Orson swung Veijander like a club, using him to shield himself from the barrage of rotten eggs while simultaneously knocking down a group of Grey Dwarves.
Then, without hesitation, he tossed Veijander straight into the mob, sending dwarves tumbling over each other like dominoes.
“You bastard! My black ale cost me five silver, and now it’s all over the ground!”
“Veijander, I swear on my beard, this is a blood feud! You’re a disgrace to beer-drinking dwarves everywhere!”
“For Grandmaster Willy! For the Ashen King! Beat this traitor to death!”
Dozens of Grey Dwarves tackled Veijander, pinning him down and beating the life out of him.
Orson simply stepped back to enjoy the show.
“You little shits! A bunch of brainless morons!”
Veijander struggled to stand, managing to knock out one dwarf before getting overwhelmed again and buried under another wave of punches.
Orson had successfully transferred all the aggro onto Veijander using the forbidden curse: Friend’s Sacrifice.
Since the quest prohibited him from using violence against the Grey Dwarves, letting Veijander take the beating was the perfect workaround.
He hadn’t laid a finger on them—so technically, no rules were broken.
More and more Grey Dwarves, drawn by the commotion, rushed in to join the fight, turning the entire scene into total chaos.
Most of them were completely wasted, and before long, they lost track of who they were even supposed to be hitting, swinging at anything nearby.
Listening to their drunken shouting, Orson quickly pieced together some key information.
The “Grandmaster Willy” they spoke of was actually the corpse that Cain had slain in the underground vault.
The Grey Dwarves had ten grandmaster seats, and Willy’s death had left a vacancy, which Veijander had filled.
However, Willy was highly respected among the dwarves, and because Veijander had human blood, he was considered unworthy of the title.
“Alright, that’s enough! If this keeps up, someone’s going to die!”
Seeing Veijander on the verge of passing out, Orson finally spoke up.
The dwarves froze mid-fight, exchanging awkward glances before grinning and helping each other up.
“Ahaha… Don’t mind us, Lord Orgod! These guys are just too drunk to think straight!”
“Die, you bastard!”
A red-bearded dwarf suddenly leapt off a wooden cart, landing ass-first on Veijander, slamming him into the dirt again.
“Humans have no place in the sacred land!”
“Yeah! Who gave you the right to speak here? Get lost, you lying human scum!”
A fresh wave of insults and accusations came flying at Orson, as the dwarves turned into an angry mob once more.
Orson frowned.
Why the hell do they think I’m a liar?
“You have angered the Grey Dwarves. If their rage reaches 100%, you will be forcibly ejected from Ashen Lands!”
A progress bar appeared in front of him—currently at 50%.
If it hit 100%, he’d be kicked from the instance.
“No choice, then…”
Orson chuckled, then with a flick of his wrist—
A set of twenty bottles of [Soul Immortal Brew] appeared before him.
These bottles were 5 gold each, making them mid-to-high-tier liquor from Jenkins’ inventory.
“Fine alcohol is limited, but flattery is unlimited!” Orson smirked. “Whoever praises me the best… gets a bottle!”
“Orc piss?”
“No! That’s obviously low-grade beast swill! I wouldn’t touch that garbage!”
Though they grumbled and sneered, their eyes betrayed them.
Not a single dwarf looked away from the dark green bottles.
Orson smirked, casually uncorking a bottle.
The moment the rich, intoxicating aroma spread through the forge tunnels, the mood shifted instantly.
For dwarves, who were notoriously bad at brewing, this was the drink of the gods.
“He is the King of Humans!”
“A friend of the Celestial Gods! A savior of dwarves!”
“I’ve long heard of the legendary Fengxi Brew from the human lands… but this is even more divine! Adventurer, let me have just one sip!”
The older Grey Dwarves were the first to shamelessly start flattering him.
Their cheap black ales and fruit wines suddenly became undrinkable, as they rushed forward, snatching bottles and fleeing with their loot.
Within seconds, the same dwarves who had been cursing him moments ago were now worshiping him like a god.
His anger meter?
Instantly dropped to zero.
Of course, Orson wasn’t stupid.
Even though he had plenty of alcohol, he only put out twenty bottles, just enough to ignite chaos.
Sure enough, the dwarves started fighting over the remaining bottles, brawling amongst themselves.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Orson helped Veijander—now looking like a swollen pig—back onto his feet.
Veijander led him toward the quest location, while Orson continued tossing bottles to distract any dwarves they encountered along the way.
It worked every single time.
Before long, the title of “Backstabbing Human” had transformed into:
“King Orgod,”
“Savior of Dwarves Through Wine,”
“Divine Messenger of Alcohol.”
The dwarves waiting for him were no longer angry or hostile.
Instead, they were drooling, their greedy eyes locked onto him, hoping for more free booze.
“Why are you spoiling these ungrateful mutts? I could crush them all with my hammer!” Veijander grumbled.
His left arm was broken, his face was swollen, yet his right hand still clutched a bottle of Soul Immortal Brew, chugging happily.
After passing through the dwarven residential area, they arrived at a massive mine entrance, where two armored dwarf guards blocked their way.
“The Ashen King is in seclusion. Do not disturb him.”
The guards crossed their battle-axes, standing firm.
Orson frowned. The guards glanced at him coldly, showing no intention of letting them through.
Veijander snorted, raising his Grandmaster emblem.
“I am the Tenth Forging Grandmaster! Move aside!”
The guards exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.
“Even if you were the God of Blacksmiths, you’re still not getting in. The Ashen King has already given you, a half-blood dwarf, more than you deserve!”
Their battle-axes gleamed, their expressions darkened.
Veijander forced a smile, turning to Orson.
“This is as far as I can take you.”
“Quest Sequence 3: Use non-violent means to bribe the stubborn dwarf guards.”
A system notification popped up.
“Good thing I came prepared.”
Orson grinned, “accidentally” tripping, sending two bottles of alcohol rolling onto the ground.
The rich scent filled the air, making Veijander gulp audibly.
Orson was almost certain that if he weren’t here, the little corgi would be licking the ground clean.
The guards’ eyes flickered with greed, but they held firm, showing impressive discipline.
“Not enough, huh?”
Orson pulled out a bottle of [Lucid Dream], uncorking it and pouring it onto the ground.
A blue glow shimmered from the liquid, faint lightning crackling along its surface.
“By the gods! Lord Orgod, stop!” Veijander shouted.
Orson smirked.
“What’s the problem? If these two strong warriors don’t want it, then I’ll just pour it all out.”
“Blasphemy! That is sacred wine!” one of the dwarf guards shouted in horror.
Orson ignored him, pulling Veijander down to sit beside him.
He pulled out another bottle of [Lucid Dream], poured it into two cups, and set them on the ground.
“A toast to Veijander, the newly ascended Grandmaster!”
“Indeed! Without you, Lord Orgod, I’d never have achieved this! Cheers!”
The two of them clinked glasses and began drinking in front of the guards.
The dwarven guards were going insane, their beady eyes turning bloodshot as they struggled to resist temptation.
“Ah… I might be getting drunk already,” Orson sighed, signaling Veijander to play along.
Veijander caught on immediately.
“Ah, such a strong brew… I, Veijander, a grandmaster, might even pass out from this!”
Orson, satisfied with the buildup, casually placed another bottle of [Lucid Dream] exactly a hundred meters away.
Then, both of them leaned back against the stone wall and closed their eyes, pretending to be asleep.