In the Kingdom of Dwarves

Arceus and his company followed the winding path of the Ameld River as it stretched northward, its crystalline waters shimmering beneath the golden sun. Their destination was Dwargon, the famed Kingdom of Dwarves, renowned for its craftsmanship in both architecture and apparel. Their goal: to find artisans capable of providing clothing and shelter for the goblins who now served under Arceus' banner.

The group was composed of Rigur and two goblin warriors, alongside the ever-enthusiastic Gobta—who claimed, with uncertain pride, that he had visited Dwargon before and would serve as their guide. Their mounts were the Tempest Wolves, majestic creatures that had evolved from Dire Wolves under Arceus' influence. With fur like rippling shadows and paws that scarcely touched the earth, they raced like the wind itself.

"Ranga, there's no need to push yourself too hard," Arceus said, placing a steady hand on the white-furred mane of the great wolf he rode.

"Yes, Master!" Ranga barked in reply, only to accelerate faster, his powerful limbs propelling them onward in bursts of gale-born speed.

As the sun dipped beyond the horizon, casting a warm orange hue across the river's surface, they made camp beside the rocky shore. Arceus sat beside Rigur, his gaze drifting across the rippling water.

"Rigur," he asked, his voice low and contemplative, "who was it that named your brother?"

Rigur straightened at once, his eyes bright with pride. "Sir! I was told that a passing Demon Lord—one named Gelmud—bestowed the name upon him. He saw promise in my brother."

"Gelmud...?" Arceus murmured. "A Demon Lord's officer, then?"

"Yes," Rigur confirmed. "He was said to be part of a larger Demon Lord's army."

Arceus narrowed his eyes, thoughts churning. It couldn't be Anos' army… but how would they compare to the Demon Lords of Dilhade? The name Gelmud stirred no great sense of threat, but in a new world, all names were potentially dangerous.

Veldora mentioned a Hero, too, Arceus recalled. I wonder how she compares to Hero Canon… Still, if this truly is another world, perhaps I can rest easy—there will be no Evansmana or Venuzdnor to worry about.

With the first light of dawn, they resumed their journey. Trees gave way to meadows, and meadows to sweeping valleys. As they rode through a particularly serene gorge, Arceus' mind drifted to the quiet conversation he had shared with Ranga the night before.

---

The sun had been setting, casting long shadows over their makeshift camp. Arceus had stared into the river, its surface reflecting his face.

"Ranga," he said suddenly. "I killed your father. Have you ever thought about taking revenge on me?"

There was a pause. Then, Ranga's voice, steady and sincere. "I have thought about it."

Arceus looked at him, quietly awaiting the rest.

"But, Master," Ranga continued, "you did not just defeat us—you spared us. You gave us names. You gave us purpose."

"I hold no resentment toward you. Only gratitude. My loyalty—and the loyalty of my entire pack—belongs to you and you alone."

---

As night returned and the stars scattered across the heavens, they made camp again, this time in the deep shelter of a thick forest. A fire crackled at the center of their circle, its light dancing against the surrounding trees.

"Gobta," Arceus called across the fire. The goblin was gnawing cheerfully on a roasted pork leg.

"Yes, sir?" he replied through a mouthful of meat.

"What can you tell me about the town we're heading toward?"

Gobta swallowed quickly, sitting upright. "W-well, it's officially known as the Armed Nation of Dwargon, sir!"

He continued, warming to the subject. "It's a beautiful city, carved from a natural cave system and reinforced with steel and stone. It's home to more than just dwarves—elves, humans, beastmen, and all sorts of folks live there in peace."

"The king of the nation," he added, "is Gazel Dwargo—he's called the Hero King and is loved by all his subjects."

"Will monsters like us be allowed to enter?" Arceus asked, his tone measured.

"No need to worry," Rigur said from beside Gobta. "Dwargon is a neutral, free-trade nation. The king has banned all fighting within its borders."

"That's made possible by the unmatched strength of Dwargon's military," Gobta added. "They say the dwarven army hasn't lost a war in a thousand years."

"Impressive," Arceus muttered, gazing into the flames.

---

By the third day, the great gates of Dwargon came into view. Carved into the mountainside and protected by towering walls, the city was a marvel of stonework and defense. Before entering, Arceus instructed the others to remain hidden in the forest nearby.

"We'll draw too much attention if we all go in together," he explained.

"But, sir—" Rigur began.

"We'll be fine," Gobta interrupted with a confident smile.

"Master…" Ranga muttered, concern etched in his voice.

"Wait for us. We'll return soon," Arceus reassured them.

As Arceus and Gobta approached the gate, they found a long line of travelers waiting to be admitted. Dwarven guards checked each entrant thoroughly.

"They're strict about inspections," Arceus noted.

"Yeah, but once we're inside, we'll be free to move around," Gobta said.

It was then that two rough-looking men approached them. One was broad and greasy-haired, his yellow locks matted to his chubby face, a scar tracing down his cheek. The other was tall and bald, with a similar scar on his scalp and only a black shirt covering his torso.

"Well, lookie here," the yellow-haired man sneered. "A couple o' monsters, huh?"

"We're not in the city yet," the bald one added, grinning. "So no laws stopping us from gutting 'em."

Several people stepped back, unwilling to be caught in the fray. Gobta trembled slightly.

"Did you hear something?" Arceus asked, unbothered.

"I, uh, got beat up the last time I came here, too…" Gobta admitted.

"Fate of us weak monsters," he added.

"Weak, huh?" Arceus sighed, brushing his hair back. "Gobta, what's our first rule?"

"No attacking humans!" Gobta saluted, voice trembling.

"Good. Now watch how a real monster deals with insects."

Arceus stepped forward, towering over the two men. "I'm a generous man. I'll let your earlier insults slide—if you apologize and walk away."

His eyes gleamed, faint purple flames flickering within.

"Don't mess with us, freak!" the yellow-haired man barked.

"You're dead!" shouted the bald one, drawing a knife.

They summoned three more allies, brandishing weapons and casting minor spells—fireballs, buffs, support chants. All of it dissipated uselessly against Arceus' body, as if striking a wall of divine stillness.

"No way…"

"He's not even scratched!"

"It's my turn now," Arceus said calmly. With a simple wave of his hand, a burst of compressed wind erupted outward. Their barriers shattered. All five were sent flying into the dirt.

Behind them, chaos ensued. Of the people in line: sixteen fled, sixty-eight stood frozen in fear, ninety-two fainted, and thirty-four soiled themselves on the spot.

Moments later, dwarven guards stormed the scene.

And thus, Arceus and Gobta were promptly arrested and thrown into Dwargon's dungeon.