshops, elixirs, and even spread rumors to the press that we share a special relationship with each other.”

“…Hmm.”

“If we put forward a request to borrow the Seal’s power, he will gladly agree.”

Skelma remained silent. Darulma, trying to hide his nerves, continued.

“And that’s not all. When we eventually find Stalin, his strength will be invaluable. Isn’t that why we’ve been supporting a mercenary group in the first place?”

“That’s…”

“Isn’t it to secure power that money can’t buy! Cheon Yeomyeong is exactly that power.”

After making his case, Darulma nervously gauged his father’s reaction. Skelma stroked his beard, seemingly weighing the options.

“So, he’s the one who brought down the dragon?”

“Yes. Captain Kwon Mongju personally confirmed it. He single-handedly severed the dragon’s wings and legs.”

“A talent nearing dragonslayer status… How old is he, again?”

“He’s just a first-year at the academy.”

Darulma didn’t stop there. He went on, rambling about how Cheon Yeomyeong was the first and likely last transfer student to Lord Howe Academy, and how he had personally stopped the terror attack at the academy.

Did his explanation finally get through? His father’s reaction didn’t seem to be bad.

The madness in Skelma’s eyes gradually faded, replaced by a glimmer of the sharp intellect he possessed when he first built the company.

“So, when will he be coming to visit our workshop?”

“I, uh… haven’t received word yet. But since he’s a student at the academy, it’ll probably be during the break…”

“It will be too late by then.”

“…”

“Humans forget easily. A few months is all it takes for them to drift away.”

Darulma felt an inexplicable sense of unease and foreboding. And before he could say anything, Skelma picked up the bust of Stalin that he had thrown earlier.

“What weapon does he use?”

“He mainly uses a sword.”

“A sword… If it’s to be made from dragon bones, it will take at least half a year. If we accept the order during the break and start making it immediately, we could give it to him as a gift when he moves up to the second year.”

“…”

“Son, do you know how long until Superhuman Olympia begins this year?”

Superhuman Olympia—A competition held every three years where young Superhumans, who were yet to reach adulthood, competed against each other.

“It’s been delayed because of the recent terror attack, but even so, it will take place within half a year.”

How could he not know? Dungan Heavy Industries was one of the event’s sponsors.

“Exactly, no later than six months. So, son, should we give him the weapon before the tournament or after?”

“We should take the order immediately. If the craftsmen work hard, they can finish it on time. I’ll contact him immediately.”

Darulma stood as he spoke. He wanted nothing more than to leave the room as quickly as possible, but Skelma didn’t let him go.

“Wrong.”

“…What do you mean?”

“To win someone’s heart, you can’t simply rely on ordinary methods. Have you already forgotten what I taught you?”

Words spoken by his father before his descent into madness began. Darulma lowered his head to suppress the surge of emotions.

“Father, then….”

“Don’t just contact him. Go to him in person.”

Go in person? Darulma was flustered, but Skelma continued.

“No matter how much you pressure the craftsmen, a sword created under time constraints will never be a masterpiece.So don’t just place an order—get a better sword and bring it to him.”

Saying that, Skelma unexpectedly tossed Stalin’s bust again. Caught off guard, Darulma instinctively grabbed it.

“Take one of the best swords from the vault of the family head… No, take all of them and let him choose.”

“…”

“Make it clear to everyone that we are his sponsors. Do you understand?”

Darulma nodded silently in acknowledgment, and thus, the conversation between father and son came to an end.

Without another word, Darulma turned around and left, while the final spark of brilliance faded from his father’s eyes.

Step.

The sound of soft footsteps echoed through the room, surrounded by countless busts of Stalin staring in silence.