Chapter 291 - "Forgeheart Crucible!!"

The laughter didn’t stop.

It rolled across the stone path like thunder, like avalanches breaking free from distant cliffs.

The two dwarven guards clutched their stomachs, armor clanking with every violent shake of their bodies.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—!"

"OH BY THE ANCESTORS—THE BRAT SAID IT—HAHAHAHA!"

Their mocking joy burst so loudly that dust trembled loose from the towering gate above them.

Behind Luca, the party stared—confused, breathless, still injured from the long climb yet frozen in shock at the dwarves’ reaction.

Aurelia blinked hard.

"...Luca, what... exactly did you say?"

Lilliane leaned forward, whispering as if afraid of provoking another ear-shattering laugh.

"What is a... Forgeheart Crucible?"

Kyle, still holding his ribs from where he was launched earlier, stared at Luca as though he had revealed he was secretly the mountain king.

"When the hell did you learn dwarven death-sentence words?"

Selena narrowed her eyes. "I have read every known book on dwarves. I’ve never heard of anything with that name."

Sylthara simply gazed at Luca’s back—quiet, observant, but with a small crease of worry forming between her brows.

But the one Luca addressed—

the only ones who truly understood the gravity of those words—

were still laughing so hard their beards shook like startled badgers.

At last, the first dwarf wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, straightened with a snort, and fixed Luca with a long, scrutinizing stare.

"Oi, lad..."

he said, voice dropping from mirth to something harder.

"How in all molten forges do ye know about that, brat?"

A beat of silence.

The air tightened.

Even the wind paused as though eavesdropping.

The dwarf’s voice carried weight now—not mocking, not belittling.

Just wary.

Suspicious.

"Where did ye hear that name?" he demanded.

"That trial hasn’t been spoken of in decades. Not since—"

His lips pressed into a thin line.

"—since ’that’ happened."

Behind Luca, several necks craned forward.

That?

What is that?

But Luca only met the dwarf’s stare with calm, unshaken eyes.

His thoughts whispered dryly:

Of course I know it. I played this damned game more times than you shaved your beard.

But I can’t just say that, can I?

So Luca merely shrugged, posture loose, expression unreadably serene.

"From wherever I may have heard it," he said lightly.

And then—

something shifted.

His eyes narrowed—not in anger, not in hostility, but with a slow-burning confidence.

A glow of quiet arrogance.

A glint of pride.

The same look a king might wear while granting mercy...

or a god while issuing a challenge.

He stepped forward—

slow, deliberate—

and looked down at the dwarven guards as if measuring them.

"As for the Forgeheart Crucible," Luca said, voice lowered into something almost dangerous,

"why don’t we skip the questions..."

His aura flickered faintly—subtle, but enough to make the air stir.

"...and instead tell me—"

His gaze sharpened.

"Can you stop us from challenging it?"

Aurelia’s breath caught.

Kyle’s eyes widened.

Selena’s fingers tightened on her staff.

Lilliane’s mouth opened in a silent gasp.

Sylthara’s pupils trembled.

Everyone expected the guards to attack as they did with Kyle.

The dwarves, however—

did not look insulted.

They looked...

amused.

Slow, creeping grins stretched across their stone-hard faces.

"Well then," the first dwarf murmured, raising his axe and placing the flat of its head against the ground.

"If ye’re that eager t’court death..."

The second dwarf stepped to the side, muscles coiling.

"...we might as well see if ye can even handle walkin’ through our front door."

Before anyone could react—

the first dwarf swung his axe upward and slammed its haft into a massive iron bell embedded beside the gate.

DNNNNNNNNNNG—!!

The sound exploded outward like a physical force—

a shockwave that rattled bones, cracked air, and sent dust spiraling in violent eddies.

Everyone flinched.

Selena threw up a barrier of frost around her ears.

Aurelia braced her spear and channeled aura into her palms.

Sylthara wove mana through her elven nature’s mana to shield her hearing.

Kyle winced, holding a trembling fist to the side of his head.

Lilliane nearly buckled but forced mana to ripple and cushion the destructive sound.

Even Luca had to raise a thin veil of aura around his ears.

DNNNNNNNNG—!!

The bell rang again—

louder.

Then again.

Five times total.

Each strike sent a pulse rolling down the mountainside, echoing into the deep halls of stone.

Somewhere far behind those gates—

deep within the mountain—

gears began to turn.

Ancient ones.

Forgotten ones.

The mountain itself seemed to wake.

With a heavy grinding groan, the massive gate—

carved with runes older than kingdoms—

began to part open.

Stone scraping stone.

Dust falling like ancient snow.

Warm orange light spilling from inside like the breath of a giant furnace.

The dwarven guard turned back to them with a grin that almost seemed... welcoming.

"Come on in," he said, his voice a mix of mockery and genuine anticipation.

"Seems the dwarven lands’ve been silent for far too long."

The gates groaned open, stone scraping against stone, and a wave of heat rolled over them—dense, metallic, and tinged with the scent of molten ore. It felt less like stepping into a city and more like stepping into the heart of a colossal furnace.

Inside, the dwarven capital unfolded in layers of firelit brilliance.

Rows upon rows of forges lined the streets—more numerous than actual homes—each one roaring, spitting embers, or pulsing with a steady glow. Chimneys belched thick coils of smoke upward, tinting the cavernous sky in a hazy copper hue. The paving stones underfoot were warm, almost humming with residual heat from centuries of constant forging.

Dwarves emerged from every direction the moment the bell’s final echo faded.

Sweat clung to their thick brows and braided beards. Leather aprons were half-charred, hands calloused, and muscles hardened by lifelong hammering. Some carried tongs, others massive hammers, still glowing metal clutched between them as they paused mid-work and turned toward the newcomers.

Their eyes—sharp, perceptive, and faintly amused—locked onto Luca’s group like they were some strange traveling troupe that had wandered into the wrong mountain.

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

"Oi, what’s the ruckus? Thought we were under attack!"

"Highest emergency signal... who triggered it?"

"Those brats? These skinny lot?"

"They don’t look like challengers. The bell must’ve been rung by mistake."

"Eh? Don’t tell me someone invoked that tradition again?"

The dwarves spoke loudly, unfiltered, their voices booming as naturally as the forges behind them. Their dialect was rough, clipped, full of guttural consonants—the kind that felt like it belonged to stone and fire.

Kyle looked around with widened eyes, his head turning from forge to forge like he was watching ten different explosions at once.

Lilliane held her hands close to her chest, blinking rapidly as dwarven children with soot-smeared faces peeked from behind an anvil like she was some exotic flower.

Sylthara studied the architecture with quiet fascination, her fingers brushing the warm stone walls as if comparing them to ancient elven craftsmanship.

Selena scanned the murmuring crowd with analytical precision, trying—and failing—to identify the dwarven customs swirling around them.

And Aurelia remained closest to Luca, her brows knitting, her eyes flicking from the murmuring dwarves to the volcanic glow of the city, and then back to Luca’s unreadable calm.

Luca, on the other hand, walked through the chaos with the serenity of someone touring a familiar place. His expression didn’t shift. His gaze didn’t waver. He almost looked like he expected every whisper, every stare, every reaction.

Which only confused the rest even more.

Aurelia finally reached out and tugged lightly at Luca’s sleeve, leaning closer so only he would hear.

Her voice was low, breath warm against the roaring heat of the forges.

"Hey... what’s this Forgeheart Crucible you spoke of?"

***

Deep beneath the dwarven capital, far under the streets and forges that ordinary smiths worked in, the mountain opened into a colossal cavern—the Great Underforge, a place almost no outsider and very few dwarves ever laid eyes on.

It was not illuminated by torches or lanterns.

It was illuminated by fire—but not normal flame.

A golden inferno roared at the center of the forge, bright enough to paint the entire cavern in molten hues. It burned with such intensity that the surrounding metal walls glowed white-hot, warping and trembling under its breath. Every exhale from that fire was like a dragon’s fury—violent heat waves rippling outward, devouring all moisture, all life, all mercy.

A human would die before their nerves even registered pain.

Even a dwarf could last hardly a few seconds before turning to dust.

Into this impossible heat stumbled a single dwarf—. His beard was tied with ceremonial iron rings, yet every ring glowed red as if melting. Sweat poured down his face only to evaporate instantly, leaving streaks of white salt across his cheeks. His lungs burned, every breath scraping his throat like molten sand.

He forced himself forward, boots cracking against the heated stone.

"H–Haaah...! C–Come out... Elder!!!" he screamed, voice cracking.

Only the roar of the golden fire answered him.

"E–Elder!!" he shouted again, louder, desperation shredding his voice. His skin blistered, beard ends catching ember-light. He was shaking now, vision swimming.

Still no answer.

He tried again, a final trembling shout—

"E–EELD—

ELDER THRAIN!

"

His legs buckled.

The dwarf collapsed onto one knee, then to both, his palms sizzling the instant they touched the stone. He grit his teeth to keep from screaming, but the agony was overwhelming.

The golden fire surged.

The air split with a deep, thunderous WHOOOM.

And then—

A shadow stepped out of the flames.

Slowly. Purposefully. As if the inferno parted for him.

A towering dwarf—broad as a boulder and twice as immovable—emerged holding two massive war-hammers, one in each hand. His beard was braided with blacksteel, his shoulders wrapped in chains that glowed faintly with molten runes. His entire body radiated heat, but not a single hair on him was burned.

His eyes burned with a molten gold that mirrored the fire behind him.

"Hmph," he rumbled, voice deeper than the mountain itself. "You call yourself a member of the Elders’ Council, yet you can’t endure the warmth of a forge meant to test children."

He slammed one hammer down first.

BOOOOOM

.

The entire underforge quaked.

Then the second hammer.

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!

.

Dust fell from the cavern ceiling. Forges hundreds of meters away shook. The golden fire behind him roared in acknowledgement, as if greeting its master.

"Speak," he commanded.

The collapsed elder coughed, skin blistered, beard singed, struggling to lift his head.

"S–Someone..." he stammered, voice breaking, "ha–has... ch–challenged the..."

Even saying it felt like sacrilege.

"...Forgeheart Crucible."

For a heartbeat, the cavern went silent—no flames, no echoes, nothing. As if the mountain itself held its breath.

Dwarf elder Thrain who stood in the fire did not blink.

Then his lips curled.

A low, rumbling chuckle rose from his chest.

"Heh..."

Then louder.

"Hehehe..."

Then—

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

His laughter exploded across the underforge, bouncing off molten walls, shaking anvils off their stands. The fire behind him surged higher, flaring violently as if delighted.

He spread his arms wide, hammers blazing with golden light.

"The Forgeheart Crucible..." he thundered. "A trial where the weak are melted away... where the unworthy are shattered... where one’s very soul is placed upon the anvil!"

The flames roared as if answering his declaration.

"A forge where hearts are tempered in divine flame,and wills are hammered until only truth remains!"

He grinned, a fierce, terrifying grin that showed the pride of ancient dwarven blood.

"So be it," he growled, fire swirling around him like a crown.

"Let the mountain awaken."

"Let the forgehammers sing again."

"Let the Crucible burn brighter than it ever has!"