When I smelled a pestilent aroma, I prepared myself. Before entering, I instructed the elf on what she had to do. Within the ventilation tunnels circulated all the pestilence—all the smells of entire underground cities, the emanations from the mines, from the forges, from the kitchens. They were highly toxic. That was why most tunnels led to the upper part of the mountain where, disguised as craters, they gave the impression of being active volcanoes, keeping creatures away. Only this tunnel and the main entrance were at ground level. When the emanations assaulted us, we both had filtration fields similar to those used in human cities. Air could enter, but anything not breathable—the runes were simple but needed to be maintained—dripped through tubes I incorporated into the original design so as not to stain our clothes. Yet the air was foul. When a small stream of liquid toxic waste had finished forming puddles at our feet, the breathing began. This tunnel still managed it mechanically. Those at the peaks used air pressure systems, but the poorest areas depended on this ventilation system, which was clearly insufficient for the number of living beings that survived here.
As I advanced, I saw the site's degeneration. The tunnel supports were worn. There was nothing I recognized as new or even half-new. Signs covered in tar and slag warned newcomers of the need to buy purifying masks, sold at the checkpoints... that was new. Not the masks—these, besides being useless since the filters clogged within hours, rendered peripheral vision useless, which was necessary to get out of here.
Halfway through the tunnel, I encountered the aforementioned checkpoint. They had absurdly excavated booths protected by grimy glass, from which a very surly-looking dwarf observed me. He demanded money to use the masks and, for a little more, some oxygen stones. The trick was that both the filters and the stones had limited lifespans. I asked how many checkpoints were in this tunnel. He replied that the proud low king had installed five to prevent labor flight and bring money to the treasury. I told him I would not use any. Unmoved, he said I would not make it to the next one. I had not advanced ten meters when I saw some quartz monsters emerging. They were strong and common in distant tunnels. Due to pollution, they had a greenish tone. But it did not matter—they were large and got in each other's way. The first, with a blow to its leg, fell to the height of my maul. I wanted to annihilate them quickly. It was strange they existed in this tunnel. They were not carnivores; they only attacked miners when they got too close to where they lived. They hated the pollution the dwarves generated. Just then, a couple of magical arrows pierced the beasts' cores, and they crumbled. I approached to see what they had eaten. Many of these were opportunities to get rich. If you managed to defeat them, they contained many alloys generated when they ate precious metals. But this one only had some copper. It seemed underfed. It was easy to break its structure—I did not even use runes. While thinking this, the elf showed me something she found.
On one of the tunnel walls, at first glance hidden, there was a door and a carved chamber. There, it was evident where they had been crammed. They were traps for those who did not pay the king. Furious, I wanted to destroy the booths ahead—for traitors, for abusers, for denigrating what it meant to be a dwarf. But even before I thought it, she stopped me. She pointed to the tunnel supports. Indeed, if I unleashed any mid-level magic, the entire structure would collapse. But I did not need to destroy this—only stop the stupidity. We took advantage of the next garbage emission to approach the booth. A small blow from my hammer or one from the hunter's knife, and the protective glass would crack. It would not be seen immediately, but they would be dead or very sick by the end of their shift—and so would all those who wanted to profit from my people's efforts.
Booths four and five also had resting areas, which the hunter informed me were nothing more than holes where a minor purification rune was active. For only three hours, at a rate of five silver coins. That was why he had a stone weapon. Perhaps he started the journey as a moderately wealthy smith, but as he advanced, he had to pay for comforts, then for survival. In the end, he was alone, poor, and dying. What an end for wanting a better life. He suffered much. No one should.
Arriving at the city, I was surprised by the filth. Rocaceleste was the first mining settlement, and as the population expanded, it became a place for small merchants. The lapis lazuli veins gave the cavern its name—it always had a faint light from the rune lamps, crafted with semi-precious metals, rivaling even the main city where the king lives. But now there were torches with much pestilent smoke. I did not see the ceiling nor the beauty. Dark dwarves and some warriors fought over an iron axe. Yet my attention was ahead. Some idiots waited for me at the entrance, wielding stone maces and, judging by the shine of their knives, they cared for them so much I doubted they used them. I had barely taken a step inside the cavern when one shouted, "I fight for the breastplate!" At the same time, they raised shouts of ownership over my pauldrons, my shield, helmet, boots. So immersed were they in the bidding that they did not notice my companion, who had already taken refuge in the shadows. The look of greed in these imbeciles was the only thing that had not changed. They were scavengers seeking to win. They were similar to those who took everything from me when I lived here—sons, perhaps, of those who forced me to go to Stormhammer. The rules were simple: whoever defeated you kept what they claimed. Even if they were twenty against one, they had only one rule: the persistent wins. So I shouted, "I fight for your lives!" As a cry tore from my chest, a small part of me rejoiced... I was home.