Translator: CinderTL
Helsen stood at the foot of the mountain path, gazing at the road ahead that led into the unknown. He took a deep breath and turned to his companions.
"Set up camp here and wait for my return."
His servant frowned. "My lord, are you sure you want to go in alone?"
"They only permit one person to enter," Helsen replied calmly. "Rest assured, since I gained their trust with the Bone Flute, I doubt they'll harm me."
Another attendant murmured, "But this place... it's too eerie."
Indeed, this was no ordinary mountain wilderness. Morning mist clung to the cliffs, blocking out the sunlight, and the air hung heavy with a damp, ancient scent. The stone path beneath their feet had been worn smooth by centuries of use, as if only dwarven boots had trod upon it for millennia.
Helsen clapped his servant on the shoulder. "I'll be careful. Guard the camp well. If I haven't returned in five days, return to Alden Town and report to Lord Marquis."
The dwarf leader overheard this and grumbled, "Humans! Don't make us sound like mountain bandits!"
"Ha ha, my apologies."
Viscount Helsen straightened his collar, pulled up his cloak, and followed the dwarf party into the dense fog.
As soon as he stepped into the mist, the scene behind him blurred rapidly, as if he had already left his world behind. The dwarves ahead moved with steady strides, seemingly unaffected by the limited visibility. Helsen could only cling to their heels, mentally trying to track their course, but he soon realized this was an impossible task.
They first turned left through a natural stone archway, then walked for a long time along a narrow mountain ridge with bottomless ravines on either side. This led to a steep flight of stone steps, at least a hundred in number.
After that, they passed through a cavern echoing with sounds that seemed to come from all directions.
In less than an hour, Helsen had completely lost his sense of direction.
"Where... exactly are we going?" he couldn't help but ask.
The dwarf walking beside him replied stiffly, "I'm sorry, guest, but that's not something you need to know."
Helsen clamped his mouth shut and asked no further questions.
He knew he was being deliberately led into a world sealed off from the outside. This path not only led to the heart of the Dwarf Clan's territory but also served as an invisible barrier, isolating outsiders from the dwarves' true secrets.
And so, Viscount Helsen followed the dwarves for an entire day. Despite being an avid mountaineer, he was utterly exhausted, forced to stop and rest several times. The dwarves, however, showed no signs of fatigue.
At some point, faint flames began to flicker in the surrounding mist, as if floating in the air, their glow waxing and waning as they drew closer.
Looking up, Helsen realized these were metal lamps embedded in the rock walls, burning with an unfamiliar blue flame.
Finally, the procession halted before a massive gate carved from a single slab of stone.
"We've arrived," the lead dwarf murmured. "Let's go inside."
Helsen glanced up at the heavy stone gate, its surface covered in ancient runes, each one seeming to whisper a forgotten history.
He nodded and slowly ascended the steps, the dwarf leading the way pushing open the massive stone door.
Beyond the door lay a world bathed in brilliant light.
A wide stone staircase descended into the depths. Helsen followed the dwarves at a measured pace, their footsteps echoing between the cavernous rock walls.
As they ventured deeper, faint flames began to flicker along the walls, illuminating their path.
Soon, they arrived at a vast cavernous hall.
This was no ordinary subterranean realm, but a city illuminated by countless copper lamps embedded in the rock walls and crystals mounted on stone pillars, casting a soft, steady glow. The air carried a faint metallic tang and the scent of burning oil.
The sight before him brought Helsen to an abrupt halt.
This was no mere cave, but a true city—a city built within the heart of the mountain.
Towering stone pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, each carved with intricate patterns and ancient inscriptions that chronicled a long-forgotten history. The streets, paved with smooth stone slabs, cascaded down the natural rock formations in terraced layers, descending like a grand staircase into the depths.
Rows of houses clung tightly to the cliff walls, their roofs arched stone structures, and heavy fur curtains hung over their doorways. Before some of the dwellings, hearth fires burned, and dwarven artisans sat beside them, meticulously polishing metal. Their focused expressions and the crisp clang of hammers striking anvils filled the air.
The sound of flowing water drifted from afar. Helsen followed the sound and discovered a man-made canal carved into the mountainside. Clear spring water flowed slowly through the stone troughs, winding through the city before disappearing into the deeper underground.
Bridges, markets, plazas, workshops... all were real and tangible, devoid of ostentatious magical displays or dazzling miracles. Instead, there was only a sense of steadfastness and order, forged through centuries of accumulated history.
"Welcome to Forgehold," the dwarven guide murmured, "home of the Ironhammer Clan."
Helsen took a deep breath and nodded. He knew he was standing in a place rarely trod by humans, a civilization's heart that had remained sealed for a thousand years.
Straightening his collar, he followed the guide onward, weaving through curious locals who had gathered to gawk at the "tall one," deeper into the city's heart.
They traversed the winding streets and alleys of Forgehold, eventually arriving before a massive stone hall at the city's heart.
The structure towered over the surrounding buildings, its arched doorway carved with intricate patterns and ancient runes. Two guards clad in chainmail, each wielding a battleaxe, stood sentinel before the entrance.
The guide halted and turned to Helsen. "This is the Clan Chief's residence. You may present your request here."
Helsen nodded, straightened his tunic, and strode forward. He drew the Bone Flute from his tunic, raised it high in his palm, and declared in a clear voice:
"I am Helsen of the south, bearer of the Oathkeeper's Flute. I seek an audience with the noble Clan Chief."
The guards exchanged glances. One turned and entered the hall to announce his arrival. Moments later, he returned and waved his hand.
"The Clan Chief is currently occupied, but the Young Clan Chief is willing to grant you an audience."
Helsen paused, surprised, then nodded his thanks. The guard pushed open the heavy door, gesturing for him to enter.
The hall's interior was even more spacious than its exterior suggested. A long stone table stretched down the center, above which hung a massive bronze brazier. The flickering flames illuminated the entire chamber, casting dancing shadows across the walls adorned with weapons and shields.
At the far end of the table, beside a broad, high-backed chair, a dwarf stood waiting for him.
He was taller and more powerfully built than his tribesmen, with a thick, ruddy beard and a complexion as flushed as someone who spent years forging metal by a furnace.
When he spoke, his voice boomed with undeniable authority:
"You're the Southerner who came in with the Old Flute?"
(End of the Chapter)
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