The clamor of war was slowly receding like a tide, but the pungent stench in the air—a cocktail of scorched earth, fresh blood, and monster remains—remained like a cold, damp blanket, heavily covering every inch of Khagurem. The fire clouds in the night sky had long since dispersed, leaving only a few wisps of thin black smoke drifting silently under the waning moon.

  The deafening waves of cheers eventually transformed into the weary, stifled sobs and whispers of survivors. Dwarves began to spontaneously search for fallen comrades, carrying the wounded and taking stock of their losses. Every movement appeared slow and heavy, as if requiring the very last ounce of their strength.

  In this chaotic and sorrowful scene, a corner of the city wall seemed to be partitioned off into a quiet little world belonging only to two people.

  Yggdrasil remained held tightly in Balin’s embrace, almost as if he were being embedded into the man’s very bone and blood. That familiar scent—a mixture of sweat, leather, and warm body musk—acted like the sturdiest of anchors, firmly tethering his soul, which had nearly drifted away from exhausting his divine power, back to this reality.

  He could feel the heart within Balin’s broad chest beating as violently and powerfully as a war drum. Every throb was clearly transmitted through their pressed bellies and chests into his own body, dispelling the divine coldness and loneliness that had seeped out from the depths of his soul.

  "...Balin." Yggdrasil’s voice was faint, carrying a tremor he himself hadn't noticed. He tried to lift his head slightly from that reassuring embrace, only to find his limbs limp and powerless; even lifting his eyelids felt like an impossible burden.

  As the divine power ebbed away, a tidal wave of backlash-like exhaustion swept over him. That dwarven body crafted by God, which should have been indestructible, now felt as fragile as a doll emptied of its stuffing.

  "I’m here," Balin answered immediately, his arms tightening their hold as if afraid that the person in his arms would vanish into motes of light if he let go. He lowered his head, using his cheek—covered in coarse, stiff whiskers—to gently and repeatedly nuzzle Yggdrasil’s forehead and temples. It was a clumsy, dwarven way of offering the most direct and sincere comfort.

  "...I’m so tired," Yggdrasil finally admitted. He gave up struggling and surrendered his entire weight to the other man. He could even feel how his rounded belly was comfortably and perfectly nestled between Balin’s similarly stout and soft abdomen; that warm pressure gave him a sense of peace unlike anything he had ever felt.

  "Then sleep," Balin’s voice was low and hoarse. With one arm continuing to tightly encircle Yggdrasil’s waist, his other large, thick hand tenderly and with infinite pity stroked the long brown hair that had become sticky with sweat. "I’ll carry you back."

  As he spoke, he turned around without brook of argument and crouched slightly, signaling for Yggdrasil to lean onto his broad, thick back.

  Yggdrasil obediently leaned forward. When Balin’s powerful arms hooked under his thighs, lifting him steadily, he let out a satisfied, nearly inaudible sigh. Balin’s back was as reliable as a mountain.

  It was not born of an order, but an instinct rising from the depths of the soul.

  The noise and cries seemed to be walled off by an invisible barrier; this corridor formed by walls of people held only a deathly silence. The dwarves no longer cheered; they simply stood, watching with complex gazes mixed with reverence, gratitude, and extreme shock at the figure carrying their savior.

  Balin carried Yggdrasil, step by step, walking steadily along this path paved with reverent gazes.

  He walked past a group of battle-hardened veterans of the "Shield of Khagurem." They did not kneel—that was a ritual for the temple. They simply removed their helmets in silence, revealing faces covered in sweat and gore, and then slammed their clenched fists heavily against their hearts. That dull thud was the highest salute between warriors, needing no words. Their eyes no longer looked at Balin, but focused entirely on the dwarf with closed eyes upon his back.

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  Further ahead was a makeshift aid station. A young soldier whose chest had been crushed by an ogre’s morning star—a wound that should have been fatal—had been healed by the miracle, leaving only a patch of pale red, new skin. Though pale and weak from blood loss and pain, he stubbornly struggled to stand straight with the help of his family. He exerted all his strength to offer a trembling yet standard military salute—right fist to the chest, his movements unsteady but incomparably firm.

  At the street corner, women and elders who had rushed out from the city gathered. Their faces still bore tear tracks, and they clutched the collars of their children’s clothes.

  They made no sound, standing motionless with their hands clasped before their chests, fingers tightly pressed together and pointing slightly upward. Their foreheads were lowered, lightly touching their knuckles in the most ancient and pious gesture of silent prayer to their Proxy of God.

  This silent respect pressed down on Balin’s shoulders like a heavy cloak of glory. He could feel the steady breathing of Yggdrasil on his back, and he could feel even more the crushing weight afforded by those gazes.

  What these people saw was the "Star-Flame Judge" who had saved Khagurem, a walking miracle upon the earth.

  But all Balin felt was his beloved Yggda, who was exhausted and needed to go home for a good sleep.

  He instinctively hoisted the person on his back a bit tighter and quickened his pace slightly, as if trying to use his own stout and burly frame to shield his lover from the eyes and expectations of the entire world.

  "Your body... is it really alright? I didn't see any wounds, but..." Balin asked hoarsely. He could feel that while Yggdrasil’s body was intact, his spirit was weaker than ever before.

  "...The body is fine." Yggdrasil’s voice was like a mumble in a dream, drifting weakly against the back of Balin’s neck. "This body... is very sturdy."

  He paused, seemingly searching for the right words, his voice intermittent from fatigue.

  "It’s just... my head feels like it’s been hollowed out, as if I’ve exhausted every thought... That power, it wasn’t entirely mine... I only opened a path for it. It was the first time, after all."

  "This was the first time... truly connecting with Him... It’s too exhausting... perhaps... with more practice in the future, I won't be drained like this..."

  Balin’s heart throbbed with a sharp pain.

  He didn't understand what that incomprehensible "connection" or "practice" meant, but he understood the exhaustion. It wasn't the muscle soreness of a warrior after a battle; it was a deeper void, as if the soul itself had been emptied.

  He asked no more, only holding the person on his back more securely, whispering low: "Don't be afraid, I’ll hold you up. Just lean on me... like a fire that burns forever in the forge. Let’s go home."

  Meanwhile, on the command platform of the scarred northwestern wall.

  Lord Eric and Guildmaster Hag stood side by side, their gazes also following those two departing, stout figures.

  "...We’re just... letting him go like that?" a guard captain couldn't help but ask in a low voice, his tone full of disbelief.

  "What else would we do?" Hag’s voice was raspy. He watched Balin’s broad back with a complex gaze. "Are you going to go up there now and talk about rewards? Or the future ownership of this city?"

  Eric remained silent for a long time before finally speaking, his voice carrying a trace of deep weariness and reverence he hadn't noticed: "What he needs right now isn't a Lord’s gratitude or the Guild’s honors. It’s just... a shoulder that will let him sleep peacefully."

  He paused, turning back to gaze at the scorched earth outside the city that was still emitting black smoke.

  "Issue my orders," Eric’s tone regained the authority of a Lord. "Clear the battlefield, treat the wounded, and tally the casualties. I want a full report before dawn."

  "As for him..." Eric looked back one last time at the silhouette nearly vanishing at the end of the street. "Once he wakes, I will pay him a visit personally."

  Hag nodded and spoke no more.

  The two stood side by side, silently watching that silhouette fade into the distance.

  In their eyes, this was not merely a comrade or an ally, but an existence that transcended the mundane. There was an undeniable trace of reverence in Eric’s expression, while Hag clenched his fist, as if to brand this moment into his memory forever.

  The night wind blew, carrying the desolation of the post-war aftermath.

  But Balin’s footsteps were incomparably firm.

  He knew that from tonight onward, Yggdrasil’s identity would be completely transformed. He would be crowned with countless titles, become a legend, and be etched into the annals of history.

  But to Balin, the sleeping person on his back would always just be his Yggda.

  The most precious treasure he had sworn to protect with his life.

  The fire has dimmed, and the weight of the miracle has taken its toll. While the leaders of Khagurem look on with reverence and political concern, Balin only cares about the exhausted man on his back. Their "true self" is found not in the divine light, but in the warmth of their shared embrace.

  If you enjoyed this emotional aftermath, please follow, favorite, and leave a comment on Royal Road. How will Khagurem change now that a Living Legend walks its streets? See you in two days!