Embassy of the Draconian Empire – Capital of Sol-Regis. Two Days After the Mine Rescue.
The Draconian Embassy was an architectural anomaly in the heart of the Aethelgard Capital. Built from polished black granite, the building radiated a silent aura of intimidation. However, the true terror lay within.
Princess Seraphina's private chambers were not designed for the comfort of ordinary humans.
The temperature was kept constant at 10 degrees Celsius—the natural habitat of the Draconian high mountains. The floors were made of black marble that absorbed heat, and thick curtains blocked out the sunlight, which was considered "too glaring."
Sir Roland Sudrath sat on a hard wooden chair carved with dragons. He was wearing a thick fur coat he had bought at a flea market before entering, yet his teeth still chattered softly. White mist escaped his mouth every time he exhaled.
In front of him, Princess Seraphina Draconia sat on her small throne, looking perfectly comfortable in a thin, blood-red silk gown. In her hand, she held a logistics report that had just arrived from the harbor warehouse.
Her beautiful face was as cold as the ice surrounding her, but her crimson eyes burned with a flicker of suppressed rage.
SLAM!
The report was slammed onto the marble table. The sound echoed through the silent room.
"Explain yourself, Roland Sudrath," Seraphina said. Her voice was soft, flat, and extremely formal, yet its sharpness was capable of slicing skin.
"In our alliance contract, it is clearly stated: The first shipment must contain Five Tons of pure Mithril ore as the initial payment for my investment. But the warehouse report this morning says there are only Two Tons."
Seraphina stood up slowly. She walked around the table, her footsteps silent. She stopped right beside Roland's chair, making the temperature around him feel as if it had dropped another five degrees.
"Where are the remaining three tons?" Seraphina whispered into Roland's ear. "Did you sell them on the black market for personal gain? Or is your family simply incompetent at counting?"
"I spent 500,000 Gold Coins to save your father's face at the auction. If you think you can play games with me, I will freeze all your family's assets in international banks. And perhaps... freeze the blood in your veins as a warning."
Roland swallowed hard, trying to control his shivering. He knew that a diplomat who looked afraid was defeated before even opening his mouth. He took a long breath and straightened his back.
"We didn't sell them to anyone else, Princess," Roland replied, daring to look directly into Seraphina's reptilian eyes.
With hands slightly stiff from the cold, Roland reached into his leather bag. He didn't pull out gold or gems for a bribe.
Instead, he produced an old wooden box.
Roland opened it on the table.
Inside was a Rusty Iron Chain bearing the crest of a double-headed eagle—the symbol of the Iron Empire.
Beside the chain, he laid out several Magical Prints (photos) that Rianor had taken at the mine site. The photos were black and white, but the horror was clear: human backs shattered by whips, elderly faces gaunt with hunger, and foreign foremen laughing over their suffering.
"We used the cargo wagons' capacity to carry this," Roland said, pointing at the photos of the refugees. "Humans."
Seraphina's brow furrowed slightly. She picked up one of the photos with her elegant fingertips.
"Morvath didn't just blockade the trade routes," Roland explained, his voice gaining a confident rhythm. "He invited the Iron Empire into our lands. The mine you won... it was turned into a concentration camp. Foreign foremen enslaved the people of Aethelgard on our own soil to dig up your Mithril."
Roland leaned forward, his eyes serious.
"We reduced the Mithril load by three tons to transport two hundred elderly people, women, and the sick who were dying there. Because to House Sudrath... Our People's Lives are worth more than Draconia's Gold. If that makes us contract-breakers... then feel free to punish me."
Silence.
Only the whistle of the cold wind from the magical ventilation could be heard.
Seraphina stared at the photo of the chain for a long time.
Draconia was a military nation. They were harsh, brutal, and valued strength. But they had a Code of Honor. For the Dragon-descended race, slavery was disgusting. Dragons conquered foes who fought back; they did not torture the helpless.
"Iron Empire..." Seraphina hissed. The red aura around her body vibrated. "Those mechanical rats dare to set their filthy feet on this continent?"
"They are building something in Port Valia, in the South," Roland added, throwing his ace card. "It's called 'The Colossus.' Rianor suspects it's a large-scale weapon of mass destruction."
"Princess," Roland stood up, leveling his height with Seraphina. "If that Colossus is completed... its first target will be Northreach. But its second target? Draconia."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed.
"The Iron Empire is a nation of machines. They need fuel. And Draconia holds the largest Mithril reserves in the world. We are just a stepping stone. You are the main course."
Roland offered a thin smile.
"So... our shipment was late not because we are incompetent. But because we are saving your nation's future from a greedy new neighbor."
Seraphina fell silent. She stared at the young man in front of her.
Physically, he was weak, had no mana, and wore too much rose perfume. But his nerve... his nerve was impressive.
Slowly, the killing intent in the room receded. Seraphina sat back down on her throne, crossing her arms.
"Reason accepted," Seraphina decided coldly. "Your sentimental nature toward the commoners might be a weakness, but your vigilance toward the Iron Empire is commendable."
"But a debt is still a debt," she continued sharply. "The remaining three tons must be paid next month. With five percent interest."
"Of course. Business is business," Roland nodded in relief, silently letting out a long breath.
"And one more thing," Seraphina said. She snapped her fingers.
A Draconian attendant wearing scale armor entered silently, carrying a tray with a scroll sealed in red wax.
"Since the Iron Empire is involved, this is no longer just a private business matter. This is a matter of Draconia's National Security."
Seraphina handed the scroll to Roland.
"This is a Cross-Border Permit. Starting tomorrow, I will send a platoon of Dragon Guards to escort your logistics convoy from the border."
Roland's eyes widened.
Dragon Guards? Those were Draconia's elite troops. A force that rode Land-Drakes or small Wyverns. Their presence in the convoy was the equivalent of hoisting a massive "Don't Touch Me" flag.
"You're... lending us your elite troops?"
"Not for you," Seraphina countered quickly, her chin tilting upward haughtily. "To protect my investment. I don't want my Mithril stolen by Iron Empire rats in the middle of the road."
Seraphina then pointed at Roland's chest with her folding fan made of bone.
"And you, Roland Sudrath. As an additional guarantee..."
Seraphina offered a thin smile, one that made Roland shiver more than the room's cold temperature.
"Tomorrow night, there is a Ball at the Embassy for the newly arrived Draconian Generals. You must attend."
"Me?" Roland was confused.
"I need a dance partner who can explain Aethelgard's political situation to those stubborn old generals. And you have a silver tongue."
"Consider it additional interest on your debt. Don't be late. And wear something decent; don't embarrass me."
Roland smirked, bowing his head slightly.
Got you, Ice Queen.
"With pleasure, Your Highness. As long as you promise not to step on my toes with those high heels of yours."
Northreach – Rianor's Workshop. Same Night.
While Roland was fighting on the battlefield of romance and politics, Rianor was battling frustration at his workbench.
On the table lay a captured Iron Empire Musket, completely dismantled. Springs, triggers, and the iron barrel were scattered about.
Beside him, Sir Riven (who had just arrived, his wounds not yet fully healed) and Captain Garrick watched closely.
"What do you think, Nor? Can we replicate it?" Riven asked, pointing at the rifle.
"We could, but it's garbage," Rianor snorted, tossing the barrel onto the floor. CLANG.
"This is ancient black powder technology. It's loud, the smoke obscures vision, the reload time is thirty seconds per bullet, and the accuracy is trash beyond fifty meters. If it rains, the powder gets damp and it won't fire."
Rianor massaged his temples.
"If we just copy them, we'll still be outnumbered. The Iron Empire has thousands of factories that can pump out thousands of these rifles every day. We only have one workshop."
Rianor picked up a small blue crystal and a copper coil.
"We won't copy them. We're going to Leapfrog their technology."
He rolled out a new blueprint on the table. The drawing was complex, filled with coils and magnets.
"They use fire explosions to push a bullet. Primitive."
"We will use Magnets and Air Pressure."
"I'm going to build a Magitech Gauss Rifle," Rianor's eyes sparked with a mad gleam. "A semi-automatic rifle. No smoke. No muzzle blast. An effective range three times that of their Muskets. And it can pierce standard armor."
"The problem is..." Rianor looked at Riven seriously.
"What problem?"
"I need a barrel material much stronger than normal steel. The magnetic pressure I've designed will blow normal steel apart in a single shot."
Rianor pointed toward the wall map... to the deepest part of the Mithril Cave. A black zone that remained untouched, marked with a skull.
"Adamantite," Rianor answered. "The Ore of Gods. The hardest metal in this world. And according to old geological data, the only deposit is on the deepest dungeon level. Level 3: The Abyss."
Riven swallowed hard. He had only just survived the monster at the cave's entrance. Now his brother was asking to enter the deepest part of the cave's belly.
"You mean... we have to go back into that hellhole?" Riven asked softly.
"Yes," Rianor adjusted his tilted glasses. "And this time, we aren't just fighting a gatekeeper. We're walking into their living room."
"Prepare your men, Brother. We're going on a suicide expedition."