Chapter 776

Chapter 776
Under normal circumstances, a punch from Grondal would have rendered Torvalt unconscious instantly. However, given his current exhaustion, it was a blow Torvalt managed to withstand.
Clasping his throbbing head, Torvalt let out a frustrated scream.
“Is it impossible for you to just talk?! Use words! You pull this every single day—no wonder I bolted! Do you even realize how old I am by now?!”
“You little punk, you have the nerve to talk back to me like that!”
Losing his cool entirely, Grondal swung at Torvalt again. The surrounding dwarves quickly swarmed in to hold him back.
“Please, calm down!”
“There are guests watching—this is humiliating…”
“Save the discipline for when we’re in private!”
Thanks to their interference, a huffing Grondal finally retreated a few steps.
One of the dwarves looked toward Ghislain’s party with an uncomfortable, sheepish smile.
“Forgive the display. Our prince is a bit of a handful…”
The group could only offer blank nods in response.
While Grondal’s tendency to lead with his fists was certainly an issue, no one seemed particularly inclined to defend Torvalt either. It was clear he was viewed as a local disgrace.
Ghislain, who had a history of being a delinquent himself, felt a twinge of awkwardness observing the violent family dynamic.
‘Well, taking hits like that would make anyone turn out a bit twisted.’
He hadn’t grown up under such harsh conditions. In contrast, he had been showered with affection by Belinda.
Despite that, he had still managed to be a troublemaker. Thus, Torvalt’s rebellion wasn’t that shocking to him.
‘Then again… dwarven parenting is famous for being brutal…’
The majority of them were either soldiers or smiths, meaning a rough personality was essentially part of their DNA.
Naturally, the dwarves romanticized this as “the spirit of a warrior” or “noble conviction,” seeing no reason to adjust their ways.
In such a rigid environment, it was easy to see how a person like Torvalt would turn into a misfit.
Now marked with several new welts, Torvalt backed away slightly and raised his voice.
“Regardless! Gramdir belongs with him! Is it not a core dwarven tenet that masterpieces belong to those who prove their worth?!”
The other dwarves began to nod slowly in collective agreement.
They lived by a singular, unyielding law: No matter how magnificent a creation might be, the creator must never grow attached to it. Progress was only possible through letting go.
If a smith kept their work too close, sentimentality would take root—therefore, they were obligated to gift their masterpieces to those who deserved them.
It was an ancient doctrine that none of them had forgotten.
Gaining confidence from their reaction, Torvalt yelled out once more.
“Gramdir is a tool of war! It requires a powerful master to swing it! Father, you don’t even use blades! That human took up Gramdir and used it to crush our enemies! If he isn’t worthy, then who could possibly be?!”
Having fully committed to Ghislain’s cause, Torvalt continued with spit-flecked intensity.
“He saved us! Are you claiming a hunk of metal is too precious for someone like him?! Is it worth more than the survival of Vallscrum or the lives of our people?!”
Once again, the dwarves found themselves nodding.
No matter the value of the relic, it couldn’t outweigh the existence of Vallscrum itself.
If Vallscrum had been wiped out, all their crafts would have been looted or smashed to pieces anyway.
Grondal glared at Torvalt, his face a mask of irritation.
‘The brat isn’t wrong…’
He actually agreed with the logic.
He had simply let his temper flare and acted on impulse, wanting to reclaim Gramdir immediately.
And perhaps—while he was at it—he wanted to gauge this Astion fellow in a scrap.
But even when the message is correct, the messenger still matters.
“You’ve got a lot of gall trying to lecture me, you petty thief!”
Crack!
“Gah!”
Torvalt cried out, shielding his face from the abrupt strike. Grondal’s fists began to fall in a relentless rhythm.
“You miserable child. You think I’d listen to the moralizing of a thief?!”
Had any other dwarf spoken those words, Grondal might have settled down and conceded.
The Julien Mercenary Corps were, after all, honored allies and the saviors of Vallscrum. Parting with a few heirlooms was a small price to pay.
But being scolded by his own lazy, defiant son? That was more than he could stand.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
As the blows rained down, Torvalt scrambled backward, shrieking as if he were having a fit.
“Ugh, stop it! Is hitting people the only way you know how to talk?!”
“Oh? You’re running? Get back here!”
“This—this is exactly why I can’t stand living here!”
“It’s because you never stop causing grief! You don’t need fewer beatings, you need more!”
Torvalt detested being near his volatile father. More accurately, the entire dwarven lifestyle was a poor fit for him.
He enjoyed the act of creation like any other dwarf, but he could never reconcile himself with their coarse, uncompromising social structure.
That was why he had fled. He had intended to earn a living in a merchant city and relocate elsewhere.
Theft of Gramdir had merely been a final middle finger to Grondal.
Grondal, still restrained by his peers, thudded his fist against his chest in exasperation.
“Dammit! How did I produce such a weak-willed son?!”
He was aware of his own short fuse. However, he believed his son lacked any real spine.
He had been harsh in an attempt to toughen him up, but it only fueled the boy’s rebellion, which drove Grondal to near madness.
Ghislain and the Julien Mercenary Corps watched the spectacle with visible discomfort. Stepping into a family feud wasn’t their place.
Instead, Ghislain shifted his gaze between Grondal and Torvalt, scouring his memories.
‘The king of the dwarves from the vision…’
Both possessed thick beards and similar features, making it difficult to distinguish them. In the dream, the figure had been distant and shrouded in haze.
After a moment of careful thought, Ghislain shook his head.
‘It isn’t Torvalt.’
Unlike Ereneth, he lacked both the aptitude and the passion for war. There was no way a person like that could have become a legend in the Great War.
Furthermore, the dwarven monarch in his vision had wielded a massive polearm—the exact weapon Grondal carried now.
‘Hmm… perhaps Grondal wasn’t supposed to die here in the first place?’
Maybe even without Ghislain’s presence, Grondal would have survived the encounter.
And perhaps he was the one who would have led the remaining dwarves into the Great War.
It was a plausible theory. If Rahmod had succeeded in obliterating the Elven Forest, neither of the prophets would have traveled to this location.
In other words, it was possible that only Iralniel was meant to die in the original timeline.
So where did Torvalt fit into that history?
‘Was he truly nothing more than a thief?’
To be honest, that was the only identity that seemed to fit.
Still, as Grondal’s heir, perhaps he had been tasked with something vital. Stealing Gramdir was, after all, a feat few could accomplish.
At the moment, Grondal and Torvalt were locked in a silent, fuming stare-down.
Ghislain paused to reflect.
For some reason, he felt a strange pull toward Torvalt. He decided to be direct.
“Do you want to join us?”
“…?”
Torvalt blinked at Ghislain, completely caught off guard. The rest of the group looked just as stunned.
Shrugging, Ghislain elaborated.
“You clearly don’t belong here, and everyone treats you like a failure. I’m suggesting you ride with us for a while. Seeing the world has its perks—you’d learn more than you think. Well? What’s the verdict?”
When Ghislain looked to Grondal for permission, the older dwarf nodded vigorously and barked,
“Excellent! Drag the brat away! I’ll give you whatever you ask for—just take him and beat some sense into his head!”
He was aware that Ereneth had linked up with the Julien Mercenary Corps with Iralniel’s blessing.
Iralniel was a sage of immense renown—far beyond Grondal’s own level of perception.
If someone of that stature trusted them, then the Julien Mercenary Corps had to be honorable.
In truth, Grondal held the group in high esteem. Their martial prowess was impressive, but their integrity was even more noteworthy.
If Torvalt spent time with such people, perhaps he would finally grow up.
‘The world beyond is perilous… but I can’t let him rot here like a coward.’
Grondal’s brutality toward his son was rooted in a distorted kind of love. If he hadn’t cared, he wouldn’t have bothered to get angry.
For his son’s future, Grondal was prepared to let him face the dangers of the world to find his own feet.
He had realized he had nothing left to teach the boy through force alone.
The other dwarves expected Torvalt to accept immediately. He had always been vocal about his hatred for Vallscrum.
Ereneth, in particular, could relate to him. She had felt that same suffocating urge to escape the Elven Forest.
“……”
Torvalt looked around the cavern in silence.
Vallscrum was a place he had always been desperate to flee.
This time, he had intended for the departure to be permanent. He had even stolen Gramdir to burn his bridges.
But after witnessing the Julien Mercenary Corps in the heat of battle… a shift occurred within him.
‘I want to follow them.’
He had watched the conflict from the shadows, and that impulse had surged from deep within his soul.
He yearned to join their journey. The desire was so sharp it made his heart race.
And there was something else—an odd sensation.
‘I feel like… that is where I am supposed to be.’
Torvalt felt it with total conviction.
It wasn’t just a simple desire to tag along.
It was an inexplicable magnetic pull. A gut-level certainty that his place was among them.
It wasn’t a mere whim; it felt like a cosmic calling or the hand of fate.
Ghislain’s invitation felt like a confirmation that his feelings were grounded in reality.
But…
Torvalt shook his head.
“No. I’m staying.”
Now, it was Grondal and the other dwarves who wore expressions of pure shock.
Torvalt was the one who had spent years whining about leaving Vallscrum. He had attempted to desert numerous times.
They had assumed he would jump at the chance.
Instead, he had turned it down.
With a newfound gravity, Torvalt looked his father in the eye.
“Father.”
“…What?”
“I want to get strong. Just like you.”
“…!!!”
Grondal stared at him, unable to process the words.
This was the son who had dodged every single lesson in combat. No matter the punishment, he had refused to listen.
And now, that same son was saying this?
Grondal stammered, confused.
“W-what are you talking about?”
“Exactly what I said. I want to be the most powerful dwarf around—just like you.”
Torvalt hadn’t only been watching the mercenaries.
He had also seen, for the first time, how truly formidable and majestic his father was.
He had always heard the rumors of Grondal being the strongest dwarf, but he’d dismissed it as hyperbole. He had never seen the man truly fight.
His childhood memories were filled with a man who drank too much, acted lazy, and lashed out.
But to save his kin, Grondal had stood his ground at the risk of his life.
That wasn’t just impressive—it was the mark of Vallscrum’s protector.
Even when facing the terrifying prophets, he didn’t flinch. In a fair fight, he was likely even stronger than they were.
He had never dreamed that his drunkard father could look so incredibly cool.
Watching that battle, Torvalt found a purpose.
‘I want strength. I want to be like my father.’
He didn’t want to be a wanderer anymore.
He wanted to dedicate himself to a cause and achieve something meaningful.
To be the shield of Vallscrum.
That was his new ambition.
And the one person who could guide him was right in front of him—his father.
Grondal, struggling to believe his ears, managed to ask,
“Y-you’re serious? You want to follow the path of the warrior?”
“Yes. I see now how much time I’ve thrown away. I’m done running.”
Torvalt had always detested violence. He had feared the harsh life of a soldier and did everything to avoid it.
He had the soul of an artist—he loved the world of imagination and craftsmanship.
All dwarves possessed that spark. But because of his bloodline, the expectation had always been for him to be a warrior first.
He had resisted because he hated it—but now he understood that some duties must be embraced, regardless of how difficult they are.
Just like Grondal, who put his life on the line to safeguard others.
Observing Torvalt’s newfound resolve, Ghislain whispered a soft note of respect.
‘He’s a different person.’
The energy around the dwarf had completely transformed.
He now radiated the heavy, focused determination that belongs only to someone who has killed their doubts.
In that instant, Ghislain felt a peculiar sensation.
‘Huh?’
He looked around, guided by instinct.
It wasn’t just Torvalt’s change of heart he had picked up on. It was something more visceral—a fundamental shift in the world itself.
He couldn’t find the words to explain it.
Grondal beamed, slamming his hands onto Torvalt’s shoulders.
“Well said! That’s the way! You’ve finally woken up! That’s how a man takes responsibility!”
True to his blunt and impulsive character, Grondal forgot all about the beating he had been delivering and roared with laughter.
The simple fact that his difficult son had changed his mind washed away all his anger.
The other dwarves offered warm smiles. Unlike humans, they didn’t harbor suspicion or demand a “trial period” to see if he was lying.
To them, the act of making the decision was enough to earn their trust.
The tension in the air evaporated instantly.
Torvalt looked at Ghislain with a grin.
“I appreciate the offer. Part of me really wants to join the Julien Mercenary Corps… but I can’t turn my back on what I have to do here.”
“No, you’ve made the right call. Everyone goes through a period of being lost. All that matters is that you’ve found your way now.”
The two men shared a smile and a firm handshake.
Torvalt felt a small pang of regret, but he was certain of his path.
This was his destiny—his fate. He had finally discovered his true north.
He was absolutely sure of it—
Thump.
A distinct snap vibrated in Torvalt’s mind.
‘This feeling…’
The absolute certainty he had felt while looking at the Julien Mercenary Corps…
…was slowly starting to wither away.