Garrett immediately wanted to find a mask to wear.
Forging, miners, spitting, dark gray viscous phlegm. These keywords put together immediately brought a word to Garrett’s mind:
Pneumoconiosis is a collective term for a group of occupational lung diseases caused by long-term inhalation and retention of various pathogenic production dusts in the lungs during occupational activities, mainly characterized by diffuse fibrosis of lung tissue. Pneumoconiosis itself is not terrible, but what’s frightening is that it often comes with a series of complications: respiratory system infections, pneumothorax, pulmonary tuberculosis, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease...
Imagine someone with pulmonary tuberculosis coughing and spitting in front of you; it’s definitely necessary to wear a mask! Moreover, it seems that dwarves have much stronger constitutions than humans. To dwarves, it’s just a minor ailment, but to humans, it could easily knock them down!
I don’t want to die of tuberculosis! I want to wear a mask!
It would be best if it’s an N95...
Sorry, there isn’t one. Despite his best efforts, Garrett had only prepared a batch of Wulian masks and bubble spells to cover his head. However, if he put on a mask as soon as someone spat at him, Garrett felt that he wouldn’t be allowed into the mithril area.
They would collectively ostracize him to death!
Garrett didn’t get angry. If he got angry at this level of disdain, after more than a decade in the emergency department, he would have developed tension pneumothorax long ago. Instead, he crouched down a bit, looked the old dwarf in the eye, and earnestly advised:
"Sir, if you feel uncomfortable in your throat, it’s best not to drink alcohol."
Alcohol increases the burden on the heart and lungs, irritates the gastrointestinal tract, and damages liver function. Whether it’s pneumoconiosis, pulmonary tuberculosis, or simply a respiratory tract infection causing coughing and phlegm, it’s best not to drink alcohol...
The old dwarf paused. He instinctively wanted to say something, but seeing Garrett’s serious and concerned expression, he swallowed his words. Turning back to the tavern, he shrugged his beard up and down, still muttering something.
Garrett watched his stout figure disappear into the tavern, still drinking, and couldn’t help but shrug his shoulders slightly, smiling bitterly. At this point, he realized that he should cast a healing spell on himself—although he didn’t know if it could prevent or treat tuberculosis infection, at least it was better than nothing.
The level 5 mage next to him gave him a tug:
"Hey, you offended him."
"Dwarves hate it most when you don’t let them drink..."
"But he’s still coughing, it’s really better not to drink alcohol."
"What’s that got to do with you?"
"I’m a healer. If I see it and don’t say anything, it’s not right."
In the end, they didn’t immediately enter the forging area but settled down in a wooden house outside. As they chatted, Garrett learned that the level 5 mage was named Taylor Denfrees, thirty-eight years old, a local from Nevis, specializing in the Transmutation school of magic. Due to a previous explosion in a laboratory, he had to sell himself to pay off his debts and took on the task of stationed here for two years.
"Those dwarves are so difficult to deal with..." When it came to his own task, Mage Denfrees complained:
"Each one is stubborn, obstinate, and loves to drink. Every day, except during working hours, they’re just making a ruckus in the tavern. If you want them to do more work, unless that old man in charge speaks up, they won’t listen to anyone. That old man is cunning...
Last time, I asked them for ten more pounds of mithril, and he extorted me for ten barrels of liquor! Ten barrels!"
Garrett: "...Ignoring whether this deal was reasonable, won’t the dwarves be even less inclined to work if they’re drunk?"
"That’s not necessarily the case. There are two to three hundred dwarves in this forging area. Ten barrels of liquor is just enough to moisten their throats... Oh, what are you doing?"
Garrett spread out a large canvas and was busy cutting and sewing it together, then used a mending spell to join it together to make himself some clothes... He had come in a hurry and hadn’t had time to buy fire-resistant protective clothing for the forging area, so he could only make it himself...
Early the next morning, Garrett and Mage Denfrees, led by the old dwarf, made their way deep into the forging area. The forging area was deep inside the mountain, passing through two sets of iron gates, inside the main road on both sides were one forging room after another. Walking deeper inside with Mage Denfrees by his side, Garrett muttered to himself:
"Why are you dressed ? It’s so ugly... Afraid of getting burned? Don’t you have mage armor?"
Garrett glanced at him helplessly. Mage Denfrees was wearing flowing robes, equipped with mage armor, energy resistance, and arrow protection—a complete three-piece set. The last spell, Garrett guessed, was mainly to guard against splashing sparks. All three spells were invisible, and they didn’t seem to affect his appearance at all.
"But you’re a level 5 mage, and I’m only level 2..."
"You don’t know this spell, I can cast it for you!"
However, Garrett had no courage to entrust his life to someone else. He and Bernard were exactly the same, wearing thick canvas fireproof suits, long-sleeved trousers, and tight cuffs. Without ready-made fasteners, Garrett even found a piece of Sorrel and used magic to stick it to the edge of the clothes...
Clothes, outerwear, hats, shoe covers, all made of thick canvas. With a Wulian mask on his face and a bubble spell on top, fully armed, he had the courage to enter the forging area. As for how Mage Denfrees would mutter and ridicule him, Garrett said, he couldn’t care less...
Inside the forging area were not individual furnaces but a series of flowing magma pools. As Garrett walked a few steps closer, he saw bright red magma bubbling in the pools, bubbling and bubbling. A strong smell of sulfur hit him, and Garrett secretly regretted not wearing a gas mask...
"Waste! The iron ingot hasn’t softened yet!"
Suddenly, a loud roar echoed in the room.
The whole forging room buzzed, and Garrett was startled, almost stepping back. He saw a dwarf in front of a pool of fire, bowing his head, pushing the almost squeezed-out iron ingot forward again, and plunging it back into the magma.
observed that the dwarf being scolded had slightly smoother skin on his face and his beard wasn’t as long, while the one scolding him had wrinkled skin and his beard, even braided, still hung down to his chest. Swinging a hammer the size of a beer mug, clanging and clanging, clanging and clanging, on the anvil, sparks flying.
Why don’t they shave their beards? With this method of pounding, aren’t they afraid of accidentally burning their beards?
Garrett didn’t want to comment on the dwarves’ labor protection level. He followed Mage Denfrees and walked inside, without any dwarves greeting him proactively, or even giving him a proper look. Wanting to pull someone over for an introduction or something, Garrett looked around and simply gave up on this idea.
The further they went, the brighter the color of the magma in the pools, and when they reached the last forging room, even with the magic effect of resistance to cold and heat, Garrett felt suffocated.
"This is where the mithril is smelted..." Mage Denfrees told him loudly. Even if he didn’t speak loudly, the deafening sounds of clanging and banging all around made it almost impossible to hear oneself think.
Garrett craned his neck to look inside, only to see a particularly grand pool of fire in the center of the room, about half a person tall and five to six meters in diameter. The edge of the pool was shining, with a row of magic symbols embedded in it. Three or four rows of steps were built around the edge of the pool, and a dwarf with a beard trailing to the ground was busy by the poolside.
Several other dwarves were at least three meters away from him. This pool was particularly active, with magma spurting up from below, accompanied by steam. The color was bright, shining white, and occasionally, there was an explosion.
Garrett hesitated for a moment. Before he could decide, a middle-aged dwarf walked out of the room, with gray braids hanging down to his waist, blocking their way with a swagger:
"You! You’re not allowed in!"