*Date: 33,480 First Quarter - Iron Confederacy*
The outpost was abandoned by dawn. The inn's fire pit was cold, broken doors hanging loose in the wind. Demir and his companions lashed the surviving cart together with scavenged rope and stripped nails. Piled high in the wagon were the remnants of their mine haul - raw ore, broken tools, and what little food they had left. It was all they owned now.
The road to Iron Confederacy's trade quarter took the better part of a day. By the time they rattled through the stone arch, Demir's legs felt like they were made of iron themselves. The cart wheels squealed against the cobbles as they dragged into the small market square.
Inside his usual stall, Moradin was already haggling with a pair of dwarves over a crate of smoked fish. His beard twitched when he saw Demir, Timmy, Sin, and Marco approaching with the loaded cart.
Moradin grunted. "By Odin's hammer, ye look like death walked itself. What happened?"
Demir stepped forward, shoulders slumped but voice steady. "Everyone at the outpost taken. Goblins raided us. Not just raided - they're enslaving people. We saw the camp... forges, chains, a whole industry. They took everyone inside the caves to mine."
Timmy's voice cracked. "We can't go back there. But we can't just leave them either. We need help."
"They are the new supplier of materials, aren't they? They give you ores and ingots, you give them this." Demir pulled out the helmet from the cart.
"Put that back in, boy. Yes, they are the new ally, apparently. No one seems okay with it, but the elected prince is acting on his own. He wants to be reelected, I presume. The truce and cheap mines will increase his votes. He thinks."
Demir puffed angrily. "Just like Timmy said, we need help."
Moradin sighed heavily, motioning them into the corner of the stall. "Help? Bah. Lad, I'm a merchant, and a small one at that. I peddle sword, shield, and armor if I'm lucky. I can't march against goblins. And I can't shelter ye here - Confederacy guards don't take kindly to strays."
Demir slammed his fist against the cart's rim. "Then where do we go? We can't live on the road forever, and if we don't get strong enough to fight back, they'll keep taking more people. My friends are still in those caves. I won't abandon them. Not again."
The old dwarf studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing, beard twitching with thought. Finally, he leaned close, lowering his voice.
"There is one place. A secret I hadn't thought to share again. Back through the mountain, deeper than most miners would dare, lies an old shaft that breaks into a secluded valley. They won't let you access from the city. You have to walk around the mountain. Twenty hours' walk from here if ye keep steady. Few know it even exists."
Marco frowned. "A valley? And what more ruins?"
Moradin shook his head. "Not ruins. A town. Small, stubborn, half-forgotten. Old dwarves live there retired smiths and craftsmen. Too old to serve the Confederacy, too cranky to quit their forges. They work for the love of it now, or for the memory of their fathers. No markets. No armies. Just old stone, smoke, and hammers."
Timmy's eyes brightened. "We could live there? Learn from them?"
Moradin jabbed a finger at Demir. "Maybe. If ye convince them. But mind my words: they're old, and cranky, and don't give a damn for human troubles. They'll test yer patience, boy. Especially Brovick - aye, Brovick Ironspine, most bitter dwarf I ever met. If he doesn't throw ye out with his cane, ye might learn to swing a hammer."
Demir straightened, his jaw set. "Better than waiting here to die. If there's even a chance, we'll take it."
Moradin let out a long sigh, then clapped Demir's shoulder. "Then take it ye shall. But ye'll have to drag that cart with ye. They'll respect nothing but what ye can carry and craft. If ye reach them, tell Brovick that Moradin Goldbranch still owes him a barrel of ale."
---
The road through the mountain was cruel. The cart groaned with every stone, its wheels splintering on the rough path. Marco cursed with every step, while Timmy and Sin rotated shifts pulling alongside Demir. The path was narrow, lit only by their lantern and the faint glow of the moon.
By the second day, their hands were blistered, feet bleeding. Yet as they rounded the final bend, the air changed - fresher, cooler. Light spilled ahead, pale green.
When they camped for eating and resting, Marco couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"I was away, living by myself for so long. I am trying to understand what you are all thinking, but being this silent about it won't help."
"I think we're all thinking, calculating. How can we take down their operation and take back our friends and family. I already lost a member of my clan. Someone entrusted to me. Someone I loved like a brother. I won't lose anyone else. Especially when they trusted me," Demir said.
"If we make good gear head to toe, can't we get them? You fought 5 to 1, Demir. With scraps," Timmy said.
"But what is good gear, though? Also, how long would it take to create, learn, and craft? They might die there," Sin added.
"I... I... was a tester for the game. I have these glasses to see grades and specialties. NPCs can't tell. Well, most NPCs." Marco drew a pair of glasses - nothing that would peak interest if someone didn't know about it.
"Not NPCs..." Demir corrected.
"All right, all right. I worked in Realmforge nearly twenty years. It was the terminology. Locals can differentiate grades F to E, E to D. Some masters can tell if gear is enchanted. And grandmasters can enchant, add runes, strengthen with ease. But they were limited content - only grinders could reach them to make themselves A-tier weapons with strong, overpowered enchantments."
Sin and Timmy were listening like they were hearing the great history of their world.
"S-tier items were usually sold via auction houses by the company. In a thousand years, only select few became legendary artisans and made their broken S-tier items."
"I know it's a hard road, but it's our only road," Demir said.
"I am not saying we can't do it. I am saying everything you make, we can see if it's good or not. Information locals don't have, and since we're not racing against other players, if we build smart, we can get them back."
"All right!" Demir was invigorated with the information. They ate, rested, and started walking again.
---
They stumbled out onto a ridge. Below them lay a valley cradled between cliffs, a scattering of smoking chimneys and squat stone houses nestled in terraces. Thin lines of farmland wound along a stream, and faint hammering echoed across the rock.
Timmy gasped. "It's real..."
Sin leaned against Demir's arm, exhausted. "We made it."
Marco just stared, hollow-eyed. "Gods in heaven. We actually made it."
Demir's gaze fixed on the smoke rising from the forges below. His hand tightened on the cart's handle. "Then let's not waste it. If these dwarves will have us... we'll learn. We'll grow strong. And then..." His eyes hardened. "We'll go back for the others."
The cart rattled forward, down into the secret valley, toward the smoke and the sound of steel. But as they descended the winding path, Demir couldn't help but wonder: would the old dwarves accept them? And even if they did, would they have enough time to become strong enough to face an army of goblins?
The hammering grew louder with each step, and somewhere in that rhythmic pounding, Demir heard the first notes of what might become their salvation - or their funeral march.