https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-572-The-Battle-of-Blackstone-Mountain/13677352/
Chapter 571: Victoria Harbor, Lower District, Wilson District.
The streets teemed with life—fishermen hawking their catch, devotees of the Sea Queen, bare-chested dockworkers, and gangs of hoodlums prowling in packs. Amid this chaotic bustle, players styled as “Undead” blended in seamlessly, drawing little attention.
"Victoria Harbor’s a nightmare to play in," one player grumbled. "Upper District won’t let us in, and Lower District’s a mess—Power players jumbled together like a tangled regiment."
"Should’ve picked the Empire of Ashen from the start. They launched straight into the Demons War—some guys already hit Sixth Level."
"Tell me about it. Last time I completed a quest, those gangsters wiped me out. They even tied my corpse to a stone and tossed it into the deep sea. Real classy."
"Black-on-black crime. That’s why Ailezegai calls it the 'Sin City'—that’s the whole point."
"Hah! My bros made it to high priest in some underground cult. If things go south, I’m joining them."
"Wait—you mean the 'Immortal Cult'? The one that promises eternal undeath to its followers?"
"Seriously? There are actual idiots who believe that?"
The players chatted idly as they walked toward a towering structure that stood out starkly among the crumbling buildings—Coastal Tower. That was their destination.
"Of all the factions in Victoria Harbor, Coastal Tower offers the richest rewards."
"True. And the word is, that mysterious Non-Player Character has a shady past. Rumor has it he wiped out the Blackhand Gang and Bloodsea Sect single-handedly."
"Better start building favor fast. Might just get invited to join Coastal Tower."
Outside Coastal Tower, players milled about, murmuring and speculating. Still, they obeyed the servants’ quiet commands and cleared the main path, waiting patiently to submit their quests.
The door creaked open. A servant stepped out and called, “Next.”
“I’ll go! I came first!”
A massive player shoved past the crowd and charged inside.
Face to face with the enigmatic Non-Player Character draped in gray robes, his expression caught between a smirk and a sneer, the player dropped into a perfect 90-degree bow.
“The Hermit, we’ve uncovered traces of the Cult of the Lord of Dominion. Please, take this.”
From his backpack, he pulled out a soggy, stinking bundle—its foul scent thick in the air. He offered it with both hands.
Inside lay the head of Joel Nathan, the missing tavern owner. Decayed by damp, it was crawling with maggots.
Yet the player treated it like a holy relic. He’d even severed the head from the corpse and presented it as proof—the token of his quest.
“Not bad for a player,” Kai Xiusu thought, his avatar still wearing the guise of “The Hermit.” He kept his expression neutral as he accepted the gruesome offering.
“Well done, Undead. You’ve completed my task. You deserve a reward.”
Clink.
The Hermit waved one hand lazily. A cascade of gold coins spilled onto the wooden table before the player.
The sight of the gleaming coins, combined with the glowing message on his character sheet—Favor Level +5, Experience Points (XP) +500—made his eyes light up.
His knees buckled. He collapsed to the ground, sobbing.
“Thank you, The Hermit! You’re my rebirth parent! I’ve been alone since childhood, abandoned in Victoria Harbor… but your Coastal Tower gave me a home!”
“Out. Out, now. Waste of time.”
The maid, broom in hand, didn’t even glance up. She shoved the weeping player toward the door.
She’d seen this act too many times. Some players even resorted to staging full dramatic performances.
“Next.”
Another player stepped forward, grinning like a sycophant, and thrust a burlap sack at The Hermit.
“The Hermit, I’ve suffered through endless trials—finally, I’ve recovered Joel Nathan’s hand!”
He opened the sack.
Inside lay a bloodied, rotting stump—another severed limb, still reeking of decay.
The Hermit’s lips twitched. His eyes narrowed.
“Oh, what a clever little home. You’re breaking Joel apart piece by piece, one quest at a time. Trying to exploit the system? You’re not fooling me.”
His expression darkened. He fixed the player with a cold stare.
“Your companion already submitted this quest. Undead—don’t play games with me.”
“Y-yes, my lord! Forgive me!”
The player stammered, eyes wide with panic. “I’m screwed. My teammate sold me out.”
“Victoria Harbor’s setup is nearly complete,” Kai Xiusu mused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
As Ailezegai’s fame spread across the Feiansuo Continent, players emerged from every corner of the world. Conservative estimates placed their number at over ten million.
And those players—just now—were veterans from their past lives. Elite professionals, members of a notorious team known as the “Meme Squad.”
In their former world, they’d caused chaos across the Feiansuo Continent: destroying sacred relics of the Amanatara Church, drawing divine punishment upon themselves. That act had been committed by one of their mages.
Now, Kai Xiusu used these “Undead” players as pawns, building a new network from Victoria Harbor’s underbelly—establishing an intelligence web to counter the Mind Flayer’s plan.
The Chosen One of the Three Gods of Death had stolen the Crown of Calthas from Hell, splitting it into three Neth Stones. With them, he sought to control the Mind Flayer’s core, merging its power with the ancient necromantic arts to become the “God of Dominion.”
But the Mind Flayer was no mere puppet. It too sought to use the Crown—hoping to break free from its bindings and restore the ancient Mind Flayer Empire.
Even the Goddess of Magic, God of Justice, Sun God, and Lord of Hell each inserted their own influence, hoping to profit from the chaos.
In this tangled web of ambitions, revealing his true form would be reckless.
So The Hermit—Kai Xiusu—would manipulate players, disrupt the plans, muddy the waters… and in the final moment, claim the Crown of Calthas for himself.
And by then, the Empire of Ashen would have already conquered the Thrace Kingdom. Under the banner of “resisting the Mind Flayer invasion,” they’d march west and seize Victoria Harbor.
“The Crown of Calthas. Victoria Harbor. The legacy of the Mind Flayer Empire. I want it all.”
His fingers curled around the bronze staff. In his pale green eyes, a flicker of greed—so subtle, so easily missed—flared for just a moment.
---
Far to the northeast, Blackstone Mountain.
A colossal range stretching for thousands of miles, it loomed at the edge of the world like a slumbering beast from ancient myth. This was the homeland of the High Mountain Kingdom—the dwarves’ sacred fortress.
The mountain’s core was forged from dense, unyielding black rock, rich with veins of precious ore—hence its name.
A biting wind howled through the peaks. On a craggy ridge deep within the range stood a fortress, its walls carved from time-worn monoliths, ancient and unyielding. Moss clung to the cracks, and the passage of centuries etched faint scars into every stone tile.
The fortress gate, massive and forged from iron-hard oak and steel, bore the emblem of the Dwarf Royal Family—shield and war hammer entwined. On either side of the gate, carvings told tales of dwarven ancestors. The door handles were shaped like colossal iron fists, locked in a permanent grip.
Atop the fortress, a towering statue of Moradin, the Dwarf God, stood nearly a hundred meters tall. Lifelike and solemn, it watched over all who approached.
Inside, the fortress was a maze of rugged stone corridors, lit by torches blazing high above. Warm light spilled across the ground, illuminating the dwarves at work—hammering, forging, shouting in their deep, resonant voices.
On the turret, a dwarf in thick fur coat and a mithril crown surveyed the valley below. His face was stern, eyes sharp.
He was Aid Klein—King of Aivendeldan, ruler of the High Mountain Kingdom, beloved by his people as “King Aiden.”
Behind him, an old dwarf sighed.
“Your Majesty, our envoys have returned. The three kingdoms are locked in endless war. No one has time to spare for us. And the elders of Serrynia mock the ancient Sacred Alliance. The filthy scions of Ghuush are rising again… and we—”
The elder, Bjorn Rili, was over two hundred years old—veteran of a hundred battles.
Aiden’s face darkened. His voice boomed like thunder. His beard trembled, his hands shook with rage.
“How dare these proud, rotten elves? Don’t they fear divine punishment? If not for our dwarves—our flesh and blood—holding the line against the orcs’ southern raids, where would they be now? In peace? In safety?”
Bjorn stepped forward, handing a beautifully penned letter.
“Your Majesty, though the Serrynian elders refuse aid, the Elven Queen has pledged her troops. She says she’ll send them—but only if we wait.”
“The Elven Queen?” Aiden sneered. “Her letter means nothing. A puppet, pushed by her council.”
Bjorn lowered his voice. “Your Majesty, the one who slew the Red Dragon—‘Dawnblade’—is her staunchest ally. A legendary Holy Knight. If we can win her over, it would be a great advantage.”
Aiden’s fury softened slightly. He nodded.
“Hmph. Send a reply. Tell her we need Dawnblade’s support. But even a Legendary Holy Knight is just one man. Not enough to change the tide. And… the orcish army is nearing. They’ll be at our gates within hours.”
Aiden turned north. On the barren plateau, dark, shifting currents moved—armies of orcs, advancing.
For millennia, Aivendeldan had endured thirteen orc invasions. Never captured. Only stained red by the blood of enemies.
But now, the world was in chaos. The High Mountain Kingdom fought alone—no human allies, no elven help.
Aiden gripped his war hammer tighter.
“Then we fight alone. Bjorn—summon our warriors. Gather them at the foot of the mountain.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Moments later, the dwarf king stood atop the city wall. Below, beneath the gaze of Moradin’s statue, thousands of dwarven warriors stood packed together—clad in heavy armor, wielding war hammers, many riding sheep-goats.
The Shield Guard. The elite of the High Mountain Kingdom.
Their armor, forged by master dwarven artisans, gleamed like polished steel. Each warrior carried a hammer of unmatched craftsmanship—veterans, loyal followers of Moradin, sons of the mountain.
Aiden scanned the crowd, his voice deep and solemn.
“My people! For thousands of years, we have repelled thirteen orc invasions. We drove the followers of Ghuush back into the frozen north. But now—they’re back! They seek to conquer our fortress, enslave our brothers, turn us into slaves!”
“No!”
“Kill them!”
“Drive the gray-skinned beasts back to the north!”
The dwarves raised their hammers, waved their oak shields, roaring in fury.
Aiden’s gaze swept over every face—burning with hatred, determination, grief.
“Long ago, the great Dwarf God Moradin and the Elven God united to defeat Ghuush. Serrynia and we swore a sacred oath—to defend the north together. But now… the proud elves have broken that vow. And the humans of Fadalan are lost in chaos.”
He raised his war hammer high.
“We will prove it! The High Mountain Kingdom needs no allies! Even if we fight alone, we will drive these beasts from our land!”
His voice rose, trembling with passion.
“Brothers! Your families, your friends—they’re behind you. If you don’t want to become orc slaves—then fight!”
“Drive them out!”
“Destroy the orc filth!”
The roar of the dwarves shook the mountain walls, echoing like waves crashing against stone. One wave after another, rising, crashing.
And beyond the ridge, the orcish horde surged forward—thousands of Ghuush followers, screaming battle cries, their eyes gleaming with greed, fixed on the fortress standing defiant in the valley.
(End of Chapter)
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