Translator: CinderTL
Walking through the fortress's desolate streets, Roland keenly sensed a silent yet sharp antagonism.
Several ordinary dwarves, their skin still flushed with health, were gathered around a small forge, chatting animatedly. But when two slow-moving, gray-skinned compatriots passed by with bowed heads, the laughter abruptly ceased.
A young dwarf instinctively tightened his grip on the battleaxe at his hip, his eyes betraying undisguised wariness, even a hint of...
disgust.
"Stay away from the forge, you stone-idiot!" an old dwarf with a coarsely braided beard hissed, his voice low but his tone as sharp as a blade. "Don't bring your ill fortune near the fire source!"
The two gray-skinned dwarves showed no reaction, not even pausing in their stride. They simply silently detoured around the flickering flames, as if the light and heat caused them physical discomfort.
They retreated to the edge of the street, almost pressing themselves against the cold stone wall.
One of them reached out a rough, gray-white hand and unconsciously stroked the rock face, a look of near...
serenity spreading across his face.
This unnatural affinity for stone and aversion to fire struck the ordinary dwarves as particularly jarring and incomprehensible.
"Did you see that?" one dwarf whispered to his companion. "They're becoming more like stone every day, their hearts as cold as the rock! They're even turning their backs on the ancestral hearth. Can they still call themselves dwarves?"
As the Gray-skinned Dwarves approached, shopkeepers along the street immediately cast wary glances their way. Some even hastily pulled in goods displayed outside, fearing they would be tainted by the "ill omen."
Though no violent clashes erupted, this pervasive cold violence—treating fellow dwarves as outcasts, even as if they carried a plague—hung in the air, its chill more biting than the winter wind.
Roland keenly observed that while most Stone-Tongue Syndrome-infected dwarves displayed an almost numb indifference to the rejection and scorn they faced, there were one or two Gray-skinned Dwarves whose eyes, in the brief moment before they lowered their heads and turned away, were not entirely empty.
It was a suppressed light, buried deep within their ashen pupils—cold, sharp, and brimming with undisguised hatred.
Though the light flickered only for an instant before being swallowed by deeper shadows, their tightly clenched fists, knuckles bone-white from the strain, and the way they quickened their pace, almost fleeing into darker corners, betrayed the truth of that fleeting moment.
"If only Mr. Mason were here..."
As Roland observed intently, Hoby suddenly spoke up beside him.
The halfling gazed at the swirling snowflakes, his voice low and somber.
"Mr. Mason once said he loved the sight of snow. It's a pity the River Domain Nations have such mild climates. Even in the depths of winter, snow is a rare sight."
"Mason..."
The name conjured an image in Roland's mind: a slender young man with a gentle, ever-present smile.
After the Demon Capital Gilles incident, Mason had returned to the River Domain Nations with Roland. Tokolin had arranged a secure position for him, hoping he could live out his days in peace.
But the young man, born of noble lineage, resigned gracefully after only a short time.
Soon after Roland left for the Golden Valley Kingdom to study abroad, Mason quietly departed the River Domain Nations, leaving behind only a letter entrusted to Bronson for delivery.
In the letter, he expressed his gratitude to Roland and outlined his plans for the future.
"Traveling the continent... Hah, that fellow truly lives life on his own terms."
Roland shook his head lightly, temporarily setting aside his thoughts of his old friend.
The fleeting glint in the Gray-skinned Dwarves' eyes had instinctively put him on guard, a faint sense of danger lingering in his mind.
He didn't linger, turning to urge his companions to quicken their pace.
The others readily agreed, quickening their steps.
Unlike the vast plains and winding marshes of the River Domain Nations or the fertile plains of the Golden Valley Kingdom, the Stone Kingdom's territory was dominated by towering, rugged mountain ranges.
The winding mountain roads were already treacherous, and the persistent snowfall and icy conditions of deep winter further slowed the party's progress.
It took them nearly half a month to finally reach the first true dwarven town they encountered on their journey:
Stone Furnace Fortress.
After a brief inspection by the city gate guards, they entered the fortress city built into the mountainside.
The first thing that caught their eye was a colossal statue standing in the town's central plaza.
It depicted a majestic dwarven figure.
Clad in heavy battle armor, he gripped a massive warhammer with both hands, its head resting on the ground before him.
His thick beard was meticulously carved, each strand distinct, and his resolute face featured stone eyes that seemed to gaze upon the entire town, radiating unwavering determination and a protective spirit.
This was the sacred image of Moradin, the dwarven deity of forging and guardianship.
In stark contrast to the sacred statue symbolizing unity and resilience, the atmosphere within Stone Furnace Fortress was oppressively tense and stifling.
Among the residents moving through the streets, nearly all were gray-skinned dwarves with blank, apathetic expressions.
The far fewer normal dwarves were fully armed, patrolling the streets in small squads.
Clutching their weapons tightly, they scanned their silent, gray-skinned brethren with wary eyes, the air thick with an unspoken, volatile tension.
As Roland and his companions traversed the fortress's oppressive streets, a commotion ahead drew their attention.
Several fully armed dwarf guards were struggling to drag a group of struggling gray-skinned dwarves away from the entrance to a mine shaft.
"You stubborn stone-idiot again!" the Captain of the Guards roared, slamming a gray-skinned dwarf onto the snowy ground. "Mine Shaft No. 7 has been explicitly sealed off! Why do you keep trying to sneak in?"
Just then, an arrogant, booming voice cut through the chaos.
"What's all this commotion? What's happened now?"
Everyone turned to see a dwarf, dressed in luxurious brocade robes and sporting an exaggeratedly protruding belly, striding forward, surrounded by elite guards.
His fingers were adorned with massive gemstone rings, gold hoops dangled from his beard, and his narrowed eyes radiated impatience and disdain for everything before him.
The Captain of the Guards immediately bowed, his voice laced with frustration and resentment.
"Your Highness Balin, these Stone-Tongue Syndrome infectees attempted to breach the palisade and infiltrate Mine Shaft No. 7."
"This is the 136th incident this month alone! We can't possibly guard against them all. Who knows how many have already slipped through undetected!"
Balin snorted through his nostrils, his gaze sweeping over the gray-skinned dwarves pinned to the ground as if they were repulsive vermin.
"These wretches, abandoned even by Moradin's ancestral hearth, their souls already tainted by stubborn stone, keeping them around will only breed more trouble and defile our ancestral earth. Dispose of them."
He waved his ring-laden, plump hand dismissively.
"Your Highness Balin..."
A flicker of reluctance and hesitation crossed the Captain of the Guards' face.
"They are still... our kin, after all. And perhaps Stone-Tongue Syndrome..."
"Kin?" Balin interrupted sharply, his voice dripping with scornful mockery.
"You commoners are mere tools, even when healthy. Now that you've become this filth, what difference is there between you and the rats in the mine shafts? My command is law! Do you commoner guards dare question the authority of the royal family?"
Seeing the guards still hadn't moved, Balin's face instantly froze over. He barked at his personal guards, "What are you waiting for? Do I need to repeat my order? Act now and cleanse this filth!"
At his command, the ice-eyed royal guards beside him drew their blades without hesitation.
A cold flash of steel, followed by several sickeningly sharp slicing sounds. The Gray-skinned Dwarves didn't even have time to scream before their heads rolled onto the ground.
Dark red blood gushed out, staining the pristine white snow with glaring crimson stains.
Balin watched the blood spread rapidly across the snow, as if still unsatisfied. His narrow eyes, squeezed by layers of fat, turned toward the Captain of the Guards who had dared to argue earlier. A sinister glint flashed in his gaze.
"As for you..." he drawled, his voice dripping with the cruel amusement of a cat toying with a mouse. "A mere Commoner Guard—who gave you the courage to question my judgment and plead for these filthy stone-idiot?"
The Captain of the Guards' face turned deathly pale. He opened his mouth, as if to offer an explanation.
"Your Highness Balin, I'm not questioning your authority, it's just..."
"Just what?" Balin interrupted roughly, his face contorted with disgust and impatience. "Insolence toward the royal family is treason! It seems you commoners have forgotten who rules this land!"
Without even glancing at the Captain, Balin waved dismissively at his guards, as if swatting away a fly.
"Dispose of him. He's an eyesore."
The order was delivered with such casual indifference, yet it carried a deadly weight.
This time, there was no hesitation.
The royal guard standing beside the Captain moved with practiced precision, as if he had rehearsed the motion a thousand times. His blade flashed from its sheath, a cold glint slicing through the air.
"Ugh..."
The Captain of the Guards managed only a short, disbelieving groan.
His eyes widened as his headless torso pitched forward.
His final vision was of His Highness Balin's cold, fleshy profile.
In the next instant, another head rolled onto the snow-covered ground, joining the pile of Gray-skinned Dwarf heads.
Crimson blood intertwined and flowed, staining the pristine white snow with an increasingly glaring and horrifying hue.
The surrounding air seemed to freeze.
Most of the ordinary dwarf guards and residents who had gathered to watch wore expressions of deathly numbness, as if they had long grown accustomed to such brutal scenes. They unconsciously clenched their fists, only to helplessly release them.
Yet at the edge of the street, in the eyes of the silent, gray-skinned dwarves, a flicker of suppressed hatred flashed uncontrollably.
Like the faint glimmer of dark ore deep within a mine, cold and sharp, it flickered briefly in their pale eyes before being swallowed by an even deeper silence.
Balin surveyed the silent crowd, seemingly pleased with the effect.
He hummed softly and straightened his lavish brocade robes.
"Clean this up," he ordered.
With that, he turned and strode away, surrounded by his guards, arrogantly leaving the street he had instantly "purged" with blood and authority.
Only the blood-soaked ground, headless corpses, and the suffocating fear that permeated the icy air remained—a silent undercurrent surging beneath the deathly calm.
(End of the Chapter)
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