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“Ah, no wonder…”

Building a city of this scale from scratch would require an enormous number of workers. However, driving out whatever was inside and remodeling it could be achieved with relatively few hands. Even the slave race of dwarves might manage it, given their fine craftsmanship.

It was then that Repenhardt corrected his misconception.

“But it’s clear that this was a city of dwarves even in the Silver Age.”

“How can you be so sure, brother?”

Repenhardt pointed to the buildings along the road.

“Notice the low thresholds.”

Russ understood immediately. It wasn’t just about low thresholds—low ceilings, overly short stairs, and low handrails too. Everything indicated it wasn’t built for humans. Furthermore, the dwarf statues and sculptures scattered throughout the city undeniably proved it was a dwarven city.

“So, in the Silver Age, dwarves were prosperous enough to have their own cities. A race born to be slaves couldn’t have done that, right?”

“Umm…”

Russ grunted, dodging a direct response. Repenhardt’s reasoning sounded convincing, but changing deep-rooted perceptions was not easy.

After a long walk, they arrived in the residential area, and Pulbart led the group to a house. A middle-aged dwarf woman came out to greet them. After a brief exchange, Pulbart told the group,

“Let’s stay here for now. I will prepare some food.”

Everyone entered with awkward expressions. The house Pulbart had chosen was relatively large compared to nearby dwellings, but it was still built to dwarf standards. Russ smirked as he entered.

‘It feels like crawling into a doghole.’

For Repenhardt, standing 192 centimeters tall, or Russ at 180 centimeters, it was needless to say, and even Siris, an elf who was still a girl but already over 170 centimeters tall, had to bend her back to get through the doorway.

Ah, and of course, Sillan followed in dejectedly, fully upright.

“I… I wish I could bend my back too…”

Tilla giggled as she followed Sillan. They started unpacking their belongings here and there until Pulbart apologized with a look of regret.

“I’ve contacted the high priest now. It’s humble fare, but please have something to eat while you wait.”

Given the constant attacks by monsters, it had been a long time since the party had enjoyed a decent hot meal. With expectations rising, the middle-aged dwarf woman approached, carrying a large tray.

The meal consisted of a soup made with turnips and potatoes and a mysterious type of boiled meat. While the food seemed overly modest to offer to a group known as saviors of their clan, considering that the dwarves lived hidden in the most remote of places, it was clearly prepared with great care. Everyone gratefully picked up their spoons.

Taking a bite of the boiled meat, Sillan suddenly asked,

“What kind of meat is this?”

It was oddly tough and had a gamey smell. It wasn’t inedible, but it certainly wasn’t delicious. Pulbart proudly replied,

“It’s boiled basilisk liver.”

Everyone’s expressions hardened. Basilisk? They were eating the innards of that monster?

Instantly, both Sillan and Russ seemed to lose their appetites, their faces dropping. Siris, who had been eagerly using her fork, subtly tried to push her plate away.

“Eh, elves primarily eat vegetables, haha.”

“You were munching on jerky just yesterday… Ouch!”

Sillan pouted after being pinched in the side by Repenhardt. Having eaten all sorts of dreadful foods under Gerard, Repenhardt continued to chew the meat nonchalantly.

“It’s edible. What’s everyone’s problem?”

Regardless of the taste, the idea of eating monster meat was hardly appealing. As everyone made uncomfortable faces, Pulbart looked slightly disappointed,

“It might not taste the best, but it’s quite a rare delicacy. It’s good for your health.”

“Good for what?”

“Um…”

Pulbart stroked his beard with a meaningful smile.

“Well… it’s particularly beneficial for men… though I can’t quite explain how…”

“Wow!”

“Huh?”

Russ and Sillan’s eyes gleamed. Whether human or dwarf, no man could resist! Overcoming racial boundaries, they both eagerly started devouring the basilisk liver. Tilla and Siris pouted their lips.

“Typical men,” muttered Siris.

“Beasts,” added Tilla.

“I expected it from Mr. Russ, but not Sillan,” she commented.

“I’ll soon have a muscular physique too, so I need to prepare in advance,” Sillan declared.

What exactly he needed to prepare for was unclear, but being well-prepared surely couldn’t hurt?

Thanks to them, the mood quickly warmed. Even Russ, who held stereotypes, thought, ‘Dwarves, better fellows than I expected!’ Thus, the pleasant(?) meal concluded, and a young dwarf entered from outside.

“Mr. Pulbart, the high priest commands that the Savior be escorted to the Central Tower.”

As if he had been waiting, Repenhardt stood up.

“Then I’ll head out. Rest here, everyone.”

* * *

At the heart of the Grand Forge, a massive tower, connected to the ceiling like stalactites, was where Makelin, the high priest of Al Port, resided. As the young dwarf led them to the base of the tower, he bowed his head.

“Then you can go up these stairs.”

Looking up at the tower, Repenhardt nodded as if he understood,

“It seems no one else can enter from here. Well, it’s a kind of sanctuary if it’s where the high priest resides…”

“No, it’s just that it’s a hassle to go up,” the dwarf retorted dryly.

“…”

Remembering the nature of dwarves, Repenhardt let out a hollow laugh before ascending the stairs. Upon reaching the top, he found himself in a space surrounded by brown walls. The walls and pillars were carved with all sorts of images, and in the center, a large altar adorned with gold and bronze was placed.

An elderly dwarf greeted Repenhardt in front of the altar.

“Welcome, O Savior ordained by the oracle.”

The dwarf was truly enveloped in his white hair and long beard and eyebrows. Repenhardt’s eyes momentarily reddened.

‘Makelin…’

His most loyal subordinate, his most trustworthy friend, and at times, a respected and relied upon teacher.

His appearance had not changed in the slightest despite the barrier of 30 years. Unlike Siris or Tassid, Makelin had already been of old age for a dwarf when he first met Repenhardt in a previous life. Considering that 30 years for a human was only about 7 or 8 years for a dwarf, it made sense that Makelin’s appearance had not changed.

Overwhelmed by the memory of him, Repenhardt almost blurted out, ‘Wow, Makelin! It’s been so long!’ He swallowed the words before they escaped his lips and composed himself. He then replied formally.

“It has been a long time, high priest of Al Port, Makelin.”

Makelin looked at Repenhardt with a curious expression.

“Those words you speak are true, O Savior. But it is strange. Have we met before?”

He then tilted his head in thought, muttering to himself,

“No, that cannot be. I have not left this place in 50 years.”

The young savior before him did not look a day over thirty (in fact, he was in his early twenties). Logically, it was incomprehensible.

With a knowing look, Repenhardt nodded.

“I know you, but you do not know me.”

Repenhardt spoke earnestly, knowing that while others might not believe him, Makelin, the high priest who could hear the voice of truth, would trust him.

“It will be hard to understand. I met you ten years from now.”

Makelin looked at him with a perplexed expression. It was clear that Repenhardt was speaking the truth, yet his words made no logical sense. Usually, there was only one explanation for such a scenario.

‘…Could the Savior be mentally ill?’

But that seemed unlikely. While it’s true that mental illness isn’t always immediately obvious, it seemed improbable that Al Port, the god of the dwarves, would choose someone mentally unstable as the savior of his people.

Addressing the bewildered Makelin, Repenhardt calmly said, “I am one who has traveled back in time.”

He told him everything.

The tales of his wanderings across the continent as a great sorcerer, his efforts to ascend to the 10th circle of magic by seeking the secrets of different races and building alliances with them, how he aided them at every turn and increasingly clashed with human forces to protect these races, and how he eventually established the Antares Empire, becoming known as the Demon King and waging war against the entire continent until his demise.

He shared who he lived as, whom he met, how he died, and how he was resurrected and came to be here.

“I know it’s hard to believe. But I have indeed spoken the truth, and whether you believe it or not is up to you.”

After finishing his explanation, Repenhardt smiled wryly, straightened his back, and leaned against the chair. Makelin, who had listened intently to every word, slowly shook his head.

“Even for a dwarf who can hear the voice of truth, this is indeed a hard story to believe.”

The dwarves indeed hear the voice of truth, yet that does not guarantee they can discern it fully. If the person speaking believes their words to be true, even if they are false, it still sounds like truth to the dwarves’ ears.

“I too would have considered you mad, had it not been for Lord Al Fort’s oracle. However, your words seem quite plausible,” said a voice suddenly.

Makelin’s eyes lit up.

“May I test you? I wish to know whether you are a lunatic or a sage transcending time.”

“A test?”

His curiosity was piqued. Repenhardt nodded. Makelin pondered for a moment before speaking again.

“Had I been one of the Four Heavenly Kings under your command, and close to you as I was, I certainly would have mentioned this characteristic of mine. So I ask you.”

Stroking his dazzlingly white beard, Makelin asked meaningfully, “What color is my beard?”

Asking the color of a beard that is visibly white would typically suggest a trap. It was likely not as white as it appeared. Makelin watched Repenhardt closely. What would this young man respond?

But the answer came promptly as if he had been waiting.

“There can’t be a color if there’s no beard, can there? Makelin, you were still wearing that thing 30 years later. Your condition hasn’t changed.”

“……That’s sad.”