Around the same time Atem, King of Games and sovereign of Eterna, was speaking with King Gazel through the Communicator—
Inside the massive gate of the Dwarven Kingdom, roughly 15,000 soldiers had assembled.
Of those, 12,000 belonged to Gobta's First Corps, and 3,000 to Gabil's Third Corps.
They had not yet entered the underground city. Instead, they were camped along the outer edge of the grand plaza. The evacuation of the inn town's residents had been completed without incident, and now all that remained was to wait.
No messenger had arrived from the Empire.
No recommendation to surrender had been issued.
And yet, everyone present could feel it.
War was close.
The Dwarven Army was already in full motion.
The Royal Order of the Dwarven Palace consisted of seven units. Among them, the Engineering Unit and Magical Support Unit were working relentlessly—reinforcing the gate and constructing a temporary outer wall.
An earthen wall formed through earth magic hardened rapidly, becoming sturdier than brick once fire magic was applied. With further reinforcement, it would rival iron itself.
By the time the third outer wall was completed, the Heavily-Armored Strike Force Unit began to deploy.
Knights encased head to toe in enchanted armor lined up with movements far too nimble for their imposing bulk. The war situation was advancing steadily.
And yet—
Gobta and the others were completely unbothered.
While dwarves rushed about in disciplined preparation, Gobta and Gabil sat casually on the ground, eating together like they were on a picnic.
Nearby—for reasons no one questioned anymore—a luxurious table shaded by a parasol had been set up.
Seated there were Testarossa and Ultima, each resting elegantly on pristine white chairs.
They were enjoying teatime.
Serving them was Veyron, dressed impeccably like a butler. Though elderly in appearance, his back was straight as a blade, posture flawless, standing as still as a statue.
"This is insanely good!" Gobta exclaimed, gnawing enthusiastically.
"This meat's wild! I love it!"
"Mmm," Gabil nodded solemnly. "Indeed. The more one chews, the richer the flavor becomes. Excellent texture. Truly refined!"
The dish had been prepared by Zonda, Ultima's servant—broiled bone-in meat, seasoned simply with salt and herbs. It wasn't official rations; Zonda had hunted the ingredients himself.
"I am honored by your praise, Corps Commanders," Zonda said, bowing gracefully.
"As a royal chef, I still have much to learn about battlefield cuisine. Please forgive any shortcomings."
Zonda stepped back beside Ultima.
He stood out dramatically.
Everyone else wore armor or military uniforms—yet Zonda was clad in a tailored, double-breasted chef's coat crafted by Shuna, woven from hell-moth silk and dyed light purple to match his hair.
Even Testarossa and Ultima wore custom military uniforms—Testarossa in tailored trousers, Ultima in a skirted variant—both unmistakably martial.
Zonda alone radiated elegance utterly unsuited for a battlefield.
And yet—no one complained.
Mainly because he fed them.
"This does not suit my taste," Testarossa said calmly. "The options are limited. I would have preferred more variety."
"I agree," Ultima added bluntly. "Grilled meat again? Stew again? You've met Shuna and Yoshida—improve faster and be more useful to me."
Compared to Gobta and Gabil's enthusiasm, the demonesses' verdict was ruthless.
"I am terribly sorry," Zonda said sincerely, bowing deeply.
Gabil quickly interjected.
"No, no, Zonda-dono! I believe Ultima-dono acknowledges your skill. The issue may not be the flavor."
That remark drew every eye.
Testarossa looked intrigued.
Ultima frowned.
Zonda stiffened in terror.
Veyron remained unmoved.
Gobta blinked. "Huh? What d'ya mean?"
"Thank you for asking, Gobta-dono," Gabil said earnestly.
"This is something my sister often scolds me about—seeing things from a woman's perspective."
"And…?" Gobta asked, biting into the meat again.
"We can eat freely without caring how we look. But Testarossa-dono and Ultima-dono cannot. Presentation matters."
Zonda froze—then whispered, "I see."
He finally understood.
Food was not only about taste.
"Heh," Gobta laughed. "Didn't know you were that deep, Gabil!"
"I merely try my best," Gabil said modestly.
"Also… those were actually Atem-sama's words."
Wisdom of the King (as Misunderstood by Gabil)
Gabil proudly recounted an old conversation:
"Atem-sama, I want to be popular with women like you are. What should I do?"
"You ask me?" Atem replied. "Hmph. Very well. Remember this: women value consideration.
Do not do what makes them uncomfortable—and they will naturally favor you."
"And then," Gabil concluded solemnly,
"I realized the key lesson: never do things that make the other party dislike you."
Everyone present thought the same thing:
Atem-sama truly is profound…
Had Atem heard this, he would have sighed deeply.
Fortunately for his dignity—he hadn't.
Zonda knelt before Testarossa and Ultima.
"I swear to improve and serve dishes worthy of you."
Testarossa smiled faintly.
"You have a fine servant. Mine are… different."
Ultima shrugged. "Moss is useful. Cien handles paperwork. I envy your balance."
The two continued chatting, completely ignoring the kneeling Zonda.
To onlookers, it seemed cold.
In truth, it was praise.
Veyron and Zonda were internally screaming—with pride.
Then—
Gobta spoke.
"Man, women are picky. Wantin' food cut small and all. What a pain!"
Gabil paled.
"Gobta-dono—please do not say that out loud!"
"This is a battlefield!" Gobta shot back.
"Eat what you can! That's commander logic!"
He wasn't wrong.
But logic meant nothing to primordial demons.
"Gobta-kun," Ultima said sweetly. "You're hilarious. I'm getting chills."
"Yes," Testarossa added warmly. "It's good that I am supervising you."
Their smiles didn't reach their eyes.
Everyone but Gobta understood.
He's dead.
Gobchi rushed in.
"C-Commander Gobta! That's enough!"
Too late.
‹Testarossa. Report.›
Atem's voice echoed through Telepathy Net.
Instantly, Testarossa knelt.
‹At your command, Atem-sama.›
The others followed suit.
Atem, blissfully unaware of Gobta's near execution, spoke calmly.
‹Negotiations with the Empire will proceed. Testarossa, you are appointed plenipotentiary.›
‹Your authority equals a corps commander. Coordinate with Gobta and Gabil.›
‹As you decree.›
‹If negotiations fail—›
‹Then the Empire shall be erased.›
Gabil shuddered.
Gobta beamed.
‹Don't worry, Atem-sama! I'll protect her! Fragile ladies need guarding!›
Testarossa smiled thinly.
This fool… is interesting.
Atem paused.
‹…I'll send Ranga as well. Be careful.
The connection closed.
Hmm… I didn't expect that.
That was my honest thought after issuing my orders to Testarossa and the others.
Not that I was panicking. Far from it. Acting flustered would only undermine authority, and as Atem, King of Games and sovereign of Eterna, I could not allow that. Calm judgment—unshaken and absolute—was the proof of a ruler's worth.
If anything, their approach was correct.
And above all else, Testarossa was reliable.
She would undoubtedly make my presence—and my will—resound throughout the Empire. She had said something about annihilating their forces, but… she didn't truly mean that. Probably.
…No. Let's be honest with myself.
Testarossa was cut from the same cloth as Diablo.
Which meant there was a very real chance she was being completely serious.
Primordials were walking calamities. Leaving her completely unchecked was dangerous—but this was already war. Mercy was something extended after victory, not before it.
It was too late to stop her now.
There was, however, an unexpected gain.
Gobta.
Giving him responsibility had forced growth out of him. He was trying—genuinely trying—to act like a commander. Watching that change, I felt a quiet sense of approval. The more reliable Gobta became, the more freely I could move elsewhere.
That said… he was dancing dangerously close to a landmine.
It would be entertaining to watch it play out, but letting Testarossa reach her limit was not something I could afford. Before that happened, I would have to enlighten Gobta—whether he liked it or not.
With that in mind, I spoke quietly.
"Ranga. Are you there?"
"I am!"
Ranga burst forth from my shadow, tail wagging furiously.
For a brief moment, I considered resting my hand on his head and ignoring the world. But this was not the time.
"Ranga, accompany Gobta. Protect him—no matter what happens."
His tail froze.
After a short silence, he replied, subdued, "…Understood, my king. When shall I depart?"
He sounded like a child being told to leave home. I knew exactly what he was thinking—but my decision stood.
"Go now."
"…Then I shall depart."
He turned away, shoulders slumped.
Does he truly dislike being apart from me that much?
For a moment, guilt tugged at me—but sentiment could not override reason.
"I'm counting on you," I said firmly.
"Gobta is growing stronger, but knowing you're beside him puts my mind at ease."
Ranga froze.
Then—
"Leave it to me, my king!"
His voice rang with vigor. The gloom vanished, replaced by blazing resolve. In an instant, his sluggish steps became an energetic dash.
With Spatial Transportation, he would reach them long before they moved out.
For now… I was satisfied.
"Negotiations with the Empire will fail," I stated calmly.
"When that happens, war will be declared on the spot. The question is—how do we deploy?"
From Testarossa's demeanor alone, the answer was obvious. War was inevitable. Hoping otherwise would be nothing more than self-deception. The Empire had already violated our land. They would not retreat without blood.
Still, the unknown variable remained—their tanks.
One careless decision could cost us dearly.
This was where Benimaru proved his worth.
"If Testarossa confirms hostilities," he said evenly, "we isolate the city within the labyrinth immediately."
"Then we call Ramiris."
"Yes. At this point, she won't complain about boredom."
Thinking of war as entertainment was disturbing—but that was the nature of monsters.
"And after that?" I pressed.
"Our advantage is terrain," Benimaru continued.
"The enemy is one massive formation. Tanks are, in essence, mechanical monsters. That works in our favor."
His composure told me he had already accounted for the supply units.
Still, I listened closely.
"If we deploy large numbers at once, they
become targets. Based on projections from your imagery intelligence the Green Numbers cannot withstand direct fire."
"…So?"
"The Goblin Riders will engage first."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Only a hundred?"
"Yes. A probing strike."
Cold. Precise. Merciless.
"If the tanks perform within expectations, full deployment guarantees victory. If they exceed expectations, we reassess. Either way, battle is unavoidable. Increasing casualties unnecessarily would be foolish."
In other words—
Gobta and his riders would be the benchmark.
Disposable, if needed.
"In the worst case?" I asked.
"They are authorized to withdraw using Shadow Step at their discretion."
So that was it.
Benimaru's projections—reinforced by Solarys's calculations—fell well within acceptable margins. We had analyzed cannon caliber, turret rotation, secondary armaments. These weapons were clearly derived from otherworld knowledge.
The danger lay not in mystery—but in power.
Benimaru's plan was brutally simple.
At the opening of battle, one hundred riders would charge at once. High-speed, erratic movement would deny the tank gunners proper aim. No direct hits—at least, in theory.
Hit-and-run tactics. Confusion. Pressure.
Fear would be the enemy's greatest weakness.
"If you hesitate," Benimaru had warned them, "you die."
Retreat was permitted—but only as a last resort.
"I will not allow any action that stains Atem-sama's authority."
Honestly?
Benimaru was more terrifying than the Empire.
"Don't push them into recklessness," I said.
"That would be discourteous," he replied calmly.
"Victory demands resolve."
I understood his logic.
But I also understood the cost.
Authority, dignity, fear—none of it mattered if it meant losing those who trusted me.
I did not want to sacrifice my people.
If this were my own body on the field, I thought grimly, I would not hesitate.
But as king… responsibility weighed heavier than any blade.
"Prepare the Third Corps for immediate reinforcement via Transfer," I ordered.
"Assume the worst."
This was not fear.
This was calculation.
And as I stood there, gaze fixed forward, one truth burned in my mind—
The opening move of this war would decide everything.