CHAPTER 920: PROMISE ME

Harbek’s eyes were completely shot with blood. As a Legendary-level powerhouse, he was utterly helpless. He wanted to do something, anything, but there was nothing he could do.

The frustration was so intense he felt he could have screamed. He was not reconciled to this fate.

The prophet Dain simply stared down at the small warhammer charm hanging from his belt—the symbol of his station. But the charm was now shattered. All that remained was half of a cracked handle, a heartbreaking sight.

It meant that the Dwarven Tribe of Utessar was gone. Their territory had a new master.

"Prophet... Prophet, tell me, what do we do now?" Elder Harbek’s anguished, furious voice rang out again, startling Dain from his stupor.

"Prophet, I’m scared. I feel weak, I have no strength left. I can no longer sense the direction of the dwarven Tribe. I can no longer hear the clang of hammers from Thunderhold City, no longer feel that invigorating heat from the forges... I..."

The dwarven Tribe was gone. They had all lost their way. The faith of their people had vanished in an instant, and they had all become homeless.

What can I do now? Dain asked himself, his head bowed. Find the enemy, kill the enemy, and avenge our people? Or rebuild the dwarven Tribe? The dwarven Tribe... our people...

He interrogated his own soul, searching for a path forward, trying to steady his faith against the storm of despair. He was the prophet. In the dwarves’ most desperate hour, he had to provide guidance. Even if that guidance was wrong, even if it was fruitless, it was better than doing nothing.

Slowly, a light began to kindle in Dain’s eyes, growing brighter and brighter until it blazed.

"Harbek Bronzebeard, Elder of the dwarven Tribe," the prophet said, his head rising. His voice was sonorous and majestic, filled with a power that could stir the hearts of the hopeless. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Harbek looked at Dain, at those eyes that were now preternaturally calm. Slowly, Harbek’s wails subsided. He buried his anger deep within himself, and a quiet stillness fell over him.

"Our lord(king) and our people have been transformed. They are no longer themselves," Dain stated, his voice clear and hard. "The dwarven Tribe has fallen. In the cruel competition between races, the dwarves have failed. We have lost our territory."

It was a fact Dain knew all too well. With the majority of dwarves turned into Dark Dwarves, their race was already in ruin. Even if the human kingdom or another faction helped them retake their home, the few of them who remained could never manage such a vast domain. The dwarven Tribe had truly fallen. It had, for all intents and purposes, vanished.

"The dwarven Tribe is gone," Dain continued, "but the dwarven race remains. In the kingdom of Utessar, in the blood elves’ City of Blessings, in the Stoneheart Horde’s Stoneheart City, many of our people still live. They are still there."

As he spoke these words, his voice filled with emotion. In the murky fog of the future he had foreseen, he thought he had found a path.

"Harbek, you are no longer an elder of the dwarven Tribe. You are now a lord of the dwarven race. And the duty of a lord is to lead our people, to continue living on this continent. Like dandelions, we must scatter everywhere and bloom wherever we land."

Dain looked at Harbek, his eyes filled with a grim and unshakeable resolve. That certainty infected Harbek, steadying him.

"Prophet," Harbek said, his voice now firm. "Tell me what to do, and I will do it."

Dain nodded, his gaze never leaving Harbek’s. "Go. Go west. Go to Stoneheart City, or to the City of Blessings. Gather the dwarves there. Pledge your loyalty to them. Use your fealty and your forging skills to earn a place to survive."

It was a clear path forward. To submit was to receive sanctuary. In doing so, the dwarven race would gain the space it needed to survive, to avoid being enslaved and utterly crushed beneath the wheels of history.

"Prophet..." Harbek was no fool. He understood what Dain was asking of him. But the words were hard to speak. For his people to bend the knee to another race... it was something he could not easily accept.

"Harbek, do not cling to false hope!" Dain’s voice was sharp. "For thousands of years, our race has relied on the human kingdom. And while we grew strong, we also made countless enemies among the northern tribes. Hatred is not so easily forgotten. If you try to carve out a new territory in the north to settle our people, the dwarven race will never know peace. We would likely be exterminated."

His voice was cold, his eyes filled with warning.

"Prophet..."

Dain just stared at him, his gaze so calm it seemed to pierce through time itself.

"Promise me."

"Promise me!"

His voice was quiet, but also cold and imperious. It was both a demand and a plea.

"Prophet... I promise," Harbek finally choked out, tears streaming down his face. "I promise!"

"Then I can rest easy," Dain said, a smile of peace and release spreading across his face.

Through a blur of tears, Harbek watched in horror as Dain’s white hair began to fall out in clumps, his skin shriveling and wrinkling before his very eyes. A prophecy, a path to the future... it did not come without a price.

"Go," Dain whispered, his voice now weak and hoarse, like a candle in the wind. "Go west."

"Prophet, what about you?" Harbek cried, deeply concerned for the elder’s safety.

"As for me," Dain rasped, "I will go to the human kingdom. The northern tribes will not forget their hatred. And we dwarves... we will not forget ours either. I will use the last of the dwarven Tribe’s resources to make the enemy responsible for all of this pay the price they are owed."

His hoarse voice turned calm again—deceptively calm, masking a hatred that burned like wildfire.

"Go now. Go west. The sooner, a the better."

.....

Emerald Dream Realm, the Kasenna Sea.

Demon Makareth had become completely unhinged. He brandished his scimitar, his body wreathed in Abyssal energy, dodging and weaving between the attacks of the three phantom thunder dragons like a bat using echolocation.

With a hiss, he slashed out with an immense arc of black energy, forcing the three phantoms back and giving himself a precious moment to breathe.

He held his battle-hardened scimitar before him, supporting the blade with his left hand. The cold light glinting off its edge reflected the unwavering, ruthless look in his eyes.

But such determination was meaningless in the face of overwhelming power.

The three thunder dragon phantoms lit up with electricity. With a terrifying peal of thunder, they trailed blinding lightning as they lunged forward for the kill.

They opened their mouths, and crackling arcs of lightning shot out from the vortex-like maws.

If Makareth were caught in that storm, he would be lucky to escape with his life.