The warm atmosphere within the Mountain Alehouse had not entirely dispelled the chill in Yggdrasil's heart, but Balin's almost clumsy tenderness had provided a brief respite, like a flicker of fire in a hearth.

  When the two of them finished breakfast and stepped back onto the streets of Kalgurem, the early morning sun had chased away some of the post-war gloom. However, the invisible aura of reverence permeating the air was even thicker than before.

  Word had likely spread. This time, the scenes along the streets were even more pronounced.

  It was no longer just quiet silence or stolen glances. It was as if they had gathered specifically to see Yggdrasil. Many dwarves—whether craftsmen repairing damaged roofs, merchants pushing wheelbarrows of supplies, or even children playing by the roadside—stopped whatever they were doing the moment they saw Yggdrasil.

  The men silently removed their hats or helmets and bowed their heads. The women placed their hands over their hearts and curtsied slightly, their lips moving in silent recitation of ancient blessings or prayers. Some elderly dwarves even leaned on their canes, trembling as they knelt on the ground, their eyes shimmering with a mixture of gratitude and awe.

  For a moment, as they passed through the streets, it felt as though a spell of silence had been cast, leaving only the sound of the wind and the sporadic clinking of debris being cleared in the distance.

  "Lord Exarch..." "May the mountains bless you..." "Flame of the Stoneheart..."

  Those whispered blessings and titles fell upon Yggdrasil's ears like fine droplets of rain. This heavy weight of respect, which he had never intended to bear, brought back a strong sense of unnaturalness and unease.

  He wasn't a god. He was just... Yggdrasil, the dwarf from another world who only wanted to live a quiet life with Balin. He instinctively leaned closer to Balin, his pace quickening as he tried to escape these overly heavy gazes.

  Balin clearly sensed his unease. Without a word, he naturally reached out a robust arm and wrapped it around Yggdrasil’s waist, pulling him close and using his broad frame to shield him from most of the stares.

  "Just relax," Balin’s voice was low and steady, carrying a reassuring power directly into his ear. "They mean no harm. They just... don't know how else to express their gratitude." He paused, his voice carrying a trace of imperceptible pride and tenderness. "Don't worry. Just think of it as... well, them taking a good look at my hero for me. I’m right here."

  Balin’s warmth and his possessive words acted like a warm current, slightly dispelling Yggdrasil’s discomfort. He gave a soft "Mm." Although still ill at ease, he no longer thought of fleeing, instead focusing his attention on the solid support beside him. Thus, under the gaze of countless reverent eyes, the two finally arrived before the familiar, heavy wooden doors of the Adventurer’s Guild.

  Balin stepped forward to push the door open, stepping aside to let Yggdrasil enter first.

  As expected, the scene inside the guild hall was even more direct than on the streets. Adventurers engaged in conversation, mercenaries queuing at the counter, and even old veterans cleaning weapons in the corners—almost the instant the door opened, everyone froze. Hundreds of gazes converged like a myriad of candle flames in the night, all turning simultaneously toward the figure at the door. An eerie silence fell over the hall; even the sound of clinking mugs vanished. This silent scrutiny carried more pressure than any clamor.

  Yggdrasil’s body instinctively stiffened once more.

  Before he could react further, Lisha, behind the counter, spotted them.

  She practically sprang from her seat, a look of flustered urgency on her face. She hurried around the counter and rushed toward them.

  "Lord Yggdrasil! Master Balin!" Lisha’s voice was slightly winded from the run, but her tone was filled with respect and anxiety. "You’re finally awake! Thank heavens!" She let out a sigh of relief before her expression sharpened. "The Chairman and the Lord are waiting for you in the Chairman’s office. They gave orders to bring you up the moment you arrived!"

  Without delay, she turned and led the way with a slight bow. "Please, follow me."

  Yggdrasil and Balin exchanged a glance, both seeing a trace of gravity in the other's eyes. The Lord and the Chairman waiting together... it seemed it was time to face the music.

  Balin did not release his hold on Yggdrasil’s shoulder, simply shifting to a more natural, protective stance as they followed Lisha through the still-silent hall, past the gazes that felt like tangible weights, and toward the narrow stairs leading to the second floor.

  As they ascended the stone steps, Yggdrasil could feel the muscles in Balin’s arm tighten. The gazes from the hall—a mix of awe and inquiry—seemed to cling to their backs.

  Lisha stopped before the heavy oak door of the Chairman’s office. She tapped lightly twice on the wood before pushing the door open, stepping aside to respectfully signal for them to enter.

  The door swung inward, and a stifling atmosphere—not just the stagnant air of the post-war city, but a form of spiritual pressure—hit them head-on. The room smelled of faint rust, bitter medicinal salves, hearth embers, and the musty scent of air that hadn't circulated for too long.

  Chairman Hagre Iron-Mane was not seated behind his massive, altar-like stone desk. Instead, his burly frame leaned wearily against the edge of the desk. He had changed into relatively clean leather armor, but the deep exhaustion on his face was unmistakable. His bloodshot eyes revealed a sleepless night. His beard, usually kept as neat as a battle-axe, was disheveled, and he was slowly rubbing his temples with a large, gnarled hand.

  On the other side of the room, near the narrow window with thick glass panes, stood another figure. Even in this room filled with smoke and fatigue, his presence radiated an unquestionable majesty—the Lord of Kalgurem, Eric Hammer-Thrust Bastard.

  He wore a finely tailored, deep-blue traveling cloak over polished chainmail that glinted coldly in the weak morning light. He wore no crown or headpiece of his office, yet his stance—as solid as mountain bedrock—and his sharp, hawk-like gaze that missed no detail, carried an innate aura of command. He stood with arms crossed, silently scrutinizing the two newcomers, his gaze deep and inscrutable.

  The moment Balin’s eyes met the Lord’s, his muscles surged with tension. It was an instinctive reaction; he wanted to straighten his back and pound his fist against his chest in a standard dwarven military salute, as per the old army regulations.

  However, Yggdrasil beside him seemed to feel none of that pressure. He simply shifted his gaze from Hagre to Eric and gave an extremely slight nod—a basic gesture of acknowledgement, but nothing more. He lacked any of the instinctive nervousness or subservience Balin showed toward the city’s highest authority. Perhaps, in the depths of his soul and the memories of another world, the form and weight of power were measured by a different scale entirely.

  "Hey..." Balin practically choked on his breath, whispering in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, nudging Yggdrasil’s ribs discreetly with his elbow. "Show some respect... that... that’s the Lord..." He was frantic, unable to comprehend how Yggdrasil could remain so "composed."

  Yggdrasil truly seemed a bit puzzled by Balin’s anxiety, but he complied, straightening his relaxed posture slightly out of respect for local etiquette. His gaze remained calm as he met the eyes of the two power-holders. There was no fear in his eyes, only a clear, focused concentration that could almost be described as "observation."

  Hagre clearly sensed the subtle tension in the air. He lowered his hand from his temples and let out a heavy, raspy cough, breaking the silence. "Don't just stand there like pillars. Come, sit." He gestured with his chin toward two empty chairs made of thick, dark wood. "The battle the other night exhausted everyone. Especially you, Yggdrasil." He looked at Yggdrasil, his rough tone carrying a trace of clumsy concern. "Lisha said you were in a deep sleep all day... how are you feeling now?"

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Much better, thank you for your concern, Chairman," Yggdrasil replied politely. Under Balin’s still-worried gaze, he pulled out a chair and sat down calmly. Seeing this, Balin hesitated for half a second before hurriedly taking the seat beside him, sitting stiffly with his back straight and hands placed squarely on his knees.

  Yggdrasil’s posture was much more relaxed, his hands folded naturally in front of him. He exuded a steady aura—not one of oppression born of status or power, but rather a profound certainty that had settled within him after enduring storms unimaginable to most.

  Hagre stole a glance at Lord Eric, who remained standing by the window like a statue with no intention of sitting. Then he turned back to Yggdrasil, his voice dropping into a solemn gravity. "The battle the other night... and the losses afterward... the Lord has already received the emergency reports." He paused, searching for the right words, before sighing heavily. "The price... was extremely heavy. But if not for you at the end... I fear Kalgurem would be... nothing but ruins now." He didn't continue, but the weight of his unspoken words made the air even thicker.

  The silent Eric finally spoke. His voice was low and resonant, as if coming from deep within his chest rather than his throat, like the low hum of metal veins deep within a mountain.

  "I was fighting on the northwest wall," he stated calmly, his gaze locked onto Yggdrasil’s face like a sharpened blade. "I witnessed it with my own eyes. That ring of fire. Those astral flames. And... those beings that do not belong to this world."

  Hearing the Lord mention the miracle of that night, Balin’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn't help but turn to steal a quick look at Yggdrasil, his eyes filled with unspeakable pride, deep worry, and a trace of distance—born of that very holiness—that he hadn't even noticed himself.

  Silence fell over the office again, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the last few embers in the hearth.

  Eric’s gaze was like that of a master jeweler scrutinizing a mysterious, high-energy gem of unknown origin. He carefully scanned every inch of Yggdrasil’s overly calm face, trying to find even the slightest flaw or emotional tremor. But on that face, half-hidden by a silver-white beard, there was only a fathomless tranquility.

  Finally, Eric seemed to give up on this silent trial. He broke the stillness, his tone remaining steady, yet every word was like a precisely calculated strike aimed directly at the heart of the matter:

  "Such power... I have searched every archive in this city, every text on ancient runes and bloodline inheritance. I have never found any record suggesting that the blood of our race could carry such a burden."

  His gaze suddenly became as sharp as a drawn sword, and his tone took on a condescending, unquestionable authority:

  "So—who, or rather, who," he deliberately and clearly used an ancient, respectful pronoun usually reserved for deities or equivalent beings, "are You? Where do You come from?"

  The question exploded in the silent office like a silent bolt of lightning. The air froze instantly; even the dust motes dancing in the light seemed to stop their movement.

  As if struck by an electric shock, Balin instinctively grabbed Yggdrasil’s hand on his knee, gripping it tightly. His cold, even trembling palm felt like a branding iron, pressing his internal turmoil directly into Yggdrasil’s perception.

  Hagre also stood up straight, his rough brows knitting into a knot. His bloodshot eyes darted nervously between Eric’s aggressive, judge-like stance and Yggdrasil’s unsettlingly deep calm.

  Time felt like it had been stretched into thick syrup, every second agonizingly stagnant. Yggdrasil sat quietly, his senses heightened to the limit. He could feel the bony pressure of Balin’s knuckles turning white from the grip, hear the heavy thud of his own heart, and feel Lord Eric’s scrutinizing gaze like a needle attempting to pierce his calm facade.

  He understood their shock and suspicion. Not just them—sometimes even he, in the middle of a dream, couldn't believe the reality of it all. If he were in their shoes, seeing a newcomer dwarf manifest such power, he would have drawn his battle-axe long ago.

  Thoughts raced like wild horses in his mind, colliding and crashing.

  Should I tell everything? The soul from another world, the experience of death and rebirth? Images flashed: Eric’s enraged face, Hagre’s suspicion, the drawn swords of the guards, Balin caught in the middle... No, it was too absurd. In this moment, with trust as fragile as thin ice after blood and fire, the truth would only be seen as a demon's lie, bringing suspicion, fear, and even direct hostility.

  What about a lie regarding bloodline awakening? Claiming to be the descendant of some forgotten ancient dwarven royal family, his power awakening in a moment of crisis? The thought was crushed as soon as it arose. It might work temporarily, but the power he possessed... the astral flames, the heavenly gates, those angels... they couldn't be explained by any known bloodline! Once the web of lies began, it would require more lies to mend until it eventually collapsed. By then, he would lose more than just trust; he might lose Balin... everything.

  And if I choose silence? With the power he currently displayed, perhaps Eric and Hagre wouldn't dare touch him. But what then? He would become a massive mystery walking in the light, a being that could neither be understood nor trusted. He and Balin would be separated by an invisible wall, becoming the most familiar strangers in this city.

  He needed allies. He needed Kalgurem’s strength to face the coming cataclysm that would swallow everything. Fighting the abyss alone? That was practically suicide.

  What to do? What should I do?! A familiar anxiety belonging to Fujiwara Naoki coiled around his heart like a cold snake. His breathing grew shallow, and a fine layer of cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Just as this anxiety threatened to consume him, his gaze moved instinctively toward the man beside him—falling upon Balin’s face, which was twisted with intense worry.

  That hand still held his, their palms sweating from tension. There wasn't a trace of doubt in Balin’s eyes, only deep, almost stubborn trust, and a worry so thick it was palpable. That look seemed to say: "Don't be afraid. No matter what you say, no matter who you are, I’m right here."

  This pure trust was like sunlight piercing through dark clouds, instantly dispelling his internal chaos. Yggdrasil’s heart shuddered, followed by a surge of intense protective instinct. Yes, Balin. He couldn't let Balin be isolated because of him. He couldn't let him live in fear because of his secrets. He had to find a balance—a way to explain this power, build basic trust, and protect Balin as much as possible.

  He slowly closed his eyes, sinking his consciousness deep into his soul, offering a silent, desperate plea to the being who gave him new life: "Lord Zareon..." His call carried an imperceptible tremor. "How do I explain? This truth is too heavy... please guide me. Give me wisdom... even just a hint..."

  However, the response was that same gentle, vast, and yet... unsettling silence. No voice, no image, no guidance. Yggdrasil’s heart sank, followed by a bitter realization. This was trust. The Creator God—the one who might be revered as the Supreme God in Amfurea’s ancient legends—had already handed the script to him, but the power to explain it was left entirely to him. He had to choose and bear it himself. The glory and the... curse of this power.

  Yggdrasil slowly exhaled, a long and heavy breath that seemed to expel all hesitation, fear, and unrealistic dependency. When he opened his eyes again, the chaos in his deep pupils had settled, leaving only a clear, firm resolve like one washed by a storm.

  With his own fingers, he gently squeezed Balin’s cold fingers in an apology and a promise, silently conveying: "Don't be afraid. Leave it to me." Then, he firmly released the hand and placed his palms steadily on the desk. He looked up, his gaze calm yet possessing an unprecedented sharpness that pierced the stagnant air of the office, looking straight at Lord Eric.

  "Lord Eric, Chairman," his voice was low and clear, breaking the suffocating silence.

  "My origin... is perhaps not what you imagine. It isn't complicated to say, but it is quite heavy."

  He paused, as if weighing every word.

  "I do not hail from any known tribe or hidden inheritance of Amfurea. The one who bestowed this power upon me—" his tone was steady and sincere, "—is the Source of this world, the Creator God, Zareon."

  Eric’s sharp eyes flickered slightly, and Hagre’s rough brows rose even higher, but both remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  "I did not come here by coincidence." Yggdrasil’s tone deepened with a trace of worry. "I have a mission entrusted to me by Him. The Creator warned me that Amfurea... our world, is in grave danger. An ancient darkness is awakening. The attack the other night was just the beginning—a precursor to a 'Great Cataclysm'."

  He sat up straight, his tone as firm as stone. "My task is to travel across this continent, seeking the places infested by darkness and purifying them before the disaster fully erupts. As for the Creator... He has not departed. His power remains, responding to those who reach out to Him."

  He did not mention reincarnation. He did not mention another world. He chose only the truths most relevant to the current crisis—the deity, the mission, and the approaching darkness. It was the only way he could protect Balin while establishing trust.

  As his voice fell, the room plunged into a deeper silence.

  Only the sound of the fire in the hearth crackled, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

  On Eric’s cold, sculpture-like face, visible ripples appeared for the first time—shock, extreme suspicion, and a trace of... gravity that had to be taken seriously. Hagre stroked his messy beard forcefully, his gaze moving between Yggdrasil and Eric as he processed this immense information.

  Beside him, Balin had almost forgotten to breathe. Although he had long suspected Yggdrasil wasn't an ordinary person, he hadn't expected the truth to be so... sacred and yet so heavy. He looked at Yggdrasil’s profile, so calm in the morning light, and the pride and worry in his heart were now wrapped in a deep, indescribable awe.

  The eye of the storm had given its response. And how would the two leaders of Kalgurem weigh the truth of this answer? How would they decide the fate of this city, and even the future of all Amfurea? The suspense, like the last sparks in the hearth, burned silently in the stillness.

  In this chapter, we see the "Exarch" persona of Yggdrasil truly taking form. Facing the highest authorities of Kalgurem, he finds himself in a high-stakes verbal duel. It's interesting to see how Fujiwara Naoki's modern anxieties clash with the divine gravity of his current situation.

  But at the center of it all is Balin. The "Hearth-Core Cornerstone" isn't just a fancy title; it's the anchor that keeps him from being swept away by the pressure. He chooses a "truth" that protects his partner, showing that even as he becomes a messenger of Zareon, he is still desperately holding onto his heart.

  The leaders of Kalgurem are not easily swayed. How will they use this "Divine Messenger"? And more importantly, how much of Yggdrasil's humanity will survive the coming trials?