A grim, dark castle loomed beside a lake strewn with black duckweed, its spires—steeped in the architectural style of the ancient Arcane Magic empire—jutting skyward like javelins.
Harold? Steelhammer trudged toward the castle's storehouse with a sack of ore slung over his back, his steps heavy and his movements sluggish.
As a dwarf who had not yet come of age, he lacked the brawny build of his elders, who could swing massive iron hammers as though they were toys. A sack of ore like this was simply too heavy for him.
Still, Harold never complained about the grueling manual labor. At least he was alive. At least he didn't have to become food for their vampire masters like the "refined" dwarves who were plucked from the ranks.
This castle belonged to Vlad Cecil, the "Great Vampire Count." He controlled several hundred dwarf villages in the surrounding area, selecting those with "pure blood and flesh" as his food supply, while driving the remaining slaves to labor in the mines and the castle, extracting and smelting the Dark Night Plateau's unique Needham Gold, as well as the rare Kalamo Refined Iron and Mithril.
From the moment they were born, a dwarf's fate seemed already sealed: either become food, or die young after every last drop of strength had been wrung from their body. The only scenery left in their lives was the brief act of coupling for the sake of producing offspring.
Though he had never left the village of his birth or Count Vlad's castle, Harold had "heard" that whether in the desolate south where he now toiled, or in the terrifying north whose dreadful reputation had spread far and wide, the dwarves in every other region of the plateaus lived the same way—trudging on in numb misery.
At this thought, Harold raised his head and gazed up at the perpetual darkness blanketing the skies above the plateau, at the brilliant constellations blazing through the void. A vague sense of bewilderment and sorrow stirred in his heart.
"Is my life really destined to follow this fixed track toward a wretched end, with not a single glimmer of hope in sight? Will our dwarf race truly never reclaim the glory of ancient times?"
*Crack*—a sharp sting bloomed across Harold's face. A bloody whip mark materialized on his left cheek, stretching across the dwarf's distinctive broad nose all the way to the right side.
"Hurry it up! What are you spacing out for?" A vicious, savage voice rang out, and the shadow of the whip still hovered before his eyes.
That's right—dwarves had more than two fates. They could also betray their ancestors, groveling before vampires like dogs, becoming their Blood Servants, and in turn overseeing their own kind.
The self-proclaimed elegant and noble vampires would never stoop to managing filthy miners and manual laborers themselves. Naturally, they needed servants to handle such tedious tasks. However, every Embrace a vampire performed consumed part of their Blood Essence. A weaker vampire who created too many descendants would begin to decay ahead of schedule, so even high-ranking vampires were unwilling to perform Embraces lightly.
Moreover, vampires considered themselves vastly superior, viewing the vast majority of other races as filthy, lowly creatures. Unless a particular individual caught their eye or fancy, they would not waste their Blood Essence converting them into vampires. As a result, the number of "orthodox" vampires always remained relatively small. What existed in far greater numbers were the Blood Servants—those who had been drained yet not killed, reduced to puppet-like obedience.
As a Blood Servant, one's strength approached that of a proper knight, but it could never increase further. Their lifespan was only a tenth of their master's, and they could never rebel. They wouldn't even entertain the thought of rebellion.
Harold glanced at the dwarf standing beside him—dressed in finery and holding a whip—then lowered his gaze, hiding the hatred and fury in his eyes. "Yes, Steward Wells."
This wretched traitor. Who knew how many of their kinsmen he had reported and beaten to death? He was nothing more than an overseer, yet he insisted on being called "steward." The moment the true vampire steward, Galata, appeared, he would practically fall to the ground and kiss the tips of his shoes.
The red-haired dwarf Wells, because his master Vlad despised beards, had shaved off the magnificent facial hair he once took pride in, exposing his pockmarked skin. Now, seeing Harold's "handsome" thick brown beard, he could not suppress his irritation. His right hand lashed out, and the whip struck Harold again.
"What were you just thinking about? Dwarves don't need to think! Understand? I said—do you understand, you filthy, low-born dwarf scum!"
He seemed to have forgotten that he was a dwarf himself, fully regarding himself as a noble Blood Servant only slightly inferior to orthodox vampires.
"Understood, Steward Wells." Harold gripped the sack of ore, the veins on his hands standing out like cords.
"Get moving!" Wells dared not delay progress, lest he be reprimanded by Steward Galata.
Harold had taken only a few steps before Wells's vicious voice transformed into something obsequious: "Good afternoon, Lady Tess. Mr. Galata, please come this way—that area is full of ore dust, very dirty and messy, and the stinking, low-born dwarves might bump into you."
Even without turning around, Harold could picture Wells bowing and scraping in fawning servility, as well as the tall vampire steward Galata's meticulous manner—he always wore a black formal suit and an impeccably tied bow tie.
And Lady Tess would certainly still look as beautiful and alluring as ever: her long golden hair, slender and perfectly proportioned figure, and emerald-green eyes like the surface of a lake—unchanged since the day Count Vlad had performed the Embrace and turned her into a vampire.
The mere thought of Lady Tess filled Harold with piercing heartache and sorrow. She had been the most beautiful female dwarf in all the surrounding villages, the object of his dreams and admiration. But she had caught Count Vlad's eye and become his vampire bride.
A cool breeze swept across the plateau. Harold lowered his head, bearing the ore sack as he trudged onward. A crisp, birdlike voice drifted from behind him: "Accelerate the smelting. Don't let them slack off."
"Keep a close watch. Some dwarves who escaped have formed a resistance force. They must not be allowed to sabotage the mines."
…………
Harold toiled until the constellations had shifted and an evening much like the one before finally arrived. Only then did his grueling labor come to an end, granting him a chance to catch his breath. He took his distributed rations—two black loaves of bread—and left the castle, heading back toward his home in a nearby village.
As he walked, Harold suddenly became alert, scanning his surroundings. Seeing no one nearby, his expression immediately turned intense. He veered onto a secluded path, his back to the darkness, starlight draped over his shoulders, and quickened his pace.
After roughly ten minutes, weaving through several sparse groves of black "Wind Poplar" trees, Harold spotted an unremarkable boulder.