Chapter 60

Chapter 60

A river flowed through the city, dividing the crowd between its two banks. Pelan tugged his hood lower, partially concealing his black hair, as the group wound their way through the bustling market stalls.

“Pelan, try this berry tart—quick! It’s delicious! Just as good as Mrs. Mapel’s baking!” Sipo thrust a fragrant pastry into his hand, urging him. “Sweets lift your spirits—you’ll love it.”

Izavel silently handed over a small sack of roasted hazelnuts. Sipo accepted it cheerfully, then promptly scooped out a handful and dropped them into Pelan’s palm.

“These roasted hazelnuts are incredibly aromatic—you should taste some too.”

The corners of Pelan’s mouth lifted faintly. He knew Sipo and Izavel were worried he felt down about Yue’s departure. Yet as a necromancer, he had witnessed far too much death—and far too many partings.

He bore no ill will toward Lou Guanyue for slipping away without a word.

Yue had always been enigmatic—reserved around everyone, even guarded. Beyond his name, he’d revealed nothing of his past or origins.

After finding him in the forest and guiding him through the Mother Tree’s revival ritual, Pelan had long suspected that once Yue’s injuries fully healed, he would likely leave the forest.

Now, it had simply happened sooner than expected.

Pelan exhaled silently. He took a bite of the tart—its sweet-tart berry jam truly did lift his mood.

*Boom! Boom!*

At that moment, the grand church’s distant bell tolled twelve times in succession—deep, resonant, ethereal—marking the arrival of the noon service.

The clamorous market fell hushed. Vendors ceased their calls; many people instinctively straightened their clothes, faces solemn as they turned toward the sound.

“Oh—the Sunday service bell of the Church of Light,” Sipo murmured, listening intently while craning his neck toward the distant dome.

As an elf devoted to the Goddess of Nature, Izavel held no animosity toward the God of Light—but now, his brow furrowed slightly.

A clear, sacred light coalesced from thin air, radiating outward from the church and enveloping the city center.

The crowd began to gather naturally toward the central cathedral. Some devout believers had already folded their hands over their hearts, softly reciting hymns extolling the Light.

Beneath his hood, Pelan’s brow tightened. That holy resonance—so deeply unsettling—grew sharper and more oppressive with each lingering chime.

Sensing danger, he pulled Sipo into the nearest shop.

Holy light could harm beings aligned with darkness. He had no desire for their “heretical” identities to be exposed—nor to flee in panic down the street together.

The church bell faded, replaced by the sharp *clang* of hammer on anvil inside the shop. The air hung thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of heated iron. Armor, weapons, and tools lined the walls.

The shopkeeper was a dwarf—broad-shouldered and solid as granite, his unruly brown beard secured by copper rings. He stood before a massive anvil, thick arms wielding a hammer with practiced precision, striking a glowing-red blade.

“Hey—how rare! My shop’s got *two* long-ears!” The dwarf glanced up, squinting briefly at Sipo and Izavel before losing interest and returning to his work. “Look all you like—just don’t touch anything sharp. Cut yourself, and don’t blame my wares!”

On the continent of Yakalanst, the finest weapons were almost exclusively forged by dwarves. Masters of metallurgy, nearly every dwarf was a skilled artisan—proficient in crafting everything from weapons and vehicles to entire buildings. Countless races sought dwarven smiths for custom armaments.

Unexpectedly, even this modest city of Sarenwell housed a dwarf-run forge. Pelan paid no mind to the dwarf’s bluntness. Instead, he studied a set of intricately carved throwing knives with keen interest—clearly captivated by their exquisite craftsmanship.

Sipo blinked his emerald-green eyes, watching the dwarf hammer away, then asked curiously, “We clearly used disguises—how did you recognize us instantly? Do dwarves have elven-level hearing?”

He was confident in his illusion magic—at least enough to fool humans easily.

Hearing this, the dwarf let out a heavy snort. He set down his hammer, pointed a soot-stained finger first at himself, then at the two elves.

Stroking his beard, he bluntly declared, “That earthy, woody scent clinging to you—I can smell it from a mile off! My nose was honed in mines and at forges—I can distinguish *any* scent! Your little disguise is as laughable as hiding ale in a doghouse!”

With each sentence, another vein seemed to throb on Sipo’s forehead.

*Why did he have to ask that question?!*

“And *you*—” the dwarf’s thick finger pivoted toward Pelan, his mustache twitching slightly—“your scent is even stranger. Cold stone… with a hint of Glowing Orchid grass. Hmm—hard to pin down, but definitely *not* human.”

Pelan instinctively sniffed his own wrist—but caught only the shop’s mingled scents of leather and hot metal.

Arms crossed, the dwarf appraised Sipo up and down. “Most importantly—it’s the *feeling*! You elves walking into my shop stand out like pearls dropped into a slag heap! You can’t fool a dwarf’s eyes!”

Sipo brightened instantly—the dwarf’s words weren’t so offensive after all.

He straightened his spine, about to reply—when the dwarf added, “Oh—I didn’t mean *you* were the pearls.”

*Rude dwarf!*

In the past, Sipo would’ve launched into a thorough discourse on etiquette with this dwarf. But with holy light bathing Sarenwell, facing this irascible craftsman, he had to suppress his temper, avoid conflict—and even feign friendliness, lest the dwarf eject them outright.

Fortunately, though dwarven temperaments grated on elven sensibilities, their forging skill was undeniably unmatched.

Sipo glanced sideways—and immediately locked onto a bow hanging on the wall, his fingers lightly brushing its taut string.

Pelan selected an elegant bracer. He lacked for offensive options, yet was deeply intrigued by one designed to conceal weapons.

“These are loaded with silver needles,” the dwarf said offhandedly, jabbing a finger toward it. “Press the mechanism—needles fire instantly, piercing mid-tier physical defense shields.” He paused, then added, “Not expensive—100 gold coins. I won’t hike the price just because you’re with long-ears.”

“Just *one* bracer—for *100 gold coins*—and you call that ‘not expensive’?” Sipo exclaimed incredulously.

The dwarf rolled his eyes. “My, *Helto’s*, work commands such a price!”

Glancing at Pelan’s slender wrist, he added proudly, “No magic or battle-qi required—just a light press. Even a little girl like him, with no strength, could drop a heavily armored warrior. What do you say?”

Pelan pressed his lips together. He was *not* a little girl—and this dwarf’s eyes were *definitely* flawed.

Izavel examined the bracer, showing mild interest in a weapon requiring neither battle-qi nor magic. “May we test it?”

Helto eyed Izavel—seemingly weighing whether the elf might damage his prized gear—then nodded. “Fine! Let you long-ears *see* dwarven craftsmanship in action!”

Just as they turned toward the backyard, the heavy forge door swung open—roughly.

Several young men in velvet coats strode in, chins tilted high, arrogance gleaming in their eyes. The noble leading them impatiently scanned the cluttered workshop—his brow furrowing instantly.

“Hey! Shorty! Have you reconsidered our earlier proposal?” The young noble tapped the nearby anvil *without permission*, using his gem-encrusted cane.

Helto’s face darkened instantly. He hated two things above all: being called “shorty”—and anyone disrespecting his anvil.

He growled, “Get out! Don’t touch my old partner! That flashy, useless design of yours? *Helto* would never forge it!”

The noble looked furious—but his companions restrained him. He yanked a scroll of parchment from his robes, unfurled it, and revealed an ornate longsword design.

“Forge me a sword worthy of my station, per this drawing—using the finest materials…” He tossed a heavy coin pouch up and down. “Money is no object. Don’t dwarves love gold above all?”

“Helto—I haven’t time for your dithering. Next month, I depart for the Sanctum.” Coins clinked enticingly. His friends behind him began shouting.

“Helto—be sensible. Jerome’s offering *1,000 gold coins* just for the labor!”

“This is a guaranteed profit! Only because Master Jerome is generous does he pay *ten times* the standard fee!”

“Don’t forget—this is a *human* city! I can shut down your shop in Sarenwell anytime I please!” Jerome raised his chin haughtily, certain the dwarf wouldn’t dare defy him.

"All flash, no substance, with a spine as brittle as paper! And you carve a hole right where it bears the stress, just to set that worthless stone of yours?" Helto crumpled the blueprint into a ball, his tone dripping with undisguised contempt. "Do you plan to dance with it, or die with it? Such trash will never be forged under a dwarf's hammer!"

Helto flung both the money pouch and the crumpled blueprint back at Jerome, his bell-like eyes glaring. "Take your stinking coins and your garbage, and get out of my forge!"

Jerome's face flushed crimson instantly. He had never been so humiliated, especially not in front of so many people!

"You, and you! Smash this ungrateful dwarf's wretched shop!" Jerome snarled, his face livid. The guards behind him drew their gleaming longswords.

"You dare!" Helto roared, snatching up the giant axe leaning against the anvil. Almost as soon as the guards moved, his stocky frame was already upon them.

"Stop!" Sipo hadn't expected these nobles to act so brazenly. He shot a glance at Izavel.

Izavel nodded. His movements were lightning-fast. Before Pelan could even see how he had taken the longbow from the wall, two brief, sharp whistles of air had already sounded within the forge.

*Whoosh! Whoosh!*

Blunt-tipped arrows struck the wrists of the two guards with pinpoint accuracy. Their longswords clattered to the floor.

As Sipo finished his incantation, a wooden vine coiled tightly around Jerome, binding him securely.

"Are you lot looking to cause trouble here too?" Sipo asked with a smile, glancing at the remaining nobles.

They hurriedly shook their heads, waving their hands. "W-we didn't do anything!"

Sipo turned his gaze back to Jerome, whose face was a mask of shock and fury. "Do you know who my father is? Release me at once!"

"I don't care who your father is!" Helto bellowed, raising his massive forging hammer, ready to teach this insolent noble a proper lesson. "Even if the king himself came here with such garbage blueprints, he'd be told to get lost too!"

Jerome's face was beet red. He struggled, managing to rise halfway, and as he lifted his head, his eyes locked onto Pelan's face.

The anger on his face was instantly replaced by shock and utter disbelief. His voice rose in a horrified screech. "The... the Sainted One?! How can you be here... that's impossible!"