"This is Lord Richard, the famous warrior from Pompeii. He's here to help us resist the bandits." Annie spun her tale without even needing to draft it first.
The dwarf warriors all pressed their fists to their chests in salute.
Whether or not there was any truth behind the title of famous warrior, they sincerely appreciated him coming to their aid at a time like this. It was the bare minimum courtesy.
"Then your battle aura must be incredibly profound, right?" Robbie pressed eagerly, like a child clutching at the last straw.
"I'm sorry, but I've never practiced battle aura." Lord remained utterly composed.
From any angle, Robbie was far too rude. Richard had no idea how old he really was, but mentally, he was undoubtedly far too immature. He could even be called a mere child.
The deaths of his father and elder brothers, along with the plight of the tribe, had probably driven his inner world close to collapse. The pressure with nowhere to vent tormented his reason like a file, so his odd behavior was actually perfectly normal.
Richard could not bring himself to be angry. Deep down, he even felt rather sympathetic toward him. This responsibility was one he should never have had to bear, yet he had no choice but to bear it. It was undoubtedly a tragedy for all the dwarves, including himself.
"If you've never cultivated battle aura, how did you become a famous warrior?" Vivid disappointment spread across Robbie's face.
"By relying on the people around me to make me look good." Richard grinned cheerfully at him.
When he first made contact with the dwarf tribe, he had set out carrying only his shield to avoid provoking them or causing a misunderstanding. The exaggerated Dragon Slayer Greatsword had been left behind.
No wonder Hert was such a sycophant. He had gone through all that trouble to bring Lord's weapon over, and only now had he finally found a chance to hand it to him.
Richard noticed some blood and mud on the blade. After taking it, he casually swung it twice to fling them off.
That thing weighed over seventy pounds. Held in his powerful arms, it instantly became a black blur too fast for the eye to follow, tracing a figure eight through the air.
The dull, muffled whistling of the heavy weapon cleaving through the air rang out without end, while the sword wind sent the withered grass and leaves on the ground flying and spinning.
It truly lived up to its reputation as a masterpiece painstakingly crafted by a centaur blacksmith. It barely picked up any grime at all; after being swung, the blade was spotless and gleaming.
The dwarf warriors' eyes went wide.
Every one of them was an expert who had worked with iron all their lives. A single glance from the corner of their eyes was enough to estimate its weight with near-perfect accuracy.
A weight of seventy or eighty pounds might not seem especially outrageous. Even an ordinary adult farmer in poor health could strain to lift it.
But lifting it and wielding it in battle were two entirely different concepts. An ordinary person's weapon weighed only five or six pounds, while even dwarves who prided themselves on their strength rarely used anything over thirty pounds. Anything heavier made it difficult to remain agile.
To wield a weapon of that weight with the effortless grace of a feather—what an exaggerated and astounding level of physical strength that required.
There had never been only one path to combat power. Every road ultimately led to Koren. Before such strength, whether one possessed battle aura or not was no longer important.
"Can you set aside a place for my subordinates to rest? We traveled all night and fought a battle, so we're exhausted." Richard put away the greatsword and yawned.
"Many of the tribe's stone houses are already empty. They may be a little short for you, but they should be fine for resting."
Richard led his people toward the area assigned to High Mountain Keep. Annie walked beside him, hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke.
"Robbie usually isn't like this. He..."
"He's completely unsuited to being clan chief, especially at a time like this." Richard cut in as he walked. "Good heavens, just standing there is enough to damage morale."
"Richard, you're being too harsh. He's only forty-five this year, which is equivalent to a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old child among humans." Annie was helpless as well.
"I can make allowances for his young age, but can the enemy make allowances for him?" Richard stopped and countered.
"The former clan chief was Robbie's father. He was a tough, stubborn old man." Annie reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The rain that night had not been heavy, but after standing outdoors for so long, it had still left her hair almost completely soaked.
"But I never expected him to die."
"So the roof happened to be broken just as a torrential rain poured down all night, and they ran into such a treasure." Richard sighed and shook his head.
He more or less understood what had happened. The former clan chief and several successors had died in battle one after another, making Robbie the first heir by default. Yet his age, abilities, and personality were all terribly unsuited to becoming a clan chief.
Thus, the dwarf tribe, already battered by wind and rain, became even more precarious.
"Actually, Robbie is the smartest dwarf I've ever met, but his intelligence is limited to tinkering with strange and unusual things." Annie suddenly thought of the miraculous Eagle-Eye Scope. "I think you two should have plenty to talk about."
"Provided we can win this battle." Richard rolled his eyes and walked toward the camp without looking back.
The dwarf women and children were continuously bringing large chunks of roasted meat and ale to the allied warriors. It seemed their supplies were still quite plentiful.
Richard really was hungry after going all night without eating or drinking. He bent down, entered the room, picked up a piece of roasted lamb rib, tore off some meat, and stuffed it into his mouth, nodding as he chewed.
A race skilled with fire was naturally quite good at roasting meat as well. The smoky flavor and rich aroma of fat in the rib had blended with the flames to perfection, creating a simple yet mellow meaty fragrance. It was the most satisfying thing he had encountered that night.
However, he stopped after eating only a little. No one could say when the enemy might attack, so they had to remain ready for battle at all times. He had learned back when he fought in arenas that eating too much before a fight would affect his performance.
The stone house's ceiling was far too low. Richard could barely stand upright, while Gunther could only sit cross-legged on the ground.
This former icefield hunter was also highly experienced. Like his own lord, he ate only until he was half full, then leaned against the wall and closed his eyes to rest.
"Boss, why do I feel like this stone house is shaking?" Gunther suddenly sat up again not long after resting. He rubbed the back of his head and looked at the wall behind him in confusion.
"Can't be. This house doesn't look shoddily built to me."
Richard had an extraordinarily robust spirit. Going one night without sleep was nothing to him. He was sitting at the doorway, enthusiastically teaching several dwarf children how to play cards, and had nearly won all their candy beans.
The situation was as dangerous as a raging fire, and no one knew whether they would even live to see the sun tomorrow. Yet he treated it all as casually as a spring breeze. The dwarves who saw this were disdainful, but had to admit inwardly that they admired him a little.
After all, even if he was only putting on an act, being able to fake it to this extent meant that at least half of it had to be genuine.
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