Chapter 167: The Shadows in the Forge

Chapter 167: Chapter 167: The Shadows in the Forge

Chapter 167: The Shadows in the Forge

The heat radiating off the Great Forge was suffocating. It did not just warm the air. It baked the stone floors, scorched the lungs, and made the heavy iron chainmail Draven wore feel like a layer of burning coals against his skin.

He stood in the deepest, most secure cavern of the Stoneheart City alongside Bram.

Directly in front of them stood the entrance to the Great Forge. The doors were not made of wood or simple iron.

They were two colossal slabs of solid obsidian, each towering over fifty feet high and glowing with intricate, veins of liquid gold runes.

The sheer weight of the doors was staggering. Even a battalion of heavy siege engines would fail to scratch the surface.

Four elite Dwarven guards stood in front of the gates. They wore full sets of impenetrable, rune-carved armor and gripped massive halberds.

Bram marched forward, fully embracing his role as the aggressive heavy infantry instructor, Kaelgar Ironfoot. He scowled deeply, his massive red beard practically bristling with manufactured rage.

"Open the gates!" Bram roared, his booming voice echoing off the cavern walls.

"I have urgent military intelligence for the Forge-King. Step aside before I have you all reassigned to cleaning the magma filters!"

The lead guard did not even flinch. He crossed his heavy halberd with the guard next to him, blocking the path entirely.

"Instructor Kaelgar," the lead guard said firmly, his voice muffled behind a thick steel visor.

"You know the royal edict. The Great Forge is entirely locked down. Nobody enters. Nobody leaves. Only Master Torvin and the inner circle of blacksmiths are permitted inside."

"Are you deaf?" Bram yelled, stepping so close his chest plate bumped against the crossed halberds.

"This is an emergency. The upper foundries are stalling, and I need new orders from Thorgar himself!"

"Take your complaints to the council," the guard replied coldly.

"If you take one more step forward, Instructor, we will be forced to restrain you. Step back."

Bram clenched his massive fists, looking over his shoulder at Draven. He gave a subtle, frustrated nod. The historical guards were too disciplined.

Bullying them was not going to work, and using force would instantly blow their cover and ruin the entire shadow operation.

Draven analyzed the situation with a cold, calculating gaze.

He looked away from the heavily fortified doors and scanned the surrounding antechamber. Along the walls were several smaller, dormant anvils used for repairing the guards’ weapons. Beside one of the anvils lay a discarded, heavy iron rod.

Draven walked over quietly. He picked up the heavy iron rod.

’If we cannot force our way inside, we need to draw him out,’ Draven thought.

’And a master blacksmith always knows his own rhythm.’

Draven stepped up to the dormant anvil. He closed his eyes and visualized the sprawling layout of the hidden syndicate headquarters back in Bastion Seven.

He remembered the exact, mathematical strikes Cole Rust used when working with high-grade Void-Core metals. It was a very specific, irregular pattern designed to fold dense magical impurities out of the steel.

Draven gripped the rod. He did not swing it with his own physical muscles.

He channeled [Vector Manipulation] down his arm, bypassing the weak physical constraints of his middle-aged human body.

He applied pure, highly concentrated kinetic force to the tip of the iron rod.

CLANG!

The strike was deafening. It hit the anvil with a terrifying, pinpoint accuracy that sent a shockwave of sound directly toward the massive obsidian doors.

CLANG!

CLANG!

Draven struck it twice more in rapid succession, paused for exactly one and a half seconds, and then delivered a devastating, heavy final blow.

THUD!

The bizarre, distinct rhythm echoed perfectly through the cavern. The four elite guards turned their heads, staring at the middle-aged human guard in sheer confusion.

"What in the name of the ancestors are you doing, human?" the lead guard demanded, lowering his halberd.

"Drop that rod!"

Draven set the iron rod down gently on the anvil. He stepped back and waited.

Five seconds passed in total silence. Then, the ground began to tremble.

GRIND.

The liquid gold runes on the massive obsidian doors flared brightly. The colossal slabs of stone slowly began to slide apart, releasing a blinding wave of white-hot light and roaring heat from the Great Forge.

A Dwarf stepped out from the brilliant light.

He was wearing thick leather aprons, heavy welding goggles strapped to his forehead, and his face was entirely covered in dark soot.

He had incredibly thick, muscular arms, but his legs were incredibly short. He looked around the antechamber frantically until his eyes locked onto Draven and Bram.

"Master Torvin," the lead guard said, bowing respectfully.

"We apologize for the noise. This human was..."

"Shut up," the soot-covered Dwarf snapped.

Cole Rust, currently occupying the historical body of Master Torvin, marched out into the antechamber. He pointed a thick, stubby finger directly at Draven and Bram.

"You two," Cole commanded, keeping his voice gruff and authoritative.

"Get inside the forge immediately. I need heavy lifters for a new batch of ore. Guards, close the doors behind us and do not let anyone else in."

The guards bowed again. Bram and Draven quickly stepped past the threshold.

BOOM!

The massive obsidian doors slammed shut behind them, sealing them completely inside the deafening, superheated environment of the Great Forge. The walls were lined with massive crucibles of bubbling, glowing metal.

As soon as the heavy doors locked into place, Cole ripped the leather apron off his chest and threw it violently onto the floor.

"I cannot take this anymore!" Cole groaned loudly, rubbing his soot-stained face with both hands. He looked up at Draven, his eyes filled with sheer misery.

"Captain, I am literally shaped like a square. I am a square!"

Draven crossed his arms, raising a single eyebrow. "You look like a legendary Forge-Master."

"I am two feet tall!" Cole complained, pacing back and forth furiously on his short legs.

"Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have centuries of legendary forging knowledge in my brain, but I have to stand on a wooden crate just to reach my own tongs? I tried to grab a cooling hammer from the top shelf an hour ago, and I had to jump. I had to jump like a toddler, Captain! My center of gravity is completely ruined. I miss my legs."

Bram let out a low chuckle, crossing his heavy, armored arms.

"At least you get to hide in the forge. I have to teach vanguard tactics to people who do not even know what a shield wall is."

Draven cut the banter short. The Apocalypse Clock was ticking, even inside the simulation.

"Focus," Draven ordered sharply.

"Bram said Thorgar is completely insane and ordering the construction of siege weapons. You are the only one allowed inside his private chambers. What is happening to him?"

Cole stopped pacing. His expression grew incredibly dark. He pointed toward a massive, elevated platform near the back of the cavern where a singular, massive anvil rested in the shadows.

"He is losing his mind," Cole explained quietly.

"He stays up there for days without sleeping. He just hammers cold iron and talks to the walls. I have seen the shadows up there, Captain. They twist and move on their own. They are whispering to him."

"The Treachery-Fiends," Draven noted.

"But a King Level Beast’s parasite needs a physical anchor to infect a target. How did it breach the Great Forge?"

"Through a gift," Cole answered, walking over to a nearby workbench. He picked up a shattered, ornate glass bottle. The inside of the glass was stained with a dark, glowing purple residue.

"Two weeks ago, Lord-Emissary Lionel sent a human envoy here. They bypassed the guards under the banner of diplomatic peace. The envoy brought a cask of rare, highly concentrated crimson-vine brew."

Draven inspected the shattered glass. "A drug."

"Exactly," Cole nodded.

"It is some kind of fermented underground vine mixed with human alchemy. It is incredibly potent and highly addictive. Thorgar drinks it constantly. The more he drinks, the more the shadows whisper to him. The brew is laced with paranoia. It makes him completely certain that the Elves are planning to slaughter us."

Draven set the glass down. The intelligence was perfect. Lionel was using a magically corrupted narcotic to bypass the Dwarven magical defenses and poison the Forge-King’s mind directly.

"If Lionel used a human envoy to deliver the drug," Draven stated, looking toward the heavy exit doors, "then the alchemical source is located inside the human diplomatic sector."

He turned to his squadmates.

"We need the exact ledger of Lionel’s movements and his distribution network," Draven concluded, a cold light burning in his gray eyes.

"We need to find Lucien. He is deeply embedded in the human inner circle. Once we have Lucien, we locate the poison."