Chapter-33  

A satisfied smirk spread across Belial's face. "Well then, my adventurous duo," he boomed, rising from his seat with a dramatic flourish. "It seems our little introductory session has been a resounding success. I, however, have matters of a... chaotic nature to attend to." He winked at Roland, sending a shiver down the human's spine.

"Hopefully, you two can tolerate each other's company," Belial added with a mischievous chuckle. "Remember, Roland," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Lilith here might be all smiles and charm, but don't underestimate her... enthusiasm."

With that, Belial snapped his fingers, and a swirling vortex of violet and black energy materialized in the center of the pub. It pulsed with an ominous energy, and for a moment, Roland swore he could hear faint screams echoing from within.

"Farewell, my dears," Belial declared, stepping through the portal with a flamboyant flourish. The portal snapped shut with a clap, leaving behind only a faint echo of laughter and the lingering scent of brimstone.

Lilith watched the portal vanish with a faint smile. "Well then, Lord Roland," she turned to him, her voice taking on a more professional tone, "it seems our journey begins now. We're headed south, to a place known as the South Desolation."

Roland raised an eyebrow. "South Desolation? Sounds promising. Can't we just use another one of those… portals?"

Lilith laughed "It's sad to say, Lord Roland," she explained, "portal creation is a rare talent, one possessed only by individuals with a strong affinity for time and space magic. Belial, you see, is a genius in that particular field. Balthazar, the strategist you met on the council, is another."

She winked. "But fear not. While portals are convenient, they have their limitations. Besides, wouldn't you rather experience this world firsthand? The journey south will be a valuable learning experience, an opportunity to understand the landscape, the flora and fauna, perhaps even encounter a few… interesting creatures along the way."

Roland couldn't help but grin. He may have been thrust into a world of prophecies and impending doom, but it seemed like there would be moments of unexpected adventure along the way. "Lead the way, Lilith," he declared, a newfound excitement coursing through him. "The South Desolation awaits, and I, for one, am eager to see what it has in store."

A thick cloud of dust hung heavy in the cavernous throne room, illuminated only by the flickering glow of torches sputtering their last breaths. Morock, the self-proclaimed king of this desolate dungeon, slammed his meaty fist against the armrest of his crude stone throne. The tremor rattled the goblin messenger who cowered before him, his oversized ears flapping in terror.

"Someone new?" he bellowed, his voice a gravelly rasp that sent shivers down the spine of the unfortunate goblin scurrying before him. The goblin, a scrawny creature with mismatched ears and a perpetually runny nose, whimpered and cowered further, his large, green eyes wide with terror. 

The goblin, whose name was Scrag, peeked up at the hulking orc chieftain through his grime-caked fingers. Morock's temper was legendary, and Scrag had witnessed firsthand what happened to those who displeased him. There was Groth, the ogre guard captain, who dared to question Morock's choice of troll stew recipe – one unfortunate morning, Scrag found only a smear of green goo and a gnawed bone where Groth used to stand. And then there was Flink, the overly enthusiastic imp scout – poor Flink, his eagerness to report a potential weakness in the dungeon's defenses had backfired spectacularly. Scrag still shuddered at the memory of the bloodcurdling screams echoing from the throne room that day.

So, when Morock bellowed his question, Scrag's heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic imp trapped in a drum. "Y-yesh, G-great Chief Morock," he stammered, his voice barely a squeak. "They say... they say a new Dungeon Master comes. One chosen by the council above."

Morock scowled, his tusks glinting in the dim torchlight. The council – sure, they might hold some power up there, but down in his dungeon, Morock was the law. They could send whoever they wanted; it wouldn't change a thing.

"New wuss, huh?" Morock snarled, kicking out with a powerful leg that sent the goblin sprawling across the dusty floor. "Let them come!" he roared, his voice echoing through the cavern. "Morock will show them who rules these halls! I'll cleave that pipsqueak Dungeon Master in two and feed his entrails to the slimes!"

The goblin whimpered further, wishing desperately he'd been assigned to collect mold spores instead of delivering such dreadful news. He knew full well the gruesome fate that awaited anyone who dared to cross Morock. Visions of orcish war clubs and gnashing teeth danced before his eyes. 

Suddenly, the cavern entrance shimmered, and a ripple of energy pulsed through the air. The goblin, ever the opportunist, saw his chance to escape. Scrambling to his feet, he squeaked, "Perhaps... perhaps the new Dungeon Master arrives now, Great Chief Morock?" and bolted past the orcish chieftain, disappearing into the labyrinthine tunnels beyond. 

Morock, momentarily distracted by the fleeing goblin, turned his gaze towards the entrance. A figure emerged from the throne entrance, blinking against the dim light. It was a human, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a strange, otherworldly blade strapped to his back. 

Morock narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the newcomer. This "Dungeon Master" didn't look particularly impressive. No horns, no scales, not even a decent battle-axe. Just a human in worn leather armor and a bewildered expression. 

A slow grin spread across Morock's face. This might be easier than he anticipated. Perhaps the council above wasn't entirely incompetent after all. They'd sent him a nice, juicy challenge. 

With a booming laugh that reverberated through the chamber, Morock rose from his throne, his massive war club clutched in his hand. "Welcome to the South Desolation, new Dungeon Master," he bellowed. "Let's see what you're made of!"

The cavern entrance shimmered once more, and Roland, blinking in the dim light, stepped through. He hadn't expected to find himself face-to-face with a fuming green giant wielding a war club the size of a small tree. His first instinct, however, wasn't fear, but amusement.

"Well," he drawled, eyeing the orc with a hint of a smile, "this is certainly… distinctive décor."

Before Morock could respond, a figure materialized beside Roland. Lilith, her red ponytail swinging slightly, surveyed the scene with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes flicked from the orcish chieftain back to Roland, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths.

"Roland," she began, her voice cool and collected, "it seems we've arrived… interestingly."

Roland, ever the pragmatist, simply shrugged. "Looks like we have a welcoming committee." He turned his gaze back to the orc, who was now positively vibrating with rage.

"Ugly creature?" Roland chuckled, clearly throwing the comment over his shoulder. "Perhaps a bit overenthusiastic in his decorating choices, but to each their own, I suppose."

Morock's face turned an even deeper shade of green, if that were possible. A vein throbbed in his forehead, and he let out a roar that shook the very foundations of the cavern. 

"Ugly creature?!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury. "I am Morock, chieftain of the South Desolation! You, you puny excuse for a Dungeon Master, dare insult me in my own halls?"

He slammed his war club onto the ground with a resounding thud, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air. "You and your… your pretty boyfriend," he sneered, his gaze flickering between Roland and Lilith, "will pay dearly for your insolence! I will crush you both and feed your bones to the slimes!"

Lilith, despite the orc's bluster, remained unfazed. A hint of a smile played on her lips. "Roland," she turned to him, her voice barely a whisper, "it seems our first obstacle has presented itself. Shall we… entertain him?"

Roland, a mischievous glint in his eyes, met her gaze. "Why not?" he replied, a grin splitting his face. "Let's see what this… Morock is made of."