The Conquerors Path

Chapter 860: Chapter 858-There Is Darkness Even In Talent.



"Want to buy anything? We've got some time?"

I asked with a small smile, my gaze sweeping across the bustling streets of the Foundry. Dwarves hurried past us, their movements efficient and purposeful, every step and gesture seemingly contributing to the hum of industry that filled the air.

Zora looked around, her wide eyes taking in the chaos. "Do you think they'll even give us the time of day? They all seem so busy..."

I chuckled softly at her observation. "You're not wrong. The ones here are always busy. They're the lifeblood of the city, after all. But," I said, my tone dropping slightly, "you know as well as I do that there are levels to every sector. And where there's light, there's always darkness."

Zora's gaze snapped to mine, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

I gestured toward a narrow alleyway that branched off from the main thoroughfare. It was easy to miss amidst the glimmer of molten metal and the glow of enchantments. Shadows clung to its edges, and the air around it seemed heavier, almost suffocating.

"Come," I said, my voice quieter now. "There's a side to the Foundry that few talk about. A side where the heat of the forge doesn't reach."

The transition happened so gradually that I almost didn't notice it at first. One moment, we were surrounded by the rhythmic clanging of hammers and the proud shouts of craftsmen in the Foundry proper, and the next, those familiar sounds began to fade away like the last notes of a dying song. Zora walked close beside me, her shoulder occasionally brushing against mine as if seeking reassurance in this increasingly alien landscape.

"Something's different here," she murmured, her words catching in her throat. I watched as her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, taking in the way the proud metal facades of the main Foundry workshops deteriorated into walls that seemed to weep with decades of accumulated grime. "The air itself feels... wrong."

I breathed in deeply, tasting the bitter cocktail of industrial decay on my tongue. "This is where the Foundry stops pretending," I told her, watching her reaction carefully. "This is where it shows its true face."

The alley opened up before us like a wound in the city's flesh, revealing a sprawling maze of makeshift dwellings and forgotten dreams. The contrast with the gleaming streets we'd left behind was almost physically painful. Where the main Foundry boasted smooth, well- maintained cobblestones, here the ground was a treacherous patchwork of broken stones and exposed earth, littered with the skeletal remains of failed inventions and discarded tools. Against the walls, lean-tos made from scavenged sheet metal leaned at precarious angles, their surfaces painted in rust and regret. Tattered clothes that might once have been proud banners now served as makeshift doors, offering their residents the illusion of privacy if nothing else.

The dwarves here moved like ghosts through their own lives. I watched as Zora noticed the difference - the way their shoulders hunched forward as if carrying invisible burdens, the hollow look in eyes that had seen too many dreams shatter. These weren't the proud artisans who strode through the upper Foundry with their heads held high. These were the casualties of Kharaldur's relentless pursuit of excellence.

"I don't understand," Zora whispered, her voice cracking as we passed a group of children playing with broken gears in the dirt. Their laughter seemed forced as if they were trying to convince themselves that this was normal, that this was okay. "How can this exist in the same city? How can people just... ignore this?"

I stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "Because it's easier to pretend it doesn't exist. The successful ones up there" - I gestured toward the distant spires of the main Foundry - "they tell themselves that talent always rises to the top. That if you're down here, you deserve to be."

We passed a stall where an elderly dwarf sat with trembling hands, arranging rusted tools into careful patterns. His beard, once probably a source of pride, was matted and streaked with grey ash. As we watched, a well-dressed merchant walked past, his eyes sliding over the old dwarf as if he were invisible.

"Why stay?" Zora asked, her voice thick with emotion. "If it's this bad, why not leave?"

I led her toward a broken fountain that served as a gathering place for the locals. "Leaving isn't as simple as walking away," I explained. "For a dwarf, the Foundry isn't just a place - it's their identity, their purpose. Even here, in what they call the Forgotten Lanes, they hold onto hope. Sometimes hope is crueller than despair."

As we ventured deeper into the slums, we came across a massive structure that seemed to embody the soul of this place. The Broken Forge stood like a fallen giant, its once-proud chimneys cold and silent. Graffiti covered its walls - not mindless vandalism, but desperate prayers and angry manifestos etched in metal and stone.

"This used to be the workshop of Master Thornhammer," I told Zora, watching as she traced the outline of a particularly poignant message: 'Remember us.' "He was brilliant, innovative, pushing the boundaries of what was possible with metal and magic. Then, he failed to complete a royal commission. Just once. That's all it took."

"What happened to him?" Zora asked though I could tell from her expression that she already knew.

"No one knows. Down here, people have a way of disappearing into the shadows. Some say he still works in the deepest parts of the Lanes, trying to perfect his final invention. Others say he walked into the Broken Forge one night and never walked out."

As we stood there, a young dwarf caught my attention. He couldn't have been more than twelve, but his eyes held the weight of someone much older. He sat cross-legged on the ground, working with intense concentration on what appeared to be a small mechanical butterfly. His tools were crude - mostly salvaged from discards - but his hands moved with surprising precision.

Zora noticed him, too. "Look at his eyes," she said softly. "There's still fire there."

I nodded, feeling something stir in my chest. "That's the real tragedy of this place. The talent doesn't stop existing just because the Foundry stops recognising it. Some of the most innovative work I've ever seen has come from these lanes - but without the right connections, the right background, the right opportunity..." I let the thought trail off.

The boy looked up, catching us watching him. Instead of turning away, he held up his creation. The butterfly's wings were mismatched, crafted from different types of scrap metal, but when he wound the tiny key in its side, they moved with a grace that took Zora's breath

away.

"Sometimes," I said, watching the mechanical butterfly dance in the dim light, "I wonder if the real failure isn't with these people at all. Maybe the failure is with a system that throws away so much potential."

My words made Zora think of her past, no doubt, a situation in the world where she was shunned and pushed away just due to the fact there existed none that was capable of truly seeing through her own talent, one to guide her through, no one to show real strength in her power, reaching her thoughts here she turned her gaze towards me.

"This...is this how I would have ended up?"

To her question, I just looked at Zora, not responding, she bit her lips a bit, her heart being mixed with a lot of complex emotions from what she just saw. Thus, Zora reached into her spatial pocket and pulled out a small bag filled with gold coins, no doubt. She walked over and held it out to the boy, who looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

"It's not much," she said, "but maybe it'll help with your next creation."

The boy took the bag carefully as if it might disappear at any moment. A smile cracked his dirt-streaked face, and for just a moment, the Forgotten Lanes didn't seem quite so forgotten as the boy gave Zora the butterfly gear, she took it gently and placed it along with her as she

asked something.

"What is your name?"

To which the young dwarf replied.

"Zaon."

Zora nodded at that, carefully keeping away the butterfly gear as she spoke.

"I shall wait for the day this simple gear will be worth the world."

Her words made the eyes of the young dwarf widen, small pools of tears at the edges of his eyes, after which he resolutely nodded his head with that, Zora walked away, not turning

back.

As we made our way back toward the light and noise of the main Foundry, Zora was quieter than I'd ever seen her. "We can't fix this, can we?" she finally asked.

I looked back at the maze of alleys and broken dreams we were leaving behind. "Maybe not all at once," I admitted. "But every revolution starts with a single turn of the gear." The sounds of the proper Foundry grew louder as we approached, but they seemed different now hollow, somehow. And I knew that Zora, like me, would never again be able to walk through those gleaming streets without thinking of the shadows they cast and the people who

lived in them.

In the distance, I could still hear the faint whirring of a new mechanical butterfly's wings, defiant against the gathering dark.