"Little brother, what's going on with you? Not caring about your own weapon?" Clark the Grim's tone was harsh: "A warrior who does not respect his weapon will ultimately pay the price."
"I came as soon as I heard the news, didn't I?" Ryan quickly made amends, well aware of the dwarf rune craftsmen's famously stubborn and obstinate disposition. The power of runes had penetrated deep into their souls, making the dwarf rune craftsmen impervious to threats; they did things only as they pleased.
"Hmm, I've added three runes to these battle axes—'Return', 'Rend', and 'Bloodthirsty'. As for your warhammer… it's made according to your request, named Mjolnir." Clark grumbled as was his habit, a typical trait among older dwarfs who loved to complain and babble.
The entirely silver warhammer was handed to Ryan. About 1.8 meters in length, it was adorned with various golden patterns and many dwarven markings. The hammer's head was blunt on one side and pointed on the other, featuring lightning-wing patterns on both ends, and its handle was inlaid with three rune stones.
Upon gripping it, Ryan could feel the enormous weight of the hammer and the explosive energy surging within it. He tightened his grip on the handle, channeling his psychic energy into the hammer, causing all the golden patterns to light up, filling the entire weapon.
"Your needs are obviously different from your brother's. His weapon focuses on killing power, while you clearly prefer your weapon to emphasize armor-piercing capabilities and defense. Hence, the runes I added for you differ entirely from those on Cleaver and Ripper." Clark gestured for Ryan to put down the hammer: "I've added three runes to your warhammer."
"First is 'Gromril Endurance.' Unlike battle axes, a hammer's durability is crucial. The endurance rune ensures that your warhammer can withstand lengthy battles without much need for repairs. A typical example is the Imperial Emperor's Ghal Maraz, which also features this rune and never worries its wielder about maintenance."
"Very good." Ryan nodded in satisfaction.
"The second is 'Grimnir's Courage.' Clearly, there's a special power within you. While dwarves are not a magically inclined race, we've bound and inscribed the power of the Winds of Magic into weapons for thousands of years. The same applies to you; just channel your energy into this hammer, and it too can achieve energy absorption and cutting effects."
"The last rune is 'Anti-Magic.' In battle, we often encounter enemies with strong magical abilities, so I've added an anti-magic rune to the head of your hammer. This can cause significant damage to enemies who use magical defenses."
Ryan was profoundly impressed, as only a race like the dwarves, who had spent tens of thousands of years specializing in smithing, could integrate rune enchantment and anti-magic into one.
"The weapons sought by you and your brother with the help of us dwarves are now completed. We dwarves owe you nothing further. However, I must say, this collaboration has been pleasant. Should you have similar blueprints and tribute gold next time, I'd be willing to make the trip again." Looking at his work, Clark finally smiled, something the president of the rune craftsmen's guild had not done for a long time.
After over five hundred years, Clark had finally mastered two new methods of weapon manufacturing and even recovered a lost rune. Clark had every reason to be happy. He and the over a hundred long-bearded dwarves with him had gained much from Ryan. Proud dwarves would not directly offer thanks, but stating a pleasant collaboration was always acceptable.
"Master Clark, please don't rush to leave. You must attend my wedding. I will treat you as distinguished guests, inviting you to enjoy our human delicacies and fine wines." Ryan, putting away his warhammer, bowed politely, issuing a formal invitation to the group of dwarves.
Ryan held a high status in this country, and his far-reaching fame made this invitation quite significant, giving full face to the dwarves. The long-beards discussed among themselves.
"This human seems sincere."
"Long-beards like polite humans."
"He managed to kill 'Red Eye' Eigel; he must be somewhat capable, and he's also a star with the hammer."
"My beard tells me this little brother has something."
Master Clark the Grim had already planned to stay here for a while since, during his assessments, he found Delron Feinson, a young rune craftsman (over 300 years old), to have a good foundation. Planning to spend time teaching Delron more profound rune inscription techniques, Clark found Ryan's invitation a perfect opportunity to gracefully accept: "Since Count Ryan has graciously invited us,
we dwarves will give you this honor!"
These long-beard dwarves settled down here. As Ryan had already accepted two dwarf clans (the Angland tribe of Dugan Ironhand and the Norviglin clan of Sven Norviglin), dwarves had established a sizable settlement here, so these long-beards had no trouble finding a place to stay.
The days following were quite leisurely for Ryan. There were no wars in the kingdom, and the nobles were busy licking their wounds and recuperating, with no time for court conspiracies. The recent war had exhausted all of Britannia.
Production and development in the kingdom's north were severely affected. Aldred, the newly appointed Duke of Lyonnesse, quickly discovered after taking office that he only had control over half a duchy. The new duke had to seek aid from the court and southern nobles, who did not hesitate to send significant food supplies.
Two weeks passed, and autumn arrived.
The weather gradually cooled, and Ryan's wedding date approached. The Lady of the Lake's birthday was set in the deep autumn season. During this period, Ryan kept a low profile, living his life quietly, arranging for his steward Carsonburg and tax officer Gaspard to prepare for the wedding.
Occasionally, he would visit the Dawn Wizard's Tower to see what Targarys was teaching Veronica and Teresa. However, Ryan often couldn't understand the complex magic Targarys taught and eventually decided to give up trying.
The warm breezes of early autumn swept through the Glarmorgan County, unknowingly bringing another harvest season. This year, the County had expanded to 28 villages with nearly 80,000 inhabitants, including over a thousand standing troops, more than a hundred knights, a unit of dwarf musketeers, and a squad of Norviglin Ironbreakers.
The air in the domain was festive, as the serfs knew their beloved Count was about to marry. The lowly serfs could not attend the Count's grand wedding, but they could still bless his marriage in their hearts.
Unknown to everyone, another distinguished guest planning to attend Ryan's wedding had arrived.
Several carriages laden with dwarf goods entered the County of Glarmorgan. Engineer Dugan Ironhand and the King of the Eight Peaks, Bellegar, sat at the front of the carriages, enjoying the cool breeze and tasty malt beer as they watched the golden wheat fields roll by. Following behind were dozens of Ironbreaker and Hammerer guards, sworn protectors of Angland and Bellegar's most loyal subjects.
"Cheers~" Dugan took out his tankard, filled it with malt beer for Bellegar, and topped up his own before taking a hearty swig: "Here's to joyful times, a toast to our ancestor Grungni and to Ruin Ironhammer, the first king of our Angland clan!"
"Come, Dugan! To the malt beer!" Dugan Ironhand's support had significantly eased Bellegar's plight. He felt much relieved after the rest of his people were settled, and the King of the Eight Peaks took this opportunity to venture out. Bellegar had told Rorek he wanted to connect with humans, and guided by Dugan Ironhand, he had come to Ryan's territory.
"Ton ton ton~" Another tankard of malt beer went down, and Bellegar belched satisfactorily, thinking it had been a long time since he had enjoyed malt beer so freely.
What a pleasure!
"The Count is a very capable man. From the moment he took us dwarves in, I knew of his greatness, especially in battle. There's no need for me to elaborate; the Count's own heavy cavalry troops are exceptionally powerful." Dugan Ironhand continued: "Whenever we fight alongside the Count's troops on the battlefield, we never have to worry about enemies flanking us. We just need to focus on firing our muskets."
"Heavy cavalry..." Bellegar's eyes lit up as he stroked his white beard: "I've heard that Bretonnia's knights are considered the best heavy cavalry in the Old World, even stronger than the Empire's knightly orders. I wonder if I'll have the chance to see them."
"You'll definitely have the chance." Dugan pulled out a freshly baked whole wheat sandwich filled with vegetables and ham, eating heartily: "But I must say something unpleasant first, Bellegar, you are our king, a noble figure. The Count will surely meet you, but I hope you won't..."
"I know, I know." Bellegar sighed softly: "Dugan, I have to thank you again. If it weren't for the several carriages of goods you brought, we wouldn't know how we'd get through this winter. I really can't bring myself to ask Rorek again."
"Bellegar... I told you when you set out that decades of accumulation and an army
of eight thousand were not enough to reclaim the Eight Peaks." Dugan also sighed: "Our forces are too small, not to mention the Skarsnik of the Evil Moon clan, even the black orc army under Skarsnik is over a thousand strong. And even if we did reclaim the Eight Peaks from the Evil Moon clan, we couldn't hold it. Below the ley lines there's Queek and his ratman army."
"Komaniek agrees with this too; we need to first try to capture a fortress, restore production, then gather our scattered clansmen." Bellegar looked at the prosperous plains, somewhat lost in thought: "Our chances are running out. If this continues, the Angland clan will be crushed by hatred."
Hearing Bellegar's words, Dugan knew the King of the Eight Peaks could not possibly give up on reclaiming the Eight Peaks, and he felt it inappropriate to dissuade him further. The carriages moved along the road, the axles turning back and forth, and the dwarves marveled at the tall windmills, mills, fertile lands, and workshops within the Count's domain.
"It's the pointy-ears!" Some stubborn long-beards spotted elves: "There are pointy-ears here! And many of them!"
"Those look like high elves?!"
"Oh! Such bad luck, why are there so many elves here?"
"I get annoyed just seeing them!"
The Angland sworn guards loudly complained. It was normal for dwarves to dislike elves.
The road gradually became congested. Too many carriages and pedestrians filled the originally spacious road, forcing the dwarf caravan to slow down, eventually colliding with a group of elves.
Dwarves didn't like elves, and the elves also noticed the dwarves.
Both parties passed by each other coldly without greeting, each minding their own business, and the large groups of carriages moved orderly without further incident.
...
Britannia, capital of the Duchy of Bordleaux, Mannan Dry Docks.
A fleet from the Empire was entering the port, the sails of the large ships adorned with a blue coat of arms and a white wolf's head, and a battle flag depicting a white wolf wielding a warhammer in full sprint.
"It's Elector Count Wolfric and Duke of Middenland Boris Todbringer arriving," Duke Bordrick of Bordleaux said to Sir Holf beside him: "Looks like the Grand Master of the White Wolf Knightly Order, Axel Gries, is also here. You go on my behalf to welcome them at the dock."
Bordrick had no personal relationship with Boris, and their relationship was ordinary at best. Boris didn't have the same prestige as Targarys, so Bordrick felt a brief acknowledgment was sufficient.
"Yes, my Duke." Sir Holf was about to proceed on behalf of Duke Bordrick, but he quickly returned: "Duke, Ryan's foster parents have also arrived!"
"What?!" Bordrick focused and indeed saw Elector Count Boris and Grand Master Axel Gries each supporting a frail old nobleman and an elderly lady with white hair, helping them step off the ship: "Lord Norman, Lady Norman, take it slow."
The red-nosed little old man, almost completely bald except for a bit on the sides, clearly hadn't been on a ship before. His face was pale and his steps unsteady as he was carefully assisted down by Elector Count Boris: "No need, Lord Boris, you really shouldn't be doing this for me. You're an Elector Count, and I'm just a country bumpkin from Nordland!"
"What does that matter? I consider Ryan a brother, and you are my elder, Lord Norman." Boris was all smiles; under normal circumstances, an Elector Count's status was five levels higher than that of a rural lord from Nordland. However, Norman had a capable son, and this little old man deserved Boris's respectful treatment.
In the current Kingdom of Nordland, who didn't know Norman's son was Ryan Macado, the sanctified warrior who could take down 'Red Eye' Eigel? Even King Harald Franck of Nordland respected Norman by three degrees. It was reasonable for Boris to curry favor this way.
The White Wolf, Ulric, had even issued a decree for Boris to take Norman's couple to the White Wolf City for their retirement.
"Truly Ryan's foster parents!" Bordrick couldn't keep calm anymore: "Come! Sea God Knights, join me in welcoming Ryan's parents!"
"Yes!"
Duke Bordrick led a large group of Sea God Knights personally to welcome Elector Count Boris, Grand Master Axel, and Ryan's foster parents, arranging for them to stay in the castle. Standing on the dock, Bordrick muttered to himself with a complex expression: "Even the Empire's Elector Count has come..."
Behind him, an unpleasant sound of footsteps approached, not resembling human steps but more like wooden spikes stabbing into the
ground.
"Why would you appear at this time?" Duke Bordrick didn't turn around; he just stood there as a woman wearing a red headband, dressed in ragged shirt and shorts, holding a trident approached him.
This woman was unusual; below her knees, she didn't have human legs and feet but wooden prosthetics instead.
"Father has sent me to find you; I need your help, father's chosen champion and prince of the Sea God, Bordrick de Bordleaux."
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