The Attacked Dwarf Village

"What do you think? Should we make a move?"

Rhode was a bit tense. This was his first time facing such a large number of monsters, even more nerve-wracking than when he had dealt with the wolf pack and the Demon Bear before.

Serie shot him a glance. "Why wouldn't we make a move? Did you think I came here just to watch the show?"

Hearing Serie's words, Rhode realized that this grandmaster loved scenes like this. She was probably already itching to jump in.

He just hoped the werewolves would be okay.

Rhode's prayer was destined to go unanswered. Miss Serie, never one for fair play, circled behind the werewolves while they were locked in fierce combat with the dwarves and raised her hand to unleash an enhanced version of Light Arrow Rain.

And she fired it in rapid succession.

Golden light arrows poured down like a torrential storm, instantly pinning over a dozen Wolf Demons to the ground.

The dwarves were stunned by the sudden support, turning their heads to look at where the light arrows had come from.

Dwarves were famously terrible at magic. The gods had gifted them with robust physiques—an adult dwarf could tear a Demon Bear apart with their bare hands—but in return, their magical talent had been sealed away.

Thus, this dwarven village naturally had no mages.

Serie stood on high ground, her golden hair fluttering in the wind, a fervent smile on her face.

Indeed, it was occasions like this that brought her joy.

Still, the spells that man had improved were quite impressive. Serie had abandoned her old single-shot Light Arrow technique and now always started with an arrow rain.

Wide range, high volume—far more useful than the single arrows of before.

Rhode wasn't idle either. He quickly cast the Improved Great Detection Technique.

The magic circle expanded, and after confirming there were no hidden werewolves, he immediately shouted to the dwarves, "Don't just stand there! There are four more on the left."

Serie's arrow rain hadn't wiped out all the werewolves; a few remained, and two were still locked in battle with dwarves, which Serie hadn't covered.

Alerted by Rhode, the dwarves snapped to action. Several split off to engage the werewolves in front, while the rest moved to deal with those on the left.

With Rhode's occasional Light Arrow support, the battle ended quickly.

An elder dwarf, who seemed to be a leader, stepped forward. "Thank you for your help, both of you. Lord Elf."

His tone paused slightly when he saw Rhode.

He had never seen an elf with short ears, but since this person was with an elf, he must be one too.

After all, elves were famously exclusive and reclusive.

"I'm not an elf. I'm human," Rhode explained helplessly.

Humans really had low recognition in this era.

"Human?" The dwarf leader looked puzzled. What was a human? Was that also a race?

Seeing the confusion on the other's face, Rhode abandoned any thought of asking if he had seen any of his kind.

"Never mind. I'm Rhode, and she's Serie. We're traveling right now."

"Traveling, huh?" The dwarf leader nodded. "I'm Amro Ironfoot, the chieftain here. We're planning a banquet tonight, and I insist you both join us, so we can repay this life-saving favor."

"What do you think?"

Rhode looked at Serie. She had been the main damage dealer; most of the werewolves had fallen to her, while he had merely played a supporting role.

"Fine."

Night fell, and the dwarves lit a bonfire.

During the process, Rhode took on the task of starting the fire. A snap of his fingers and a fire spell had the dwarves' eyes gleaming with envy.

If they could master such magic, they'd never have to struggle with rubbing sticks to make fire and carefully preserving the embers again.

But all they could do was envy. Dwarves were famously magic-illiterate; learning magic was simply impossible for them.

"Thank you again, Mr. Rhode."

Amro walked over to Rhode with a cup of wine. Rhode had helped a lot when they were handling the werewolf corpses, and the chieftain was deeply grateful.

The most troublesome thing about monsters was that their blood contaminated the land, and even their bodies had to be burned, or they might reanimate as undead, turning into even more terrifying creatures.

"No trouble at all, Chieftain Amro." Rhode raised his cup and clinked it with the dwarven leader's.

The other's beard was long and already white, suggesting he was quite old.

Rhode recalled that dwarves in this world seemed to live much longer than humans, typically around two to three hundred years. After all, decades into the Xinji Era, Ize was only just entering old age.

On the surface, he claimed he could no longer swing his axe, but in truth, he could take down a Demon with one strike.

And then there was the dwarven warrior Furu, who looked even older than Amro here, yet was still incredibly fierce.

It just went to show that with dwarves, you couldn't judge strength by age.

"Does Miss Serie really need nothing?"

Amro turned to look at Serie, who was sitting off to the side, holding only a cup of clear water.

"No need. I don't like alcohol, and your cooking has far too many conflicting elements."

Mr. Rhode was somewhat surprised to hear this—when he had cooked for Miss Serie before, she had never been picky, nor had she ever refused his food on the grounds that the elemental composition was too chaotic.

Taking a bite of a skewer made from some unknown animal meat, he could taste the coarse salt grains scattered on the surface. The flavor was quite rustic, indeed far inferior to his own.

As for Serie's refusal, Amuro said nothing more about it. After all, if she had actually joined in his celebration, that would have been what truly surprised him.

Compared to Serie, the Mr. Rhode before him didn't seem like an elf at all.

So Amuro spoke up again: "It seems Mr. Rhode is no elf. I wonder what manner of being a human is? This old man has never seen one before."

Amuro stroked his beard, a hint of reminiscence surfacing in his eyes.

"In my youth, I traveled across this continent and encountered many creatures of different races. Some could communicate, while others were utterly impossible to reason with. Unfortunately, I later ran into the Demon Race and nearly died at their hands. Since then, I have never left the village again."

Amuro rolled up his sleeve, revealing a deep scar that stretched all the way to his chest.

"Are the Demon Race very strong?" Mr. Rhode asked.

"Very strong!" Amuro's tone was grave. "Every member of the Demon Race evolves from the most formidable Monsters. Whether in combat prowess or in their understanding of magic, they are not to be underestimated."

"Do not underestimate the Demon Race. You should know that the original downfall of the Dwarven Kingdom was tied to them."

Serie, who had remained silent until now, suddenly spoke up.

"This continent once had five original nations, and the Dwarven Kingdom was one of them. But that kingdom collapsed overnight, and its people split into eight clans, wandering across this land."

Mr. Rhode noticed that as Serie spoke, a flicker of pain appeared in Amuro's eyes.