Hardline

Lister walked slowly along a familiar path. In little more than half a year, so much had happened to him: Ebony Chill, Antonidas's care, his meeting with Uther, founding a respectable newspaper with Kael'thas and the others, successfully learning quite a few low-level spells. As long as he completed his studies and passed the examinations, he would soon become a full-fledged mage. That would probably take only around three years.

"You look sorrowful." Modera's voice sounded behind Lister. She wore an exquisite green robe, and the Kirin Tor eye upon it seemed as vivid as if it were alive. "Duke."

"Save that title until I come of age." Lister crushed the tender shoot in his hand and tossed it into the flowerbed. After the Winter Veil Festival, the chill was beginning to ease. Frost was gradually retreating, though it had not fully departed; the cold still bit fiercely. He exhaled a breath of white mist as Kael'thas's call rang out from the hall, then turned and left.

As he passed Modera, her faint voice sounded beside his ear. "You need help."

"Perhaps."

Lister returned to the hall. Envoys from Ironforge had arrived, and several fully armed dwarves were loudly greeting those around them. Kael'thas hurried over. At his side stood an exceptionally stern elven lady—the royal mistress of ceremonies. She stepped forward ahead of him to straighten Lister's slightly wrinkled collar, lifted his chin to ensure he stood tall and proud, then moved aside to wait for Lister to follow behind Kael'thas into the hall. After giving Modera a long look, she too followed them inside.

"Hey! What a fine little fellow! Look at him! Such a sturdy body!" The leading dwarf wore a full suit of dark-gray steel armor, marred by many scratches and signs of wear. Yet that did not prevent it from being scrubbed and polished clean. The pale blue gleam shining from its grooves was enough to show that this was a precious suit of enchanted armor.

The dwarf was not tall, only a little over 1.7 meters, though he was still far taller than Lister. He was built like a barrel, much like Muradin himself. His hair and beard were the pure color of copper. Beneath that thick, weedlike beard sat a huge nose, and above it were a pair of sharp eyes. Worthy indeed of an outstanding warrior—merely standing there, he brought with him a crushing sense of weight. He was a dwarf capable of using Avatar, the younger brother of Magni Bronzebeard, King of the Dwarves.

"Welcome." Facing this famed warrior, Lister took the initiative and extended his hand. Muradin clearly had not expected him to be so welcoming. He had just raised his hand when he realized it had not been washed clean, but Lister paid no heed as he clasped that rough, large hand. "I heard your name long ago. One of the dwarven people's finest warriors."

"Oh, I think you're a fine lad!" Muradin's thick accent did not stop him from patting Lister on the shoulder. "Blood Warrior, eh? Not a bad title! That sturdy build of yours is perfect material for a warrior! Oh my, you've even got calluses on the web of your hand. You must practice often, right? Good, good!"

Lister smiled at him. Muradin took a thick warhammer from a dwarf at his side. "This is a gift for you from my brother, King Magni. I originally thought you'd have trouble even lifting this weapon, but now it seems there won't be any problem at all."

The heavy hammer was forged from arcanite, exceptionally solid and as dependable as a dwarf's build. Its head was wrapped in thorium, while its handle was set with an enormous emerald a full eight centimeters across. Its verdant radiance possessed incomparable beauty. It had been polished into a perfect hammer-hook. Most importantly, it had not yet been inscribed with runes.

But an elf wielding a hammer? Kael'thas frowned. No matter how he looked at it, it felt awkward.

A crafty gleam flashed in Muradin's little eyes. The absence of runes meant that anyone wishing to wield this heavy hammer had to rely upon their true strength. Many enchanted weapons used runes to reduce their weight, but now Lister had to take this weapon with his own hands. He could not dishonor his guest.

A warhammer weighing a full seventy kilograms—could he truly lift it with ease?

The next moment, Lister took the heavy hammer from him with one hand. Muradin's mouth fell open in astonishment. Lister then swung the hammer and smashed it viciously into the floor beside him. The thunderous boom left everyone around them dumbstruck, and some women even let out piercing screams.

The crystal chandelier hanging from the dome began to sway.

A crater had been mercilessly smashed into the floor. These were marble slabs twenty centimeters thick, yet Lister had now broken through half of one. Even the shattered stones were frozen by the rising chill, harming no one. In the eyes of every mage, Ebony Chill was shrieking in exhilaration, and the elements in the air were violently trembling.

Lister caught his breath and smiled. To those around him, it was like the fangs of a forest wolf at night. "Tell your brother that I like this gift very much."

"When my skill has matured, I'll add a layer of frost runes to it." Lister set the heavy hammer aside. His strength had already filled everyone with fear. That was enough. "Then I'll be able to smash my enemies' brains to pulp with ease."

He had to maintain his deterrence and cow those lawless schemers. Whether high elves or the human empire, he was now a delectable prize holding thirty million gold coins and nothing else. If he failed to intimidate every head that dared to rise, he would soon be carved up and devoured.

"That's right. You can smash their brains to bits or burn them to ash, whatever you like." Muradin grunted. He suddenly felt that his brother might have sent the wrong gift.

"Even if your brother were here, I'd still say this: for a child, you are far too warlike." Lothar strode in with great strides, moving like a mountain range. "Just as I suspected, children with great power often lose themselves beneath it."

"Power exists to be displayed. Power hidden away does not deserve to be called a threat." Lister's voice was utterly cold. "Envoy of Storm City, remember this: strike one punch to force the way open, and spare yourself a hundred punches to follow."

Lothar paused, then continued forward, but his gaze had indeed changed. This was not an arrogant, foolish mage, nor was he an aristocrat idling away his life. He was a mage who truly possessed the potential to become an exceptional ruler. Whether in strength or wisdom, Lister had shown a singular side of himself.

"Is that an elven proverb as well?" Lothar asked softly. "Only a man strong as steel would speak such words. Were they spoken by His Majesty Dath'Remar?"

"A human farmer told me that." Lister met his gaze. "He carved out an empire by himself."

"Then he was far greater than my ancestors." Lothar nodded toward Kael'thas, who returned the gesture respectfully. The Sunstrider family owed a blood debt to the descendants of Arathi; so long as Lothar spoke, they had to repay it. "Your younger brother is a giant of steel, Kael."

The envoys of the Wildhammer dwarves had arrived. They came from Aerie Peak in the Hinterlands, where they had their finest companions—the mighty gryphons, lords of the skies, nearly unmatched save by dragons. Fragar, representing Kurdran Wildhammer, presented Lister with an enormous gryphon egg, a gift beyond measure.