CHAPTER 226: CHAPTER 227: A PROPER SUIT FOR TROUBLE

The echoes of the arena faded behind them as Noel and Balthor exited through one of the side tunnels. The distant roar of the crowd still lingered, a reminder that the tournament was far from over. Matches were ongoing—Anastasia’s, and later Charlotte or Elena.

Noel glanced back briefly.

He wanted to watch them.

But something else had already pulled his focus.

[New Mission: Find the 5th Pillar and deal with him.

Reward: ???

Time limit: 25 days.]

The message pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision before vanishing.

A soft ticking sound echoed in his head—subtle, yet constant.

He exhaled slowly.

’Now that I think about it... it doesn’t say "kill" the Fifth Pillar. Just... deal with him.’

’That’s not like the others...’

He adjusted the strap of his sword and kept walking beside Balthor through the wide stone roads of Tharvaldur. The city was alive even at this hour. Lampposts glowed with soft manalight, casting warm hues across clean-cut walls and archways. Stalls had closed, but taverns were still buzzing, and the stone beneath their feet was warm from the heat stored during the day.

’Well... I’ll do what I have to.’

Balthor walked ahead with his hands behind his back, humming an old dwarven tune.

The mission timer had started ticking.

Noel’s time was running.

The path ahead curved through a broad main street, its walls carved directly from the mountain’s stone. The air smelled faintly of iron and baked bread. Magic lanterns floated in neat rows above them, glowing softly as the city settled into its nighttime rhythm.

Balthor walked with a steady pace, clearly enjoying every step.

"This place brings back memories," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "Like I told ya, I was born here. Back when the mines ran deeper and the streets weren’t this polished."

Noel glanced around. "Looks like it’s grown a lot."

"Too much in some ways," Balthor grunted. "New buildings, new shops. Half the old ones are gone. Some things better, some worse. Even the king’s changed. Figured the last one would rule forever—eighty years on the throne, and then just dropped dead."

"Eighty?" Noel raised an eyebrow. "That’s... pretty decent."

"For humans, maybe," Balthor said, smirking. "We expected another century or two out of him. Shame, really. This new one’s only been king ten years. Still smells like marble polish and ceremony."

Noel tilted his head. "So how does it work? Do dwarves vote? Like a council or something?"

Balthor let out a bark of laughter. "Democracy? Gods, no. Same as Valor’s imperial line. It’s passed down. Except the last king died without heirs. So the clans had to choose someone. From what I heard, the vote was a mess. Took weeks."

"Huh," Noel said, looking ahead. "I figured dwarves would just arm-wrestle for it or... bash each other with axes until someone gave up."

Balthor gave him a sideways glare. "Those are the kind of dumb-ass stories humans like to spread when they’ve never met a proper dwarf."

Noel held up a hand, mock-surrendering. "Hey, I’m just saying what I imagined. You lot do have a reputation for swinging hammers."

"Yeah, and humans have a reputation for saying stupid things out loud."

They walked in silence for a few seconds before Noel looked around again.

"...So... how far is this place?"

Balthor didn’t answer immediately.

"We’re close," he muttered. "If it’s still open. Been fifty years since I last dropped by."

Noel sighed and kept walking. "That inspires confidence."

The road narrowed as they turned off the main path. The ceiling of the tunnel ahead dropped considerably, and the space grew tighter. The stone turned darker—less polished, more worn.

Noel eyed the low alley with skepticism.

"Are we... still in the city?" he asked, ducking instinctively. "Feels like we’re heading into a mine shaft."

"Relax," Balthor said without turning around. "The ceilings aren’t made for string-bean humans. And besides—we’re almost there."

After a few more steps, Balthor stopped in front of an old stairwell descending into the ground. A faded wooden sign hung crooked above it, the lettering barely readable. The whole storefront looked like it had been forgotten by time.

Noel frowned. "This is the place?"

Balthor ignored the tone. "If he’s still around... yep."

Noel looked at the chipped paint and creaky door. "Sure you didn’t hallucinate this place sometime back in the other generations?"

"Quit whining and follow me."

They descended the stairs. The door at the bottom looked even more unremarkable—plain stone frame, no windows.

Balthor knocked once, then opened it without waiting.

Noel followed—and stopped cold the moment he stepped inside.

The interior was nothing like the outside.

Polished white marble tiles stretched across the floor, gleaming under warm crystal lighting. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something spicy. Rows of mannequins stood at attention—some dwarf-sized, others full human height—each dressed in immaculate suits, cloaks, robes, or enchanted battlewear.

Shelves of fabric lined the far walls in colors and textures Noel didn’t recognize. A soft instrumental melody played in the background, subtle and refined.

"...Okay," Noel muttered. "This is... not what I expected."

Balthor glanced back at him with a grin. "Surprised, kid?"

"Yeah," Noel admitted, blinking. "A bit."

He walked slowly down the first row, eyeing a dark navy cloak with silver embroidery. It looked expensive.

Really expensive.

"Better not touch anything," he added quietly to himself.

Balthor chuckled behind him. "Don’t worry. Noriel doesn’t bite."

A soft ding echoed as a side door opened behind the counter.

A dwarf stepped out with practiced poise, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored black suit. He had slicked-back gray hair, a trimmed beard, and wore a single red-tinted monocle over one eye. Everything about him radiated professionalism—until his eyes landed on Balthor.

He froze.

Then blinked.

Then broke into a loud, incredulous bark of laughter.

"Well I’ll be damned," the dwarf said, voice rich and gravelly. "Look who crawled out of the stone cracks."

Balthor grinned. "Missed you too, Noriel."

Noriel stepped around the counter, arms open.

"No fucking way. I thought you died in a tavern brawl or got buried under your own debt. And now you stroll into my shop like it’s still the old times."

The two dwarves clasped forearms, then pulled each other into a rough shoulder-check that could almost pass for a hug.

"You look worse than I remember," Noriel added, stepping back.

"And you still talk too much for a tailor," Balthor shot back.

Noel watched with mild amusement as they bantered.

Noriel finally turned toward him, eye narrowing behind the monocle.

"This the human?"

"He’s the one," Balthor confirmed. "Needs something sharp. We’re heading somewhere important."

Noriel gave Noel a quick once-over—boots, belt, posture, expression.

"Hmm." He adjusted his monocle. "Alright. I can work with this."

He extended a hand.

"Noriel Stoneweave. Master tailor, enchantment specialist, and occasional miracle worker. Welcome to Iron Thread."

Noel shook his hand, firm but cautious. "Noel."

"Good name," Noriel said. "Now let’s get you into something that doesn’t scream ’student with secrets.’"