Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Customs of Iron

The stone floor of the Great Workshop District was never truly still. It possessed a sub-sonic tremor, a constant, rhythmic thrumming that originated from the gargantuan geothermal pistons and steam engines buried in the lower strata of the mountain. The vibration traveled through the thick soles of Dayat’s boots, creating an eerie sensation as if the entire city of Karak-Zorn were not a city at all, but a colossal, breathing organism made of rock and metal.

Dayat stepped out of the brass-lined elevator, his left hand instinctively tightening its grip on Dola’s fingers. Behind them, the stolen Brassvale logistics carriage—now looking battered and soot-stained—was being towed by two Iron-Oxen. These were magnificent, blocky mechanical beasts forged from blackened steel, their eyes glowing with the steady hum of internal Mana-crystals as they pulled the heavy carriage toward a vast, open courtyard known as The Customs Plaza.

The Plaza was a smuggler’s nightmare and an engineer’s temple. The towering walls were carved from solid black basalt, reinforced with massive copper plates etched with containment runes. In every shadowed corner stood Earth-Shielders—Dwarven elite guards encased in thick plate armor, leaning on heavy, steam-venting axes. Their faces were as unyielding as the stone they protected.

“Park that piece of Lowland junk over there!” Borkum Steel-Eye commanded, gesturing with a gold-ringed hand toward the center of a circular stone dais. “Thalgrun! Stop fondling your bolts and get over here! We have some ’antiques’ from the East that require a formal audit!”

From behind a chaotic heap of interlocking copper pipes and half-finished gears, a Dwarf emerged who looked significantly more disheveled than Captain Grimbar. His graying beard wasn’t braided with the usual Dwarven precision; instead, it was tied back haphazardly with loops of copper wire and stained with grease. Over his left eye, he wore a three-layered mechanical loupe—a magnifying lens device that whirred and clicked as it adjusted its focus automatically. This was Thalgrun, the Senior Technician of Terragard and Borkum’s right hand, a man known for a pathological obsession with mechanical anatomy.

Thalgrun didn’t offer a greeting. He bypassed the humans entirely, running straight toward the Brassvale carriage. He sniffed the air near the exhaust, then produced a small silver hammer, tapping the water tank with a series of rhythmic pings.

“The steam reeks of cheap sulfur… the pistons are firing out of sync… typical human rush-job,” Thalgrun muttered in a gravelly voice. He finally turned his head, the mechanical lenses on his eye spinning rapidly as they scanned Dayat from head to toe. “You… the owner of this scrap heap? Where is your technology export permit? And where is the schematics ledger?”

“I don’t have an export permit, Master Thalgrun,” Dayat replied calmly, though he felt Dola’s grip intensify. He had to play the part of the desperate fugitive perfectly. “As I told Minister Borkum, we are survivors. This vehicle was merely a means of transportation we… ’borrowed’ to cross the Wailing Woods alive.”

Thalgrun snorted, his nose wrinkling. He began to forcibly dismantle the hidden storage compartments beneath the driver’s seat. He tossed out the remnants of their journey: a cracked Brassvale compass, a few standard wrenches, and some dry rations. However, his spinning lenses locked onto an object Dayat had left in the corner of the bench—a small, black LED Tactical Flashlight. Dayat had manifested it back in the forest, but the battery had died hours ago.

“What in the depths is this?” Thalgrun hoisted the flashlight high, holding it like a holy relic. “No steam vents. No oil reservoir. The material… it feels like metal, yet it is as light as dried bone. And there are no Mana-engravings on the surface. How do you trigger the ignition?”

Dayat realized this was a pivotal moment. To a Dwarf, craftsmanship was everything. If he showed too much, they’d dissect him; if he showed too little, they’d throw him out.

“It’s a simple illumination tool from… my homeland,” Dayat explained. “It doesn’t use magic. It operates on the principle of directed particle flow through a semi-conductor.”

Thalgrun tried to find a seam to unscrew the casing. He began to grow frustrated, his brow furrowing. “There are no bolts! No rivets! How did you join these plates? Did you fuse them into a single solid part? That would make it impossible to repair if it fails! Utterly foolish! Who builds a tool that cannot be mended by a hammer?”

Dayat offered a thin, calculated smile. He allowed Thalgrun’s ignorance to be his shield. “Where I come from, Master, we prioritize the efficiency of mass production over the ease of individual repair. We build a thousand identical units so that if one breaks, you simply replace the module.”

The concept of “replacing” rather than “mending” seemed to physically pain Thalgrun. Borkum, observing from a distance, began to tap his foot impatiently.

“Forget the toy, Thalgrun. Check the woman,” Borkum ordered, his voice echoing in the basalt chamber. “I’ve felt a dissonance in the air since we were in the elevator. Her presence doesn’t register correctly in the mountain’s breath.”

Dayat’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was the moment he had dreaded. Thalgrun stepped toward Dola, his mechanical lens whirring as it switched to the highest magnification. Dola stood perfectly still, reverting to her formal assistant mode, though her blue eyes were sharp—a silent warning that she was not an object to be handled.

“She… is too symmetrical,” Thalgrun whispered, his face now only inches from Dola’s. “Her skin lacks the irregular pores of a Lowland human. Her respiration is too steady. And her heartbeat… it is incredibly slow and rhythmic. Like a first-class hydraulic pump.”

Thalgrun reached into his leather tool pouch and produced a device shaped like a crystal sphere embedded in a silver claw—the Eye of Aether. “If you are human, this crystal will pulse green as it interacts with the natural Mana flow in your blood. If you are an illegal Brassvale Automaton or a Soul-Bound Golem, the crystal will scream red.”

He raised the Eye of Aether toward Dola’s chest.

Dayat moved instantly. He stepped into Thalgrun’s personal space, his hand catching the Dwarf’s wrist before the crystal could touch Dola. The move was fast and decisive, startling the Senior Technician.

“Please maintain your distance, Master,” Dayat said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. “Dola is my wife, not an experimental machine for your amusement. In our culture, examining a woman with such intrusive tools without consent is a grave insult.”

Borkum let out a mocking, barking laugh. “Insult? In Terragard, national security stands a head taller than your pride, Human! Thalgrun, continue! We do not harbor ’Anomalies’ blindly!”

The tension in the Plaza spiked. The Earth-Shielders tightened their grips on their axes, the hiss of steam from their armor filling the silence. Lunethra, who had been leaning casually against a basalt pillar, finally stepped forward. Her emerald eyes shimmered with a subtle, ancient light.

“Minister Borkum, Master Thalgrun…” Lunethra’s voice was like a calming melody, yet it carried the weight of centuries. “As an Elf who has seen more winters than both of you combined, I can personally vouch for this woman’s soul. She belongs to a rare lineage whose bodies naturally repel external Mana—a trait common in the deep barrens of the West. If you force that crude sensor upon her, the feedback will likely shatter your crystal.”

As she spoke, Lunethra’s fingers moved beneath the folds of her emerald cloak. She began to weave Moonlight Weaving—a high-level illusion spell that manipulated sensory perception.

Thalgrun, oblivious to the manipulation, stubbornly pressed the Eye of Aether toward Dola again. As the device neared her heart, Lunethra redirected the ambient Mana from the cavern’s crystals, refracting it into the Eye’s sensor.

The crystal pulsed with a soft, steady green glow.

Thalgrun stared at the device in confusion. “Green? But… my heart-rate sensor says she is a machine. The harmonics are all wrong!”

“Perhaps your heart-rate sensor requires recalibration due to the geothermal heat of this level, Master,” Dola replied, her voice cold and cutting. “Or perhaps you are simply unaccustomed to seeing a human with optimal biological health.”

Thalgrun looked disappointed, but he couldn’t argue with the green glow of the Eye of Aether. He retracted the tool, muttering under his breath about “equipment fatigue.”

Dayat felt the air return to his lungs, but he knew he couldn’t stay on the defensive. He had to distract them. He had to give them something else to obsess over—something dead, something they could take apart without threatening Dola.

“Minister Borkum,” Dayat called out, reclaiming the initiative. “I understand your skepticism toward our origins. But rather than wasting time scrutinizing my wife, why don’t I show you something that will make every machine in Karak-Zorn run twice as smooth?”

Borkum raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Twice as smooth? Bold words for a man with a broken carriage.”

Dayat closed his eyes. He visualized a blue cylindrical can with a red cap and a thin, transparent straw. He thought of the chemical composition: refined mineral oils, aliphatic solvents, and a proprietary blend of anti-corrosive agents.

[MANIFESTATION: WD-40 SPECIALIST – PROTECTIVE WHITE LITHIUM GREASE.]

A blue spray can appeared in Dayat’s hand. Without hesitation, he walked over to the massive elevator lever that had been screeching earlier. The iron joint was dry, covered in a fine layer of rust and rock dust.

Sreeeeeet!

Dayat sprayed a thick, white viscous fluid directly into the screeching joints. He worked the lever up and down several times. Instantly, the sharp, grinding metallic sound vanished. The lever moved with a silent, buttery smoothness that looked almost supernatural.

Thalgrun practically lunged at the lever, his magnifying lens clicking furiously. He touched the white grease with his finger, sniffed it, and then rubbed a small amount onto a nearby metal plate.

“This… what kind of lubricant is this?” Thalgrun shrieked, his voice hitting a high note of excitement. “It’s not whale oil! It’s not boar fat! It adheres to the metal like a second skin and reduces friction to near-zero! How did you achieve such chemical balance without alchemical refinement?”

Dayat handed the can to the stunned Dwarf. “It is the result of ’Chemical Precision,’ Master Thalgrun. Consider it a small gift for allowing us entry. If you find it interesting, I have far more ’Logic’ to share—provided we are granted the asylum we seek.”

Borkum saw the madness in Thalgrun’s eyes and knew his Senior Technician was “hooked.” He cleared his throat, trying to regain his ministerial dignity.

“Very well. Thalgrun will likely be busy analyzing that fluid until the tenth bell,” Borkum said, adjusting his sash. “Grimbar, escort them to the Guest Sector in the Mid-District. But remember, Human… do not attempt to manifest anything dangerous without my explicit authorization, or I will ensure you end your days in the deepest mines of the Under-core.”

The Other Side of the Plaza

In a quiet corner of the courtyard, Kancil sat on a wooden crate, his eyes glued to the small screen of his Gamebot. The rhythmic bip-bip-bip of the Tetris melody had attracted the attention of a young Dwarf boy with flaming red hair and soot-stained cheeks. This was Durn, an apprentice in Thalgrun’s workshop whose current job was sweeping the forge-slags.

“What is that noisy thing, Little Human?” Durn asked, peering over Kancil’s shoulder with intense curiosity.

“This is a Gamebot, Bro,” Kancil replied without looking up, his thumbs moving with lightning speed as he rotated a long block. “It’s not for the faint of heart. It requires high-level cognitive focus.”

Durn narrowed his eyes, his Dwarven pride wounded. “I am not faint-hearted! I’ve already forged my own kitchen knife! Let me try that noisy box!”

Kancil smirked, handing the yellow device to the apprentice. “Be careful, it gets faster the better you do. If you lose, you have to tell me where the best place in this city is to find… confidential information. Deal?”

Durn accepted the challenge with burning eyes, completely unaware that he had just walked into the information-gathering trap of Bakasa’s finest street informant.

Dayat watched from a distance and smiled. Kancil was always adaptable. Meanwhile, Dola stood at his side, staring down at her hand, which Dayat was still holding firmly.

“Your heart rate analysis showed a 25% spike in physiological stress when Thalgrun approached me, Dayat,” Dola whispered.

“I just don’t like people touching my wife, Dol,” Dayat answered honestly.

Dola was silent for a moment, then she slowly leaned her head against his shoulder as they began to follow Captain Grimbar toward the residential district. “Thank you. While I am capable of neutralizing that Dwarf in 0.8 seconds, I find your method of protection… much more efficient for my emotional processing.”

Behind them, Lunethra watched the interaction with a faint, mysterious smile. She knew Dola’s identity was a ticking time bomb. In a city filled with mechanical masters like Terragard, that secret wouldn’t stay buried forever if they weren’t careful. But for now, they had bought themselves a place in the stone.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep