Translator: CinderTL
Witnessing this brutal scene, Roland felt a chill run down his spine.
Though he had long known that the Stone Kingdom adhered to a rigid caste system, he had never imagined that its royal family would so openly and contemptuously trample on human life.
Compared to the human nobles he had encountered in the Golden Valley Kingdom, these dwarves were far more brazen.
Those nobles, even as they committed unspeakable acts in the shadows and exploited the commoners, at least maintained a veneer of decency on the surface, using the law as a flimsy fig leaf to conceal their shame.
But the Dwarf Royal Family, led by Balin, acted with unrestrained impunity.
Gazing at the still-steaming heads on the snow and then at the surrounding dwarves—commoners and soldiers alike—who lowered their heads with numb expressions, Roland's heart grew heavy.
Judging by Balin's actions, this arrogance, this casual disregard for human life, couldn't have developed overnight.
How could they oppress their own people so ruthlessly without fearing that the accumulated resentment would fester like molten lava beneath the surface, eventually erupting and triggering a kingdom-wide uprising?
This thought sent a shiver of unease through Roland.
The atmosphere here was dangerously tense, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
Turning to his companions, Roland whispered, "Hearthstone Castle isn't a suitable place to rest. Let's keep moving and find a village along the road before nightfall."
The others, having witnessed the earlier bloody scene, nodded in agreement.
Halfling Hoby, who had grown up in the relatively free and open River Domain Nations, was particularly shaken. His face paled as he nodded vigorously in agreement.
Without stopping, Roland's group hurried through and out of the suffocating Hearthstone Castle.
It wasn't until night had completely enveloped the mountains that they finally found a slightly dilapidated village where they could rest.
Perhaps because it was far from the main mining tunnels, no gray-skinned dwarves were to be seen in the village.
On the contrary, the place radiated the rugged, vibrant energy that Roland remembered as characteristic of dwarf settlements.
Warm lamplight streamed from the windows of low stone houses, and the air was thick with the rich aroma of ale and the savory scent of roasting meat.
In the village square, a massive bonfire crackled, its flickering flames illuminating the flushed faces of the dwarves gathered around it.
They clinked their oversized mugs together with gusto, sending foam splashing into the air.
Rough laughter, boisterous drunken singing, and playful jeers over some outrageous boast echoed through the cold night air, creating a raucous din.
This vibrant scene stood in stark contrast to the icy, oppressive atmosphere of Hearthstone Castle.
Seeing this lively spectacle, Roland's nerves, which had been taut throughout his journey, finally began to relax.
He accepted a cup of ale from a passing dwarf, nodded his thanks, and was about to find a hostel for the night when a hesitant, soft voice cut through the clamor.
"Mr. Roland...?"
The voice was gentle and clear, utterly out of place amidst the surrounding boisterousness.
Roland followed the sound to a wooden table in a corner, where a dwarf sat apart from the revelry, seemingly detached from the festive atmosphere. He wasn't drinking or singing, but sat quietly alone.
Now, he was raising his arm slightly, waving gently in Roland's direction, a hint of barely suppressed excitement on his face.
"Noel?"
Roland studied the face for a moment, then recognized him.
It was Noel, the dwarf who worked at the front desk of the Blacksmith's Guild, whom Roland had met several times and who had once provided him with Mithril Shards.
In this remote village in a foreign land, Roland was surprised to encounter a familiar face. A smile lit up his face as he gestured for his companions to follow him to a corner table.
After leaning down to give the dwarf a friendly hug, he asked, "Noel, I never expected to see you here. What brings you back to the Stone Kingdom?"
Noel invited Roland and his companions to sit before sighing softly. "The situation in the River Domain Nations has become increasingly unstable. Fearing involvement in unnecessary conflicts, I decided to return home temporarily for safety."
He shifted his tone, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "And you, Mr. Roland? What brings you to this place?"
"We're just passing through, heading to Roaring Seaport on business," Roland replied.
Just then, a slightly urgent voice cut in. "Noel! Didn't I tell you to stay home tonight and not go out?"
The group turned to see a dwarf approaching swiftly, cloaked in a heavy hooded cloak.
Only after speaking did the newcomer notice Roland's group sitting across from Noel. The shadow beneath his hood shifted slightly, revealing a wary expression.
"Humans?" His voice carried clear suspicion as his sharp gaze swept over Roland and his companions before turning to Noel. "Who are these people?"
Noel immediately stood up, his tone calm as he introduced them.
"Uncle, please don't be nervous. This is Mr. Roland, the friend I've often mentioned from the River Domain Nations."
He then turned to Roland.
"Mr. Roland, this is my uncle, Barick."
As Noel introduced them, Roland, in the flickering dim light of the campfire, clearly saw the dwarf's face beneath his hood—and that stone-like, grayish-white skin.
Without a doubt, Barick was also infected with Stone-Tongue Syndrome.
But what surprised Roland was how different this gray-skinned dwarf was from all the other patients he had seen before.
His movements were fluid and natural, showing no signs of numbness or sluggishness. Yet deep within his grayish-white eyes, a deeply buried resentment flickered.
Roland keenly sensed that this sharp, negative emotion wasn't directed at them as outsiders, but rather seemed to be a long-accumulated, almost instinctive state of survival ingrained in his very bones.
After hearing Noel's introduction, Barick gave a slight nod to Roland's group, acknowledging them with a brief greeting, before turning back to his nephew, his voice low and urgent.
"Noel, it's time to head back."
Noel nodded obediently, then turned to Roland with a sincere invitation.
"Mr. Roland, the village hostel is both crude and noisy. If you don't mind, please come stay at my home. We have plenty of spare rooms to accommodate everyone."
Roland and his companions exchanged glances before nodding in agreement.
Barick neither approved nor disapproved, simply turning away in silence and striding ahead, signaling the others to follow.
The group quickly left the bustling plaza and ascended a quiet stone-paved path that wound up the hillside, eventually arriving at a stone house built against the mountain wall.
Compared to the village's rough and simple dwellings, Noel's home was remarkably refined.
The heavy oak door was inlaid with meticulously crafted metalwork, and the window frames were carved with continuous mountain range patterns, clearly indicating the family's wealth.
As they entered the house, Noel led the way, explaining, "My parents recently went to Anvilburg to visit my aunt and won't be back for some time, so the house is quite peaceful."
He then efficiently arranged for Roland and his group to stay in adjacent guest rooms.
"Please make yourself at home here and get some rest," Barick said softly.
Roland thanked him quietly and tethered Black Wind to a wooden post in the courtyard corner.
He carefully fed his old companion some bean fodder and gently groomed its thick mane before turning back to the stone house.
He placed the still-sleeping Squirrel Joe on a soft cloth cushion beside his pillow and lay down on the bed covered with thick furs.
Yet Barick's strange expression and hurried urging lingered in his mind, leaving a persistent unease.
Unable to sleep, Roland sat up and, by the faint moonlight filtering through the window, opened the notebook on "source cores" that Monen had given him.
The parchment pages rustled under his fingertips as his thoughts drifted.
After his life-or-death battle with Malcolm, the previously stagnant progress of the Nameless Breathing Technique had surged forward again, now nearing the threshold of Level Seven.
If Level Seven proved to be the peak of this breathing technique, then that moment might be the perfect time to attempt condensing a source core.
As for the scroll suspected to contain the ancient Martial Monk tradition, the Ascetic's Proclamation, Roland had diligently practiced it without fail. He had now firmly established himself at the Third Level.
With each day of deeper practice, the scorching energy generated by forcibly tapping into his latent potential grew increasingly pronounced.
In the depths of his meditation, he felt as if he had touched an invisible barrier.
What kind of transformation would occur if he broke through it?
Just as he was lost in thought, a sudden clamor erupted from outside.
It wasn't nearby, but rather a distant commotion that seemed to be converging from afar.
Roland immediately focused his mind, silently approached the window, and pushed open the heavy wooden shutters.
On the distant horizon, in the direction of Stone Furnace Fortress, towering flames now blazed into the sky.
The fire raged with such ferocity, like a blood-red giant beast breaking free from its chains, ravenously devouring the night sky and scorching the deep darkness into an eerie, luminous day.
The searing light even illuminated the village where he stood, casting flickering shadows across his face.
(End of the Chapter)
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