Chương 25: Metal Born, Metal Unborn

A novice smith once asked his master why broken metal was kept instead of thrown away. The master placed a cracked crown, a bent nail, and a shattered sword upon the table.

"This crown was once a kingdom. This nail once held a door against demons. This sword once bought a child one more breath. Tell me, boy, which of these is scrap?" The novice could not answer.

"Good," said the master.

"Then you may yet understand Kamengrad." —Workshop parable attributed to the dwarven smiths of Kamengrad Six hours after Orland and the others ran out of the collapsed mine, Zimnerudik went quiet. The sun had set behind the lead storm hours ago. Night without any lit lanterns on the street should've made the town darker, but those damned flakes were still drifting around and giving the air a faint, oily shimmer whenever moonlight touched them.

Most of the townsfolk had gone back into their homes, doors barred and shutters sealed—probably sleeping under blankets with their children tucked close, too—and they were all probably telling themselves the Hero had a plan. That the Hero would seal the rift by morning as he'd said. That the Hero would save them, because that was what Heroes did. Well, Orland hated them a little for believing him so easily, but he also hated himself a little more for giving them the lie.

Across the square, the town hall still had a bit of light through its windows. Kazimir and Nikolai were in there, probably hunched over a time and continuing to draft messages to every nearby settlement that had a wall, garrison, or maybe just a pulse. Nikolai had some sort of Celestial-Class relic called a 'stardial communicator' that allowed him to contact other soldiers in the region who had the same relic, so now the two of them were calling from reinforcements and emergency aid.

'Send blades, send doctors, send rift sealers, and send everyone you can spare to Zimnerudik'. That was the message Kazimir planned on using to solve this mess. Orland, however, wasn't half as smart or half as well-connected as the old wolf was, so his plan was much simpler. He stood at the collapsed mine entrance alone, sleeves rolled up, hair dirty, and kept trying to dig through the rubble with his bare hands. It wasn't like his mana was completely out.

Since the Rift Sealing Corps had managed to yank out two dozen demon corpses from the mine before it collapsed, he'd shoved about twenty, maybe even thirty Common-Grade demon hearts down his throat for dinner, but that was only five hours ago. He glanced at his wrist now, hoping to see something out of the ordinary.

Mana: 78/162 (+13. 4/hr) He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Even having changed out of his regenerating clothes, his evercoat coat, and having taken off his mask to increase his mana regeneration to the max, he was still only at less than half of his full mana capacity. He couldn't afford to use his gauntlet here just to clear the debris—and he wouldn't have enough mana to clear out all the debris, anyways.

So digging by hand was his plan, and he'd made very little progress since he started working on it two hours ago.

In fact, he was basically making zero progress. He shoved both hands against a boulder jammed into the rubble pile and pushed until his arms shook. The rock didn't move. Not even a little. It sat there fat and stubborn in the cave-in, surrounded by packed debris, broken timber supports, lead-stained dust, and heavier stone buried beneath even heavier stone.

But thin astral lead flakes drifted through the little cracks between the collapsed pieces, scraping faintly against his skin whenever a gust escaped from deeper below. That meant there was still air moving inside. There was still a path somewhere inside. Orland grit his teeth and punched the boulder. Pain immediately shot through his knuckles even through the gauntlet.

"Move," he snarled under his breath, then punched it again.

"Move, you fat… rock bastard." It didn't move. If he had a month or two—maybe even three or four—he could possibly clear out the whole cave-in simply by using his gauntlet. He didn't have three or four months, though. He didn't even really have a day. The rift was growing by one grade an hour, and if it was already at Uncommon-0 grade when they stormed into the fifth lower mineshaft, then it'd be… Uncommon-4 now? Maybe even Uncommon-5? That God-Sucking Leech was Uncommon-7.

A whole flood of Uncommon-7 demons pouring out into Zimnerudik would turn this town to ashes. No way. No fucking way I'm letting that happen. He dug his fingers into a crack between rocks and pulled with another small surge of strength. Pebbles shuddered loose, and a fist-sized chunk rolled down and struck his boot. Some dust fell as well, but that was all. He stared at the pathetic little gap he'd made after hours of work and started breathing harder.

"Come on," he whispered, more to himself than the rubble.

"I promised. I said I'd do it, so I'll—" A heavy footstep sounded behind him, and he glanced back sharply, only turning half his face. Miriyela stood there with Sharsana beside her, both of them half-lit by the manalight lantern on the princess' hip.

"... Go away. I'm busy," he muttered, scowling and turning back to rubble. Miriyela said nothing.

"If you wanna talk about marriage again, do it later," he kept grumbling.

"If your wounds and bruises still hurt, just take the flask from my hip and drink. Just… leave me alone. I've got this." Still nothing. That annoyed him enough to glance back again, but by then, Miriyela and Sharsana had already stepped forward. Without a word, the princess planted both hands against a boulder twice as large as the one Orland had failed to move, braced her legs, and shoved. The boulder shifted with a grinding groan.

Sharsana joined in an instant, digging her claws beneath the stone and pushing with her armored snout. Together, princess and mole-drake rolled the boulder free from the cave-in and sent it thudding aside, dust falling over their heads. Orland stared at the boulder. Two damn hours. And now she just moves it in under ten seconds. A childish part of him wanted to be angry, but instead he was just mostly relieved. So he shut his mouth, turned back to the cave-in, and started digging again.

For a while, none of them spoke. That was probably better. Orland didn't trust his mouth right now. Miriyela and Sharsana did all of the heavy moving, prying out boulders and dragging broken beams aside, while Orland handled the smaller debris and loosened packed stone wherever he could get his tiny little fingers between the cracks. The work finally became real with Miriyela and Sharsana there.

A dip formed in the rubble pile, then a shallow trench, and then it became a full bite taken out of the collapsed entrance. It was still nowhere near enough, but—"You seem desperate, Great Hero." Orland's fingers froze around a loose timber shard. Miriyela's didn't. She kept working without looking at him, respecting his face with a severe lack of a mask.

"You…" she began quietly, "you do not truly have a plan to reach the rift again, do you?" And there it was. The knife in the gut. … Has she figured it out? For a second, he could almost hear his whole lie falling apart. Miriyela asking why the Hero didn't know his own prophecy. Kazimir standing nearby with that miserable 'I told you' stare. Nikolai's face collapsing. The townsfolk realizing the boy they'd cheered for was just some slum boy wearing a dead man's mask and promising dawn with empty hands.

He opened his mouth, already grabbing for a grin, an excuse, anything—but Miriyela spoke again before he could. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

"But desperation does not shame you," she said coolly.

"You are the Great Hero, yes. You are the champion blessed by fate. You are the lion-masked dawn beneath the shadowed sun. Yet, none of that means your path to the Demon King shall be laid smooth beneath your feet." Orland paused. Then he hazarded a small, small glance at her as she kept pulling away at the rubble.

"I am not so foolish as to think the Hero must always know how to win in the very first breath of battle," she said.

"Of course, the Hero must always present himself as an indomitable lord of war—and I admire that you stood before the town and gave them hope with a bright smile, as a true Hero should—but at the end of the day, the prophecy of the Hero is not a prophecy of easy victory. It is a journey of becoming. You may be Uncommon-Grade now, as am I, but there are countless demons out there right this moment that can crush us both beneath their hooves without looking… and stronger Heroes than you have already died."

Miriyela paused for a moment, before scratching the back of her head.

"I guess… uh, what I wanted to say was…" she mumbled, "it is… okay for you to be weak at this moment. I am your prophesied companion. I was supposed to have led you to victory against that four-horned demon, and I… failed." For a while, it was Orland's turn to stay silent. Somewhere in the town, a baby cried. Somewhere behind them, a particularly strong gust of lead-infested wind scraped across a roof. Sharsana nudged a smaller rock loose with her snout and gave a low rumble at that. Orland eventually swallowed.

"... What's Kamengrad?" he asked. Miriyela immediately snapped her veiled face towards him, and he had to look away just a little to hide his face.

"You are interested in my homeland?"

"No. I just… realized I don't know where or what that actually is."

"Then allow me to speak of it properly." She turned around, looked across the square, and pointed towards the town well. Orland followed her finger. The well stood in the center of Zimnerudik's square, built from dark polished stone with carved metal bands wrapped around its rim. He'd noticed it before—mostly because it was too pretty for a mining town that otherwise looked like it'd been built by miners for miners. The carvings stood out especially.

There were engravings of winding roots, little crowned drakes, deep arches, and all sorts of super fine carvings that looked like they were made with needles instead of the usual carving tools.

"What do you think of that well?" Miriyela asked. Orland glanced at her. Then back at the well.

"Well, it's pretty, I guess. The carvings are nice. Looks expensive, though." A proud note entered her voice at once.

"That is Kamengrad work. Surface-dwelling masons may have repaired and maintained it over the years, but the bones of it are undoubtedly ours. The arching rim, the metal rootwork, and the fine engravings around the stone— that is Kamengrad." Orland looked at the well again with new interest.

"Of the many dwarven kingdoms that reigned beneath the surface of the world, Kamengrad alone stood as the greatest dwarven kingdom of all," Miriyela began, lifting her head.

"Kamengrad dwarves were the strongest dwarves. Our vaults of gold were the deepest vaults. We were the kingdom of joined craft. Stones, metals, beasts, relics, and machines were not separate arts to us, and for centuries, we were unstoppable in our ever-moving march of architectural progress." Sharsana lifted her head at that as well, almost as though both of them were seeing the past right in front of their eyes.

"Our engineers shaped roads through mountains where men said no road could pass," Miriyela said proudly.

"Our architects built halls so vast that clouds formed beneath their ceilings from furnace steam. Our warriors marched in molescale armor, hammer to hammer, shield to shield, and when the royal bloodline rode forth with their mole-drakes, entire underworlds changed shape beneath their feet. We even flourished through trade with the surface-dwellers. People from Ostravia, Thalassene, and distant Chongzhou came to buy our metals, borrow our craftsmen's hands, and learn our techniques for metalworking with relics."

She stole a glance at him then, seemingly smiling from the corner of her lips.

"Did you know? It is often said in Ostravia that for every hundred fine pieces of craftsmanship that move you to tears, at least half of them were shaped by Kamengrad dwarven hands. Our kingdom even sang to those who could not normally hear their song." Orland blinked.

"Sang?"

"Oh, yes. All metals sing to dwarves," she said, placing one gauntleted hand over her chestplate gently.

"Iron tends to hum quietly. Copper tends to laugh softly. Silver rings thin and proud, and gold carries warmth even when cold to the hand. All dwarves can hear the songs of metals, but Kamengrad was built with metals so old, deep, and mighty that even non-dwarves could hear its song. Visitors from the surface would stop at our gates and weep because they thought choirs were hidden in the walls, but there were no choirs! Hah! Kamengrad was truly a glorious kingdom, and one I am proud to call home!"

Then she went quiet. And her eyes, behind that dark veil of hers, seemed to close slowly.

"... However," she said quietly, lowering another chunk of stone onto the growing pile beside them, "for all of Kamengrad's glory, the King of Demons recognized our true strength long before many surface-dwellers did. He understood that the dwarven kingdoms beneath the world were dangerous to his kin. Thus, when demonkind began its conquest of the world in earnest a hundred years ago, they came for all of us first." Miriyela continued working as she spoke, but her movements had become slower.

"The neighboring kingdoms fell before us. One by one, the songs of their fortresses vanished from the depths. Their gates were broken. Their kings slain. Their people devoured. Kamengrad stood alone while the rest of the underworld burned around us," she said.

"And still, for nearly an entire century, Kamengrad endured. We held our tunnels. We collapsed our roads when we had to, and we built new roads when the old ones fell. We reforged and repaired our relics faster than the demons could dull them—but in the end, it was no use. Ten years ago, a Fiend of Calamity reached our walls, and I was only ten when our gates fell." With that, the princess looked down, and her voice grew fainter.

"I watched an army of demons flood through the breeches," she whispered.

"I watched railways that had connected entire districts collapse into molten ruin. I watched the streets I had played in and the marketplaces I had indulged in burn to ashes. I watched our brave warriors die standing. The royal fortress where I lived may have held on longer than the rest of the city, but…" Slowly, she reached towards the back of her waist, and when she withdrew her hand, she was holding a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Carefully unfolding it, she revealed the half-broken crown again—silver flowing through gold, gold flowing bronze, and bronze flowing through colors he couldn't name. Now that he was looking at it closer, he could tell it was truly a work of art.

"After they had slaughtered all my siblings, cousins, and distant relatives, my father—the late King of Kamengrad—pulled me aside and gave me his crown," she said, holding it up with both hands.

"It is made of vezhramir, the deepest and most resonant metal ever forged by mortal hands. Vezhramir can be transmuted in any type of metal in the world, and for that, it is exceedingly rare—so when my father placed his crown into my hands and told me to run with Sharsana, I did." She looked down at the broken crown. Sharsana lowered her head as well.

"So… I ran," Miriyela whispered.

"The two of us fled through the tunnels of last resort beneath the fortress while Kamengrad died behind us. I heard its songs growing quieter and quieter until eventually, there was nothing left to hear. I never saw my father again. I ran for years and years, throwing my pursuers off through the winding routes of the underworld, until I eventually reached the surface." Then she stashed her crown away slowly, giving him a soft laugh.

"So for the past five years, I have wandered Ostravia aimlessly. I did mercenary work, demon hunting, caravan escorting… anything that paid me enough to survive another week. I had nowhere else to go until I finally heard, three months ago, that I was named as one of the prophesied companions of the Fifth Hero." Miriyela looked at him then. And though her face was still covered by that impossibly dark veil, Orland could tell almost immediately—and surely, without a shadow of doubt—that she was smiling.

"In that instant, it was as though the fog that had been suffocating my heart in a grief-addled haze just faded away," she said.

"If I were to serve the Fifth Hero well, then I could avenge my family. I could avenge my kingdom. I came to the Hero because I wanted to take back what was taken from all of us…" she trailed off for a moment.

"And to make them pay for what they have done. For what else is a princess' purpose but to serve her kingdom, though her kingdom may be ashes?" A shiver crawled up Orland's spine as she said that. Miriyela didn't waver.

"... And that is why I will always believe in you," she said quietly, shaking her head as she returned to moving the debris again.

"Whether you are merely putting on a brave face or not does not matter. My father always said that there are many paths one may take through life, for all life is like metal. At birth, we are all crude ore. It is through heat, pressure, hammering, shaping, cooling, and tempering that we may become something greater. Metal can change. Metal can adapt.

Metal can become whatever it must become—and the Hero alone is the crude ore that will endure the greatest pressures, the hottest fires, and the coldest winters to one day become the strongest metal there is." Now Orland's chest suddenly felt tight as well. He could… hear his pulse pounding in his ears as something caught in the back of his throat. I have many paths, huh?

"The Hero alone walks the impossible path of demon-killing," Miriyela whispered, "and the Hero alone bears the prophesied burden of slaying the King of Demons, so if I could lessen your burden and help you become even just a little bit stronger, I… uh, shall do whatever it takes. Even if it means following you into death." Then she coughed awkwardly.

"Though naturally, I would still prefer if you agreed to marry me. You would be a great king. After all, what better king is there than a man who would smile before their concerned citizens while secretly toiling away in the dark, free from prying eyes—""Many paths?" he muttered out loud. Miriyela paused for a bit. It didn't seem as though she'd heard what he just said, though, so she kept rambling on.

"I mean, we should deal with this rift first," she said hurriedly.

"The marriage ceremony can come later. There must be a banquet and guests and celebration of all kinds, jesters and songstresses pulled from the nations of arts far and wide—""Many paths?" he muttered again. The phrase kept bouncing around inside his head. Many paths. Many paths. Many… paths? His gaze drifted up toward the tiny streams of lead-infested wind still escaping through the cracks of the cave-in. Then his eyes widened.

"Stop digging," he said. Miriyela turned on him cautiously.

"Great Hero?"

"I've got it."

"You have got… what?" He backed away immediately, nodding to himself as he looked at the cave-in up and down, then up and down once more. He definitely hoped a weird smile wasn't on his face, but Miriyela had already seen his eyes without his mask. At this point, he couldn't be worried about his shitty face.

"I think I've got an idea on how to get down there," he said, "but, uh… it's gonna sound fucking insane."