A Hospital in Another World?

Chapter 206

"Not allowed in?"

Garrett Nordmark instinctively halted his steps.

Years ago, when they had collaborated with nearby large steel enterprises and visited steel mills, it was akin to being guided every step of the way, not daring to misstep. After all, hearing phrases like "the steel beneath is at 1650 degrees," "this vat weighs around 140 tons empty, holding 260 tons of molten iron," "if this pipe is mishandled once, the spray could kill someone"...

It’s not just about refraining from saying too much or walking too far, brothers.

Even though this was just the dwarves’ forging area and not some top-notch factory, the principle remained the same. Even if there were only three or five dwarves moving around inside, Garrett understood deeply that just because professionals could navigate it, didn’t mean non-professionals could.

What if something exploded? Molten lava spewing out at over a thousand degrees, several thousand degrees, relying on mage armor to withstand it? Garrett believed in his own luck...

He immediately stood still outside the forge, seeing Mage Denfrees wanting to argue with the dwarves blocking the door, he reached out and tugged on the hem of his robes. Mage Denfrees grumpily stepped back, and the dwarves with braided beards raised their heads even higher, loudly stating:

"Wait outside! It’ll be over soon!"

One of them brandished a hammer—a size smaller than what Garrett saw from the outside, with a hammerhead just the size of a fist—and vigorously struck the door twice. Simultaneously, distant knocking resounded from various forges.

"Clang!... Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!"

The first round of knocking filled the forge with the cacophony of hammering and shouts, deafening;

As the second round of knocking commenced, the forges from the main entrance to the mithril area gradually quietened down;

After the third round of knocking, apart from the hurried footsteps, the cave was left only with the howling wind and occasional crackling of molten lava.

The dwarves filed out of the forges in groups. They tidied their robes with hands stained black with soot, dusting off the coal ash from their leather skirts, lining up neatly on the central passage. From the entrance closest to the mithril area to the gate near the mountain wall, row by row, they knelt down.

Mage Denfrees quickly pulled Garrett aside. The two mages, oh, and Bernard following closely behind, squeezed into an inconspicuous recess, watching the dwarves kneeling in perfect order, praying in unison:

"Our great Father God..."

Huh, what are they doing?

Is it time for prayers?

Garrett cautiously peeked out from behind Mage Denfrees, then retracted, then revealed half an eye, looking around carefully. The dwarves’ prayers grew louder and louder, and finally, each hand grabbed a hammer, banging rhythmically on the ground...

Garrett: No wonder the path here is so uneven... banging on the ground three to five times a day, it’s impossible to repair it...

Amidst prayers and banging, the flames in the mithril area suddenly surged. The lone elderly dwarf tending to the fire pit quickly bent down, scooping something from the center of the pit, sparks flying, and dashed towards the back with long iron tongs. In a moment, behind the fire pit, the same prayers could be heard:

"Our great Father God..."

The voice was slow, hoarse, tinged with a sense of weakness, yet resounding, as if made of solid metal. Just listening to it evoked an indescribable sense of awe, silently growing from the depths of the heart.

Garrett stood quietly in place, listening to the prayers behind the fire pit, resonating back and forth with the voices of the dwarves in the passage, becoming increasingly intense. As the prayers reached their peak, a burst of bright light suddenly erupted behind the fire pit, so bright that even the roiling lava and soaring flames couldn’t overshadow its brilliance—

Garrett couldn’t quite say what he saw. All he saw was a dazzling white, light streaking like dragons. In an instant, a series of information popped into Garrett’s mind:

Intense light, welding sparks, sunglasses, photokeratitis...

He instinctively closed his eyes. The intense light flickered on and off, repeatedly. After a while, the prayers finally ceased, and the heavy footsteps gradually returned to the forge. The first dwarf who spoke earlier brought out a wooden tray, and in the center of the tray lay five gleaming metal bars:

"Today’s mithril. Take it!"

As the tray was passed forward, it nearly poked Mage Denfrees’ thigh.

The fifth-level mage hurriedly caught the tray, his movements somewhat clumsy, shoulder to shoulder with the braided dwarf, walking into an adjacent room. Weighing, registering, signing on both sides to confirm the correctness, Mage Denfrees finally stored those metal bars, carefully sealing them in a bronze box.

"You see, this is mithril." Watching the departing dwarves, Mage Denfrees shrugged helplessly:

"We go through all this trouble every day, just for this tiny bit, barely enough to make a bracelet—can’t even have thick arms. Last year, Master Mendro returned from the battlefield, wanting to repair his Staff of Radiance, took away 30 days’ worth of mithril in one go, unbelievable!"

Just as he said that, outside the room, there was a chaotic sound of footsteps again. Mage Denfrees immediately pushed the bronze box, stood up, bowed his head, and stood solemnly:

"Master Talbert, you’ve worked hard."

No one responded to him. Garrett imitated his posture, bowing his head solemnly, discreetly looking outside—luckily he bowed his head, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen a group of dwarves forming a circle, surrounding—or rather, supporting—an unusually elderly dwarf, slowly walking away.

The old dwarf’s hair was all white, his arms weakly resting on the shoulders of the braided dwarf, his head hanging low. The flickering firelight in the passage illuminated his wrinkled and shriveled skin, which looked as if it had no muscles underneath. Sweat dripped from his temples and the tips of his beard, leaving wet footprints with every step he took.

Huh... the magic or sorcery used to create mithril... was it so tiring? When the teachers and the bald archbishop cast their spells, they never seemed to tire like this?

Just as he was thinking this, the old dwarf suddenly raised his head, erupting into a fit of violent coughing. The coughing was heavy, with obvious phlegm, gasping for breath after each bout. Garrett instinctively stepped forward, wanting to ask a few questions or check up, only to see a group of dwarves behind him raising their hammers, staring intently at the old man, murmuring prayers...

Garrett: !!! Let’s talk things out, no need for violence!

The hammers soon gleamed with white light. They struck the old man one by one. With this support, the old man’s breathing gradually eased, even managing to walk without assistance. Garrett stood at the doorway, watching him leave, until Mage Denfrees whispered softly:

"This master is 352 years old... he’s the leader of these dwarves and a thirteenth-level senior priest. Only he can lead the dwarves in using divine magic to smelt mithril... if you want to try to increase mithril production, you can try to catch him at the tavern later..."

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