From Slave to King: My Rebate System Built Me a Kingdom With Beauties!-Chapter 172: Kraghul Lives!

The dwarf’s lair was carved deep beneath the earth, far below the tunnels that goblins and humans knew existed—a network of ancient passages built by his ancestors centuries ago when dwarven civilization stretched across these lands like veins of precious ore. The chamber where Kraghul was kept prisoner was cold and damp, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and old metal, walls etched with runes. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness with a steady rhythm that marked time like a slow, maddening heartbeat. The ceiling was low, oppressive, reinforced with iron beams that groaned softly under the weight of the mountain above.

The dwarf had kept Kraghul captive for weeks now, but he was yet to kill him for some strange reason. The young orc hung suspended by heavy chains bolted to the wall, thick links of blackened iron that had been forged in fires hot enough to melt bone. His wrists and ankles were shackled, arms spread wide in a position that made every breath an effort, muscles screaming from the constant strain. His body bore the marks of captivity—bruises that had faded from purple to sickly yellow, cuts that had scabbed over and cracked again with movement, ribs visible through skin stretched tight from rationed food and water. But Kraghul was still alive, defiant, his eyes burning with hatred whenever the dwarf entered the chamber.

The dwarf moved through the lair with purpose, his red eyes glowing in the dim light as he tended to various projects scattered across stone tables—alchemical equipment bubbling with noxious liquids, maps spread out and marked with symbols only he understood, weapons in various stages of completion. He had reached out to Byung weeks ago, delivering his cryptic message about the sword and the dark continent, planting the seed that would grow into obsession. But the goblin was yet to take his hand, yet to make the journey to the black forest where answers awaited.

The dwarf knew it was only a matter of time before Byung took his offer—the pull would become too strong to resist, the questions too loud to ignore. But he had to make preparations in the time provided to him, ensure everything was in place for when the goblin finally arrived.

He knew the elves must have seen him during that brief moment in the goblin mine when his protections had slipped, his form exposed to their all-seeing clairvoyance. They would have sent out scouts immediately, their swift hunters ranging through the forests and hills, searching for any trace of his presence. But this was where moving underground was a massive advantage. The tunnels beneath the surface formed a labyrinth that stretched for hundreds of miles, connecting forgotten dwarven holds, abandoned mines, and secret chambers known only to those who had built them. And the dwarves who had constructed these passages had already enchanted them with runes that prevented magic from penetrating—protective wards carved into every stone, every beam, creating a dead zone where spells failed and scrying dissolved like mist in sunlight.

This was why the elves could not see him while he remained within the tunnels, their powerful magic rendered useless against the ancient dwarven defenses. But the moment he left those runes, stepped beyond the protective threshold into the open world above, he became visible—a beacon to their searching eyes, exposed and vulnerable. So he stayed below, moving only when necessary, conducting his work in the safety of stone and shadow.

Kraghul looked at him from across the chamber, eyes tracking every movement. The dwarf paused in his work, turning to study the young orc with genuine surprise flickering across his dark features. He hadn’t lost his mind—that was remarkable. Most prisoners, left alone in the darkness with only fear and isolation for company, would claw at their own minds until sanity shredded like rotted cloth. They would scream until their voices gave out, weep until no tears remained, descend into babbling madness that made them easier to control. But Kraghul remained defiant, present, aware.

The dwarf approached slowly, boots clicking softly on the stone floor. "I commend your willpower," he said, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the walls.

"Few could endure what you have without breaking. Tell me—how desperate are you to get out of here?" The dwarf questioned.

Kraghul didn’t answer. Instead, he smirked, lips peeling back to reveal tusks still intact despite the beatings, that arrogance that defined him burning bright despite weeks of captivity. The gesture said everything: I will not beg. I will not break. You have nothing I fear.

But the dwarf had no idea what Kraghul had been doing in the endless hours of solitude. The young orc had been using the chains around his wrists to dig into his own skin, abrading the flesh deliberately, forcing the metal to rust from prolonged exposure to his blood. The iron oxidized slowly, weakened by the constant moisture, the chemical reaction eating away at the links’ integrity even though the chances of causing a severe infection were exceptionally high. Kraghul had risked sepsis, fever, death—all for the slim chance that the chains would fail.

And now, they did.

With one powerful pull, muscles bulging under scarred green skin, Kraghul broke free from the chains. The weakened links shattered with a metallic snap that rang through the chamber like a bell, shards of rusted iron clattering to the floor. He lunged at the dwarf with a roar that shook dust from the ceiling, hands outstretched to crush, to tear, to kill.

But the dwarf didn’t look panicked by this development. His red eyes remained calm, almost amused, as Kraghul closed the distance in two bounding steps. The dwarf had set up all sorts of traps in this place, anticipating this exact scenario. The second Kraghul was within inches of him, chains shot out from the walls with explosive force—hidden mechanisms triggered by pressure plates beneath the floor. The new chains were thicker, faster, tipped with barbed hooks that impaled Kraghul’s limbs, punching through muscle and scraping bone. He screamed, a raw sound of agony and fury, as the chains yanked him backward and slammed him against the wall, suspending him once more in a fresh crucifixion of iron and pain.

Blood ran down his arms and legs in warm rivulets, pooling on the floor beneath him. The dwarf stepped closer, his expression unchanging, red eyes glowing brighter as he studied the fresh wounds.

"It looks like you are still defiant," he said softly, almost admiringly. "Good. That fire will serve you well... if you survive what comes next," The dwarf said. There was a reason why he was keeping Kraghul alive, it was no longer for information but something a lot more sinister.