The sky over xxxxxxxxxxx was a bruised purple, leaking a cold, oily rain that smelled of industrial exhaust and forgotten prayers. Under the rusted overhang of a collapsed warehouse, just three blocks from Ravi & Son's Super Market, the last of the Iron-Root Kin huddled like dying embers.
Old Borin sat on an upturned chemical drum, his one remaining eye milky with cataracts and grief. His right hand, gnarled like a dead briar root, clutched a hammer that hadn't sung in forty years. Beside him, a young dwarf named Kili was trying to ignite a pile of damp trash with a low-grade mana-lighter that sparked but never held.
"Give it up, lad," Borin rasped, the sound like tectonic plates grinding in a dry seabed. "The spark won't take. This world is too wet, too loud, and far too shallow for the likes of us. The metal here... it's dead. It's been lobotomized by the Aurum-Architects. It has no memory left to burn."
Kili looked up, his face smudged with the black grease of the scrap-yards where he spent eighteen hours a day sorting copper wires for the High Dwarfs. "They say Bara is back, Uncle. They say she walked into that grocery store on the corner—the one with the red sign—and she came out... different. They say her lungs don't rattle anymore. They say she found the Song."
Borin let out a wet, mocking laugh that turned into a hacking fit. "The Song? The High Dwarfs didn't just take our mountain, Kili; they drained the very vibration of the earth to power their floating palaces. We are 'The Lame.' We are the broken hardware of a discarded age. There is no song in a supermarket. There is only the price of bread and the silence of the grave."
The bell of the supermarket chimed, a small, silver sound that pierced through the heavy thrum of the rain. Harish stepped out onto the loading dock, wearing a grease-stained apron and holding a crate of dented cans. He wasn't alone. Vikas Agnihotri followed him, looking miserable in a damp hoodie that clung to his soft, billionaire frame. Vikas was currently staring at a holographic map on his wrist, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Master, the island is ready," Vikas whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at the huddle of dwarves in the alley. "I've finalized the purchase. A private island near the North Pole. It's remote, it's frozen, and most importantly, it sits directly atop a deep-crust tectonic junction. The resonance there is... well, it's exactly what you asked for. But how are we going to transport an entire tribe of refugees to the Arctic without the Alliance detecting the transport ships?"
Harish didn't look at the map. He looked at Borin. He saw the logic of the old dwarf's despair—a deep, rhythmic error that had been coded into his soul by centuries of exile.
"Ships are slow, Vikas. Ships are noisy. They require fuel, permits, and they have a very high 'observational footprint,'" Harish said, his voice low and tectonic. "We aren't going by sea. We're going through the logic of space itself."
"Master, surely you don't mean..." Vikas's eyes went wide. "The Magic Towers have been researching the [Gate] spell for three centuries. Even the High Mages of the Zenith Circle can only maintain a portal for ten seconds before their mana-cores shatter. It's theoretically impossible for a single practitioner to stabilize a long-range spatial fold!"
"The Magic Towers are bad at math," Harish replied, leaning in. "They try to 'force' space to open. They use mana like a battering ram. I don't force the door, Vikas. I just remind the destination that it's actually right here."
Harish walked down the steps of the dock, his boots splashing into the muck. He stopped in front of Borin. The old dwarf didn't look up; he just gripped his rusted hammer tighter.
"That's a Seventh-Seam Mallet," Harish said, pointing to the tool. "Weighted for deep-vein granite. The balance is off by three grams because the handle has absorbed too much atmospheric moisture. It's inefficient."
Borin finally looked up, his one eye widening. "How... how does a surface-born boy know the weight of a Seam-tool? You look like you've never held anything heavier than a ledger."
"I know that the metal in that hammer is screaming," Harish replied, leaning in. "It's tired of being used as a cane. I'm giving you a choice, Borin. You can stay here and sort scrap for the High Dwarfs, or you can come to a place where the mountain still has a heartbeat. A place where the metal is waiting for a father to raise it."
Harish stood in the center of the damp alleyway, the rain seeming to curve around him as if avoiding a logic-zone he had projected. He turned to Takeo, who was standing guard at the door.
"Takeo, gather them. All of them," Harish commanded. "Tell them to bring only their hammers. We leave in five minutes."
"But Master!" Vikas hissed, scurrying over, his expensive sneakers ruined by the mud. "My private island! It's -40°C there! They'll freeze before they can even unpack!"
"Vikas, you've lived your whole life in climate-controlled penthouses," Harish said, not turning his head. "Dwarves don't get cold. They get 'un-tempered.' And with the resonance of the North Pole junction, they'll be hotter than a sun's core within an hour. Now, stand back. I need to calibrate the coordinates."
Harish raised his hand. He didn't chant. He didn't draw a mana-circle. He simply traced a line in the air with his finger, as if he were slicing through a piece of invisible silk.
[POV: Takeo Kusanagi]
The Master is tearing reality again, Takeo thought, his hand tightening on his katana. He doesn't even use a staff. He just looks at the air and decides it shouldn't be there anymore. If the High Mages saw this, they would burn their libraries in shame. This isn't magic. It's an executive order to the universe.
A vertical slit of pure, white light opened in the middle of the alley. On the other side, the dwarves could see a landscape of jagged black rock and blinding white snow, illuminated by the shimmering green curtains of the Aurora Borealis. The air that spilled through the portal was bone-chilling, but it carried a smell—the scent of deep, ancient iron and sleeping stone.
"The [Gate]..." Borin whispered, falling to his knees. "A True Gate. Not even the Aurum-Architects can open a path this clean."
"Move," Harish said, his voice echoing with a subtle power. "Before the local mana-sensors catch the rift."
One by one, the Iron-Root Kin stepped through. Borin, Kili, Bara, and her children. They stepped from the filth of xxxxxxxxxxx directly into the heart of their new base of production. As the last dwarf crossed the threshold, Harish flicked his wrist, and the portal vanished as if it had never existed, leaving only the smell of ozone in the rainy alley.
Kaelen stepped out onto the loading dock just as the light faded. She looked at the empty alley, then at her brother, who was currently "clumsily" trying to wipe a smudge of grease off his apron with a dirty rag.
"Harish," she called out, her voice tight with suspicion. "Where did they go? I heard a sound like... like a thunderclap without the lightning. And the dwarves... they were here a second ago. Now there's nothing but empty chemical drums."
"Oh, them?" Harish joked, his "intern" mask slipping back into place. "Vikas found them a bus. A very fast bus. He's very generous when he's had too much coffee. They're going to a... a training retreat. Team building, you know?"
"A bus?" Kaelen walked down the steps, her eyes scanning the ground. "There are no tire tracks, Harish. And the air smells like it's been burnt. Vikas, why are you shaking? And why are you wearing a hoodie that costs more than this entire shop while standing in a puddle?"
Vikas looked at Harish, then at Kaelen, his face a twitching mask of panic. "I... I have a very efficient bus! It has... hover-tech! Very experimental! My father bought it! And I'm shaking because I'm excited about... about the potato margins! Yes! The margins are incredible!"
Kaelen looked at her brother. For a moment, the 'clumsy intern' was gone, replaced by the silent shadow she had seen in the arena. But then Harish tripped over a discarded crate, flailing his arms and knocking over a stack of empty cans.
"Whoops!" Harish laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "See, Kaelen? Still as graceful as a three-legged goat. You should go inside. Takeo made some tea. It's much better for you than standing out here in the rain wondering about buses."
Kaelen stared at him for a long time. She looked at the empty alley. She felt the vibration in her wooden sword—the one Harish had 'repaired.' It was humming at a frequency that matched the North Pole's tectonic junction, though she didn't know it.
"I don't know what you're doing, Harish," she whispered, her voice full of a growing, terrifying realization. "But whatever it is... it's bigger than a supermarket. And if the Alliance finds out you're hiding an entire tribe of 'The Lame' on a private island... they won't just audit the books. They'll audit our lives."
"I'm counting on it," Harish whispered to himself as she walked away.
Later that night, in the quiet breakroom of the shop, Harish sat with Takeo. The Chronos-Nexus Watch showed a live feed of the island. The dwarves weren't freezing. They were gathered around the silver anvil, which was now glowing like a miniature sun. Borin was striking the True-Iron, and with every hit, a pulse of energy rippled through the Arctic crust.
"Master," Takeo said softly. "The Murim Grand-Masters have reached the city limits. They are confused. They felt the opening of the [Gate], but they can't find the source. They're currently searching the high-end hotels, thinking the 'Sovereign' must be staying in luxury."
"Let them search the hotels," Harish said, picking up a soldering iron. "I have a supermarket to run. And Vikas? Tell him to stop crying and start ordering the cold-weather gear for the next shift. We have a mountain to rebuild, and I want the first 'Astra-Root' blade finished by dawn."
"The North Pole base is secure," the Great Sage confirmed. "The Iron-Root Kin are now gathered. Production of the 'Logic-Zero' armaments has commenced."
Harish smiled, a small, dangerous curve of the lips. "Good. Because when the Grand-Masters finally realize the 'Sovereign' is behind a grocery counter... I want to make sure we have plenty of 'Progress' ready to greet them."