The heavy iron gates of the lower tunnel creaked open with a groaning shudder.
Procurement General Zhao trotted his golden-armored war-steed through the stone archway, leading two hundred heavy cavalrymen into the cavern.
The cavalrymen sat tall in their gilded saddles, their chins held high in arrogant contempt. Their crimson silk capes fluttered in the draft, embroidered with the imperial nine-clawed dragon crest of the Ministry of War.
For ten years, this monthly arrival had followed the exact same routine.
General Zhao would ride into the sulfur pit, crack his whip at the gate sentries, and demand five thousand jugs of dwarf ale for his personal manor. Then he would inspect the freshly forged armor, reject ten percent of it for minor scratches to pocket the scrap metal, and force the starving slaves to load the heavy wagons without rations.
General Zhao cracked his gold-tipped riding crop against his polished leather boot with an arrogant, sharp snap.
“Warden Xiong!” General Zhao barked, his voice echoing loudly down the stone corridor. “Where are our ten thousand suits of free Star-Iron Armor?! Minister Qian’s birthday banquet is next week! If my troops don’t have the wagons loaded by midnight, I’ll whip those lazy dwarf-slaves myself until their backs bleed!”
