Date: Unspecified Time: Unspecified Location: Myriad Realms, Lil. Red Storm, Seed World, Trophy Section, Duel Realm, Crafting Sector, Venue: Chaos Dwarven Forge.
"Hello, Sir. My name is Biore Ironhold. I am Dulas's uncle. It's an honor to be your champion." The little Chaos Dwarf standing before Wyatt spoke with a stiff formality, though his eyes never strayed from the Frosling corpse puppets nearby.
Biore was bare-chested, wearing pteruges much like Bigold. Despite their various attire, it seemed the Chaos Dwarfs leaned toward this style—at least a few of them opting for shirtlessness. Wyatt's brow furrowed as he considered the possibility that the semi-nude ones all might belong to the Ironhold family or be closely related.
Biore appeared to be the same age as Dulas, which prompted Wyatt to muse on the peculiar virility of Chaos Dwarf race. It seemed her grandparents were still enjoying a particularly lively marital life. Given the extended lifespan of Chaos Dwarfs, such occurrences were not uncommon.
"Wow, what a surprise," Wyatt said, his tone dripping with sardonic amusement. "Of all the Chaos Dwarfs, you bring me the one who knows how to kiss ass. Though, I admit, it's humbling to know Chaos Dwarfs like him exist. Or is it just because he isn't particularly skilled?"
Wyatt turned to Dulas, raising an eyebrow in mock curiosity.
Dulas nodded, her expression a mixture of exasperation and reluctant defense. "Yes, he's a kiss-ass," she admitted bluntly. "But as for his crafting skills? He's better than me. I can personally vouch for him. The elders don't see it that way, though. They compare him to our parents' generation, and in their eyes, he doesn't measure up. Flattery is the only way he can get by in the family.
"They look down on him," Dulas continued, her voice tinged with a trace of sympathy. "And his title make it hard for him to mingle with the younger ones either. They don't respect him. He's the odd one out in the entire family. If not for Grandma checking in on him once in a while, he probably would've starved to death long ago. But for a Chaos Dwarf in his thirties, his skills are top-notch. Not to mention, he's on the verge of breaking through to devil realm."
Biore's jaw tightened as he listened to Dulas's unflinching introduction, his fists clenching ever so slightly at his sides. Years of swallowing his pride and suppressing his anger had taught him how to endure such moments, though the sting never faded.
Despite being an Ironhold by blood, Biore knew he was treated as an outsider, he was a reject. While his brothers had been granted their own workshops in the Chaos Dwarven District by the time they were his age, he had been relegated to serving as an unpaid attendant at the Chaos Dwarven Forge under the guise of "gaining experience."
Despite being an Ironhold by blood, Biore knew he was treated as an outsider, he was a reject. While his brothers had been granted their own workshops in the Chaos Dwarven District by the time they were his age, he had been relegated to serving as an unpaid attendant at the Chaos Dwarven Forge under the guise of "gaining experience."
To outsiders, being a Chaos Dwarf and carrying the Ironhold name meant prestige and power, but Biore knew the harsh reality of his life. Nothing had ever been handed to him. As a toddler, he'd often cried for hours to remind his mother to feed him, her attention absorbed by crafting projects. On particularly busy days, he'd gone hungry for one or even two days at a time.
From a young age, he had understood that, despite belonging to a massive family, he was truly on his own. That knowledge had driven him to practice twice as hard as his nieces and nephews, those of his own age. He knew that only by becoming an exceptional Chaos Dwarf could he hope to carve out a peaceful life and, one day, leave his family behind. Therefore, unlike his brother Bigold who would even dare to arrogantly fight against the rules of the Devil Merchant Code Biore was humble enough to even flatter a unknown demon merchant from some dark corners of the myriad realms that no one has ever heard of. The more Wyatt learned about Biore, the more convinced he became that Dulas couldn't have chosen a better candidate to be his third champion. There was an unshakable resolve in Biore that Wyatt felt made him uniquely suited to govern the Chaos Dwarven Assembly line. For the other Chaos Dwarves, crafting might have been a passion, but for Biore, it was survival—a means of carving out his existence in a world that had offered him nothing freely.
Wyatt's gaze lingered on Biore, his brow furrowed in contemplation. The ancestors of the Chaos Dwarves had risen to the semi-ruler class not through prideful artistry, but by using their craft as a desperate tool for survival. Their ingenuity and grit had etched out their legacy. But now, Wyatt mused, what had once been a fierce determination to thrive had decayed into a hollow arrogance.
The current arrogance of the Chaos Dwarves regarding their craft was little more than a facade. In ancient times, their ancestors had created for anyone who could supply the necessary ingredients, trading their skill for the resources they needed to survive. That relentless pragmatism had elevated them to the semi-ruler class. Yet the younger generation, cushioned by the fruits of their ancestors' labor and sacrifice, had grown complacent, their entitlement eroding the foundation that had once made their race formidable.
Wyatt's lips pressed into a thin line as he recalled Bigold. The Chaos Dwarf's workshop in the Chaos Dwarven District was immensely valuable, yet he had been willing to let it fall into disrepair—blacklisted, even—because he felt slighted by the Devil Merchant Code. Wyatt shook his head, his expression a mix of disappointment and disbelief. When even the elders of their semi-ruler class had made peace with the Devil Marchant Code's ways, what right did Bigold have to complain? His arrogance symbolized how far the younger generation of Chaos Dwarves had strayed, treating crafting as mere passion instead of recognizing it as the lifeblood of their survival in the Myriad Realms.
Wyatt's thoughts darkened momentarily as he considered the broader implications. The Dark Realms boasted many talented crafter clans and races, but only the Chaos Dwarves had ascended to the semi-ruler class, earning their position by being the best among them. If this decay of discipline continued, how long could that legacy last? After all, the current generation were more like the frauds cashing in on their ancestors legacy. Previously he even doubted if cultivating the Chaos Dwarves as allies a double-edged sword? Could their arrogance ultimately harm him? Yet, as his gaze shifted to Dulas and Biore, a faint glimmer of hope stirred within him. Perhaps the Chaos Dwarven race wasn't a lost cause after all and worth his investment.