After his relative victory with the elves and the strength he had regained from it, Libra, growing confident, headed north toward the land of the orcs.

  He considered using spatial magic to instantly teleport to his destination, but he was neither completely sure of its location nor confident that his magic would function the same way in this different world.

  "What. A. Thrill." The words escaped his deformed lips, which then twisted into a crooked smile.

  And so, he began to walk.

  After many days and nights of uninterrupted walking, Libra finally reached his destination.

  Unlike the borders of other races, there were no patrols, no guards stationed at this periphery. What immediately seized his attention was the colossal, lava-filled mountain dominating the horizon.

  A flicker of confusion arose within him. He did not recall such a mountain in the land of the orcs; this should have been a snow-filled region, a vast expanse of ice and snow as far as the eye could see.

  It does not matter, he finally concluded. Orcs are orcs. Whether they dwell in a frozen tundra or a fiery hellscape changes nothing.

  He pressed on, his path leading him toward the largest mountain he could see.

  There was no defined border to cross, no sentries to challenge him—only a barren wasteland, sparse and desolate under the bleak sky. After many more hours, the sun settled below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness. The only sources of light were the cold, blue moon above and the hellish, red glow of the volcanic lava.

  For Libra, with his many horizontally split eyes, the darkness was no impediment; he could see as clearly as if it were noon. Light was not a problem. The true problem was the dawning realization that this was not the land of the orcs at all, but the domain of the dwarves.

  His suspicions had grown with the absence of any orcish warriors and the distinct, crafted holes peppering the volcano's face—some were entrances, others were clearly lava wells designed for collection. Only dwarves possessed the resilience and craftsmanship to tolerate and work around such intense heat.

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  But it did not matter to him. His goal remained unchanged; he would strike a deal, no matter the race.

  And so, he began his hunt.

  Unlike orcs,dwarves were not creatures to stray far from their mountain halls. Finding a suitable target would be a significant challenge.

  Yet Libra did not give up. He sought a secluded dwarf, and his over-inflated pride, still buoyed by his previous success, would not allow him to waste a deal on a "nobody." His eyes were set on the royal family.

  Hours turned into days. Days bled into weeks, and weeks eventually into months. And his patience was finally rewarded.

  The youngest daughter of the king had stormed out of the castle—young, inexperienced, and utterly naive about the world beyond stone and forge. She was perfect prey.

  He did not wait for her to get far from the volcano's shadow.

  As the young girl ran, her foot caught on a stone.

  "Awchie!" The young dwarven princess exclaimed, looking down at her scraped knee. She glanced around at the unfamiliar, darkened plain, tears welling in her eyes, before curling into a small, sobbing ball.

  While she was crying, a voice traveled to her ears—a sound not made from organic vocal cords, but woven from pure magic.

  "MAKE. YOUR. CH—"

  As Libra spoke, the young princess looked up and screamed in sheer, unadulterated horror, cutting his words short.

  Libra fell silent, his many eyes simply staring at the screaming girl.

  Her piercing cries acted as a beacon, luring the group of dwarves who had been sent to find her straight to their location. The search party arrived in moments, instantly drawing their weapons and leveling them at Libra.

  In response, Libra turned his gaze toward them. From within his robes, he produced a scale with his right hand and a ticking pocket watch with his left. He uttered the same words again, his voice resonating with power.

  "MAKE. YOUR. CHOICE."

  As the final word echoed, six spectral flames ignited around the watch's face, each one signifying a count of ten seconds.

  The dwarves, hearing his offer, could feel the magical temptation woven into the words, a siren call to their deepest desires. But before any could succumb, the oldest dwarf, their grizzled leader, retorted, "Get the fuck outta here, fuck-face!"

  "NO." Libra's answer was different this time—flat, definitive, and devoid of the offer's enticing magic, as if to imply this request was not part of his merchandise.

  Ten seconds passed. One of the six flames extinguished.

  "MAKE. YOUR. CHOICE."

  Again, the dwarves were tempted. This time, a few of them even lowered their weapons slightly, their resolve wavering. The leader, seeing this, looked at his group and answered firmly, "I will not make a deal."

  "Hmm."

  Instantly, Libra's gaze shifted to another dwarf. Both the flames and the clock reset to their initial state.

  Seeing this, the dwarves answered one by one, each giving the same refusal as their leader.

  When the last one answered, Libra's scale vanished in a flash of golden light, and his clock disappeared.

  He then announced, his voice final and absolute, "IT. IS. DONE."

  A golden, blinding light enveloped Libra's form. When it dissipated, he was gone, vanished without a single trace left behind.

  He had teleported to a faraway location, this one bordering the orcs' snowy lands.

  While the outcome was not what he had hoped for—he had gained nothing from the months he had wasted—the failure was not without its lesson. This time, he would be more meticulous. He would ensure such a miscalculation would not happen again.