Chapter 1083: Chapter 1065: The Prophecy of the Lonely Mountain
"This area used to be the most prosperous commercial hub in the northern part of the Middle-earth Continent. The dwarves mined countless amounts of gold and gemstones from the Lonely Mountain, which then flowed through trade into River Valley City and Long Lake Town."
"Those were truly good times."
Balin’s eyes glistened with tears as he gazed at the dwarf wind crossbows on the tower outside, as if reminiscing about a bygone era.
"Gold and gemstones were not just money; they brought markets and orders, honing the craftsmanship of our dwarves. Back then, the areas between the Lonely Mountain’s foothills and River Valley City boasted various large markets, even the toy market was the largest in the North."
"To protect their city and the prosperity of trade, the Lord of River Valley City, Jirian, came to the Lonely Mountain and placed an order with us. He asked us to forge weapons capable of defending his city in any danger."
"Thus, we researched day and night, delving into ancient texts and novel ideas until finally... we gave him the wind crossbows and the black arrows."
"The magic of our dwarves was infused in those weapons, powerful enough to kill a dragon!"
Saying this, Balin’s emotions shifted from excitement to resignation and helplessness.
"But unfortunately, on the day the dragon truly arrived, though Jirian bravely stood atop and fired three arrows at Smaug, not a single one hit its mark."
"The few black arrows were all lost, and the wind crossbow became a monument to that tragedy, moved here by the refugees... If Jirian had hit the dragon that day, everything would have been different."
Lann sat beside Balin, hands resting on his knees as he spoke.
"You’re talking as if you were there at the time."
"All dwarves know this story; don’t interrupt me."
Balin mumbled in discontent, waving his hand dismissively at Lann.
But Bard’s son, who had arrived during Balin’s storytelling, nervously clasped his hands together and interjected with a hint of defiance.
"But if you all know this story, then you should also know: Jirian actually did hit that dragon once. The black arrow struck a scale on the dragon’s left chest, with such force it almost knocked the scale off!"
"Just one more arrow in the same spot, piercing straight through the dragon’s hide! The magic on the black arrow would penetrate unimpeded by dragon scales, more than enough to kill the dragon!"
"That’s just a legend, child." Balin shook his head helplessly, merely considering this as the boy’s attempt to salvage some face for their human hero Lord. "Just a legend."
Still being a child, faced with the elder’s evasive response, he lacked the courage to argue further.
Moreover, Balin’s statement was indeed widely accepted.
"I’m already very old, Lann. I can no longer deftly ride a goat, swinging a war hammer and battle axe to easily cleave the heads off beastmen. Even so, I won’t forget the vision of the Lonely Mountain and what it meant to the Durin Race."
After sending Bard’s son away, Balin continued talking to Lann.
"We were once prosperous, but collapsed before that dragon’s fiery descent, our kin fleeing in all directions, losing our home. I still remember that day."
"Sorlin and I stood on the walls of the Lonely Mountain, the dragon’s flames falling from the sky, sweeping by. It was Sorlin who pulled me behind a stone pillar to hide. When the two of us emerged, only hundreds of charred dwarf warrior corpses remained."
The dragon’s passing flames incinerated hundreds of dwarf warriors... This was the first time Lann realized Smaug’s destructive power.
Even though it was just one aspect.
Lann had witnessed the dwarves’ resistance to harm during this period.
These dwarves only resembled the dwarves of the Magic Middle Ages in appearance and customs, as their creators were the Villa, the God of Craftsmanship—Auri.
The creator of the Lady of the Lake’s Sword that Lann held in his hand.
Creating life was originally solely the power and ability of Ilúvatar. At that time, Auri creating the dwarves was equivalent to crafting seven intelligent golems from stone.
However, Ilúvatar forgave Auri’s overstepping out of curiosity and loneliness, and bestowed the secret fire of life to the original seven dwarves.
Enabling them to become real life.
Thus, Ardan’s dwarves were genuinely life born from stone.
Previously, when chatting with dwarves, Lann clearly heard: Even if Sorlin was charged at by a beastman riding a warg, with the momentum bringing a Page Hammer down directly on his unprotected head, he would be unconscious for only half an hour! He’d be fine after getting up!
Never mind the combination of beastmen and wargs; even a mortal with an inferior horse, when charging, could wield enough force with a weapon to cleave an unprotected body into two or smash it into pulp!
But Ardan’s dwarves truly could use their faces to catch a swung war hammer!
Perhaps the dwarves’ bone and body structure could better withstand blunt force trauma, but their capacity to endure harm was genuine.
Yet on the day of the dragon’s assault, hundreds of fully armed dwarf warriors were all burned up in a single encounter.
Perhaps the dragons on this planet, Ardan... are not ordinary creatures.
"But even in the face of such a Smaug, you’re still going? What do you have to confront him with? Are there still black arrows in the Lonely Mountain?"
Lann shook his head and continued to reason with Balin.
"Black arrows? No." Balin said carelessly.
"At that time, we only made a few dozen experimentally, with not much left after fulfilling Jirian’s order. But do you think a dragon nesting in Elbo for so long would overlook weapons that could threaten its safety?"
After speaking, the casual expression on Balin’s face gradually vanished, replaced by utmost seriousness and grave resolve.
"But whether or not we have black arrows, we must go to the Lonely Mountain. This is the last chance, Durin’s Day draws near; according to prophecy, this is the only opportunity. To reclaim our homeland, we cannot miss it!"
"Prophecy..."
Lann murmured the word.
If it were the Magic Middle Ages, prophecies wouldn’t carry much weight in his eyes.
Although there were real prophecy masters like the Prophet Isaline, most prophecies were born from political needs or were simply fabricated and spread to muddy the waters.
There were so many of these prophecies that true prophecies with power were like gold sifted from sand, hard to discern.
As a result, the authority of prophecies had suffered irreparable damage.
But in this world called Ardan...
"Let me guess, is your prophecy a poem?"
Lann pinched the bridge of his nose, asking Balin.
The old Dwarf cleared his throat and said rhythmically, "When the birds of old return to the Lonely Mountain, the reign of the dragon will end, and then..."
"Stop, got it."
Lann raised his hand, signaling Balin could stop.
"So, because of the prophecy, you’re going to break into the Lonely Mountain?"
"No, you’re mistaken, Lann."
Balin chuckled lightly, looking at the Demon Hunter.
That smile carried a sense of resignation.
"Even without the prophecy, we would still head to the Lonely Mountain."
"We are a group of poor dwarves without a home, and faced with the last chance to reclaim our home, even if it means confronting a terrifying destiny, facing the dragon or an army of beastmen, we no longer care."
"The prophecy brought us here, taking about ten months from the start of the journey until now. If we gave up in the end, each of us would regret it for a lifetime. It would be better to simply die."
Lann first nodded, then looked back.
The remaining dwarves in Bard’s house had also heard the conversation between Balin and Lann, and at this moment, they all looked over.
The fearless expression on their faces, knowing the arduous road ahead yet accepting it, mirrored that of the old dwarf Balin.
The injured Qi Li, his caretakers Philipp and Ouin, Bofur, and the Hobbit Bilbo Baggins...
Those not called by Sorlin to receive weapons were all like this.
’The so-called sense of responsibility, the so-called persistence. When mixed together, they become what is called destiny.’
This was what Gandalf had once casually said to Lann before entering Dorguldu alone.
If you knowingly face danger and obstacles ahead, yet continue because of emotion, impulse, and persistence, unable and unwilling to change.
What else could that be but fate?
Fate is not a path that has been predetermined, but the accumulation of previous life experiences, leading people to make natural decisions at crucial moments, decisions that influence each other and sum up to its total.
Looking at the expressions of these dwarves, Lann seemed to have gained more understanding on the subject.
"Then what about you, Bilbo? The dwarves are fearless in reclaiming their home, but what about the hobbits?"
"Me? Are you asking me?"
Bilbo opened his mouth in astonishment, then glanced around.
He finally stammered and said with a bit of panic.
"I, I’m a hobbit, I’m naturally afraid of the unexpected, and I miss my Bag End, and my seven meals a day, but, but..."
"I miss my home, but the dwarves, my friends... they have no home."
"I want, I want to help them get it back. Just, just that. Ha, ha."
After speaking, Bilbo let out a couple of awkward laughs. As he spoke, he was at a loss, repeatedly shifting his hands in and out of his pockets.
Awkward, and from time to time, exposing an intentionally awkward smile due to lack of confidence.
But no emotion is more sincere than this clumsy one.
A group of dwarves who could face beastmen without flinching now had teary eyes, smiling at the hobbit.
Rong Buqiu sat squatting beside Bilbo, its cat mouth agape, looking up at its naturally small friend.
And Lann also pursed his lips, shaking his head helplessly.
"A bunch of stubborn ones who can’t be persuaded. Damn dwarves, damn hobbits."
"Well, sorry about that, Master Lann." Bofur took off the tattered leather hat on his head and bowed comically to the Demon Hunter.
"Dwarves are always so annoying. Oh, and our hobbits!"
