Overlord, Vol. 11: The Dwarven Crafter

Intermission

Taking a glass filled with a liquid that sparkled amber, he left the room for the terrace.

It was the terrace of the city’s tallest building. From here, he could see the whole capital he ruled.

Within each of the innumerable pinpoints of light resided the life of one of his subjects.

Sneering at the scene, he brought the glass to his lips.

The heat of his drink burned as it traveled down his throat and spread from the pit of his stomach to the rest of his body. The breeze on the terrace was enjoyable. Feeling a bit better, he asked the kneeling weakling in the room, “So what is it?”

The weakling seemed to gasp in response, but he wasn’t interested in that. All he felt was displeasure at not receiving an answer immediately. Still, he wasn’t angry enough to kill, so he didn’t resort to force.

Besides, the pungent odor of blood tended to linger. Even if he ordered someone to clean it up, he would be uncomfortable for some time. Rather than deal with that, shoving the nuisance off the terrace would be the cleanest method of disposal. And it was possible that the extreme situation would cause some power to awaken within it.

That wouldn’t be a bad turn of events, but unfortunately, before he could act, the weakling spoke.

“The Theocracy is building a position on the outskirts of the royal capital. At this rate, within a few years, they’ll mount a major attack.”

“What about it?”

“…We’ll be wiped out. I beg you, use your power as king to—”

“Nonsense.” He—the king—laughed. “Why should I have to lend my strength to you weaklings?”

He looked over his shoulder at the elf woman prostrating herself there, one of his subjects.

How foolish she looked.

Incredibly frail and in possession of no special powers. Worthless.

That was exactly why she failed to comprehend how wonderful it was that the Theocracy was attacking.

“…I’m astounded. You lot aren’t even ready to protect your own country yourselves? Or do you believe that I’ll solve all your problems for you?”

“B-but the Theocracy is powerful. With us alone, it’s…”

There was a clear power gap between his country and the Theocracy.

The staggering difference encompassed everything from the magic items each side possessed to the training of their soldiers, sheer numbers, and even the strategy and tactics they used.

The only reasons the elves had managed to hold the line this long was by relying on the one thing they were better at than the Theocracy—guerrilla warfare—and the fact that the enemy had slowed their advance due to fear of suffering attrition from encountering the monsters in the Eivasha Woodlands.

But recently, the Theocracy had been sending in the Firestorm Scripture, a special-ops group that excelled in assassination, guerrilla warfare, and counterinsurgency that was previously assigned to guarding the Theocracy’s home front. That meant their advance was speeding up again.

“I’m really quite stunned. It’s too much for you to handle because you’re weak? My country is full of nothing but fools. That’s why no matter how many children get made, all you produce are idiots.”

It wasn’t living in peace but surviving war that would make them stronger. War was his people’s chance to unleash their true potential. And yet, he hadn’t heard of a single one awakening.

But he couldn’t lay blame squarely on his subjects. His own children were the same. The number meant nothing, so he didn’t remember how many—who counts their trash, after all?—but perhaps they had inherited more from their mother? None of them commanded even half the power he did.

“Out of my sight! You disgust me. More importantly, make sure the child of mine you bore grows up to be strong.”

The woman bowed low and withdrew.

He sipped his drink.

Children sired by weaklings would only produce more weaklings. What was really needed was strong mothers.

That was why he prioritized sending women to the front in response to the recent Theocracy aggression. He wanted to give the weaklings a chance to get stronger.

“My expectations were completely wrong.”

None of them had anything even approaching the power he wielded. Perhaps one who did would be born in the future.

“…Maybe I should start considering all the humanoid races for mating?”

Humanoids and subhumans couldn’t reproduce, but different races that were both humanoids could.

Suddenly, he stared into the distance. He recalled a memory.

“She even got pregnant, but then…”

Once, he had tricked and captured a woman who was the Theocracy’s trump card. He’d chained her up and raped her, and he managed to impregnate her, but before the child was born, the Black Scripture stole the woman away.

He clicked his tongue.

That child belonged to him as well, so if it had been born, he wanted it returned to him.

“…If this country falls, maybe I’ll personally travel to the Theocracy and take that child back.”

Not out of compassion.

If it was a girl, and if she was strong, there was a chance that if he got her pregnant, the resulting child would be even stronger.

“That’s something to look forward to.”

Someday a powerful army of my children will conquer the world.

Thinking of the shining future that would surely come, he returned to his room. His figure was reflected in the full-length mirror on the other side—the figure of an elf whose eyes were each a different color.