My Master and His Master (2)

Though it's called a nation, the dwarven nation isn't made up of multiple settlements.

The dwarves call a vast underground space hollowed out and built up with stone the dwarven nation.

In human terms, a city-state would be the closest equivalent.

The dwarven nation also had no name like the nations of humans.

Since there were far fewer dwarves than humans and few places where they could settle, there was absolutely no need to distinguish the nation by a proper name.

In short, it was impossible for two or three dwarven nations to exist nearby.

For example, if you traveled east—far beyond the Small Nations—there was another vast mountain range, and a dwarven nation existed there too.

But to the dwarves around here, that was simply the eastern nation, while this was the dwarven nation.

Conversely, to the dwarves of the eastern nation, this was the western nation.

Thus, almost all the dwarves in this region lived in this dwarven nation.

The exceptions were those exiled for some crime, those who went to human nations to train as smiths, those who loved fighting so much that they became adventurers... and a few eccentrics who traveled wherever their curiosity led them.

In other words, within this underground cavern called the dwarven nation, an unimaginable number of dwarves lived packed together.

Apparently, their number was said to be as high as forty or fifty thousand.

As Win and I walked through the dwarven nation under a guard's escort, several hundred gazes pierced us—not forty or fifty thousand, of course.

Those gazes were remarkably eloquent.

Every one of them expressed the question, 'Why is an elf in the dwarven nation?' along with a sense of rejection toward elves.

Poor Win was understandably a little cowed, and Win's grip on my hand tightened.

But I, on the other hand, was starting to enjoy myself.

After all, just thinking about how to turn those gazes into something favorable toward us made both the process and the result absolutely fun.

And if the dwarves I knew were any indication, the first opportunity would come soon.

"Wait!!! What is an elf doing in the dwarven nation!!! How dare an elf like you set foot on this land!!!"

Here it comes.

A dwarf—probably a young one?—stood in the road and complained without any fear, even though we were guests being escorted by a guard.

All the male dwarves were bearded, making their ages impossible to tell, so I couldn't say for sure, but he was probably young, since anyone who acted like this had to be.

"He's a guest. Move!"

"How am I supposed to accept that?! He's an elf!"

He continued arguing with the guard.

The other dwarves around us also voiced their support for the dwarf blocking the way.

One reason I liked the dwarf race was that, when they had a complaint, they acted on it and came right out to say so.

If they were human, most of them would probably throw rocks at us from a distance.

But he didn't do that; he came straight to us to lodge his complaint openly and honorably.

So I wouldn't take advantage of my position as a guest, either. I'd meet the dwarf fairly.

After patting Win on the head, I let go of the hand I was holding, pulled the Greed Boar leather gloves from my bag, put them on, and struck my fists together.

I couldn't show myself backing down in front of this child.

"I'm Eisa, and I've come to this country at my master's invitation! If that displeases you..."

I stepped forward and raised my voice.

Then I pointed sharply at the dwarf arguing with the guard,

"Try and force me out!!!"

I roared at the top of my lungs.

I was probably grinning from ear to ear by then.

After all, this was simply too much fun.

"You've got some guts!!! I'll do just that!!!"

The dwarf whose name I still didn't know turned bright red, rolled up his sleeves, and came stomping toward me.

Perhaps the guard decided this couldn't be stopped, or perhaps he understood my intentions; either way, he stepped aside.

"They're calling you out, Grander! Want me to take your place!?"

"Ooh, the elf's got some bite! Don't lose, Grander!"

The crowd around us grew excited, revealing the name of the man I was about to fight.

Apparently, he was called Grander.

Man, those arms were thick.

I wondered how many blows I could take.

I was genuinely looking forward to finding out.

"Drop dead, root bastard!!!"

With a roar, Grander launched his fist. Ignoring the pressure, I stepped forward and used our difference in height to drive a downward right straight—a chopping right—into his face, almost as a counter.

If we threw our punches at almost the same time, the difference in reach and speed meant my fist would land first.

And if the first punch landed with sufficient force, it would weaken—or perhaps even interrupt—the opponent's attack and send him flying.

Just like now.

Calling an elf a "root bastard" was a fairly amusing expression, though.

If an ordinary elf was a burdock, my arm strength was a carrot.

Depending on how I went about it, I could even trade punches with arms like a dwarf's daikon or turnip.

The surroundings fell silent.

No one had imagined that one punch from an elf could send a dwarf's body flying through the air.

Still, Grander was to blame for this one.

He'd swung wide, trying to finish me in one blow, and recklessly aimed at my face, which was higher than his own.

That kind of underestimation was why an unexpected counter had sent him flying.

If this had been a battle, I would have followed up against my fallen opponent, and that would have been the end.

But this wasn't a battle; it was a brawl.

So instead of striking my fallen opponent, I sent words his way.

"What's wrong, dwarf? That's not how this is supposed to go. My master was much stronger! I haven't taken one of your punches yet, so I can't compare them, but my master's knuckles hurt like hell. Get up, dwarf! You're a dwarf, aren't you!!!"

Since he was a dwarf, I needed him to put up more of a fight.

Ending things after one punch wasn't all that fun.

All I'd done was beat him one-sidedly.

Then Grander, apparently badly affected by that last blow, got to his feet somewhat unsteadily and said,

"Yeah, don't underestimate me! It's only getting started!!!"

Whether he was trying to show he was fine or simply smiled unconsciously, he said it with a grin.

So I opened my guard, beckoned him over, and invited him to hit me.

Of course, it wasn't because I had confidence to spare.

If I took an unguarded hit from arms that thick, I could easily be knocked out in a single blow.

But this was a brawl, a slugfest, so I needed to let him hit me too.

I planted my feet, steeled myself, and took Grander's punch in the abdomen, making sure that no matter what kind of blow came, it wouldn't knock me unconscious.

Of course, I regretted it a little the moment it happened.