The cradle was empty.

A chill seeped into her heart despite the warmth of the temple’s runes. “Where’s the Spear of Dhoznil…?” she murmured, stepping closer. Dust coated its surface, yet the runes etched into the metal cradle flared faintly when her fingertips made contact.

All at once, an electric jolt surged from her hand into her arm. Her vision blurred; the temple’s hall vanished around her. She heard her own breath catch in her throat and then—

* * *

Monica felt exactly the same as when she had seen the vision of Thraldrirlum’s life.

Monica found herself in a grand cavernous space, the sort that could only exist in ancient dwarven cities—except it was not petrified or ruined. It thrummed with life. Dozens of dwarves in thick leather aprons and soot-stained beards hurried about like an army of ants. The heat was incredible—rivers of molten metal channeled along stone troughs, while runic pipes pumped bright orange mana-flame overhead.

She inhaled deeply and smelled hot iron, smoldering coals, and sweat.

This feels so real, Monica thought, even though she knew this was another vision, probably something to do with her being the Avatar of the Twin Phoenix.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The rhythm of hammers on anvils reverberated in Monica’s very bones. She drifted through this scene like a phantom, unsure if anyone could see her. She watched as dwarven smiths shaped heated ingots into armor plates, sparks dancing each time metal met metal. A row of younger apprentices turned large wheels that powered massive bellows, fueling the monstrous furnace at the center of the hall.

At the heart of all this activity stood a single, raised forge. The dwarven runes on it thrummed with an otherworldly glow. Its coals burned a brilliant blue-white, far brighter than the ordinary forges around it. Positioned on an anvil there lay the unmistakable outline of a spear—but fractured into three large segments and countless smaller shards. The fragments pulsed faintly, as though they held a heartbeat of power.

Monica’s gaze drifted to a figure stooped over these gleaming remnants: a broad-shouldered dwarf wearing a smith’s apron singed at the edges, his beard braided and decorated with iron beads. His eyes—dark as coal—flickered with a resolute fire.

She had seen a statue of that man.

Dhoznil, she realized.

“You can’t let it remain in one piece,” came a voice. Monica turned to see another dwarf—taller by dwarven standards, his beard neatly combed. His face was lined with the heartbreak of a war that had raged far too long.

Dhoznil did not look up from the spear’s fragments.

“We’re so close to perfecting it—to finishing its Enchantments with the help of the Elves. This was meant to be the final blow against… her.”

His voice rumbled like distant thunder, thick with frustration.

The other dwarf’s eyes darted about, as if worried spies lurked in the corners.

“The Queen of Stone.”

A trio of dwarven rune-carvers approached the forge, each holding a small, softly glowing chisel. They exchanged uneasy glances. One, an older dwarf woman with silver braids, gently stroked her tool as she asked, “Dhoznil, are you certain? Splintering it further…there’s no telling how or if it can be reforged. Dworsul’s nowhere to be found. He’s the only one who could do it—as he was the one who created this in the first place.”

Dhoznil’s gaze lifted at last. Monica felt the full weight of his conviction in those coal-dark eyes. “Better scattered than turned into a weapon for the Old Gods,” he rumbled, and stood straighter. “We’ll hide each segment behind wards they can’t break without dwarven skill. If Nexa or her minions come… let them rummage for shards they’ll never be able to use.”

The woman’s face betrayed her sorrow. “This was our greatest creation.”

“Aye,” Dhoznil nodded. “And it still can be—one day. Perhaps not in our lifetimes. Perhaps not as soon as we hoped. But if we bury it deep, behind the might of the forges in this city, the Spear will live on.”

“We do this now,” he commanded, voice echoing. “No more delays.”

In unison, the rune-carvers set their chisels to the fragments, singing words that immediately became distant, inaudible to Monica.

Monica’s heart pounded as the final strokes severed each fragment from the others, sealing the Spear of Dhoznil’s soul into separate pieces. A radiant surge of fiery energy blasted outward, rattling the entire forge hall. Many dwarves shielded their eyes, some stumbling.

When the light receded, three primary shards—each the length of a dwarven arm—gleamed with raw, half-contained might. Scattered around them were smaller slivers, still important to the whole. Runes ringed each chunk like chains, preventing them from resonating together.

“Take them,” Dhoznil ordered, beckoning to different dwarves who stepped forward. “Lock them away. Forge-lords, hide them behind the wards in the Blacksmith District. You—” he pointed to a younger blacksmith, “—take the largest chunk to the Deep Furnace. Store it in the molten vault. It’ll be safe from meddling hands.”

“What about the last one?” A Dwarf asked.

“I will lock it in Dworsul’s forge,” Dhoznil said with a sigh. “Hopefully, one day he’ll return and see to its reconstruction.”

Soot-faced dwarves lifted the shards as though carrying newborn babes. Some turned away with tears streaking through the grime on their cheeks. Around them, the frantic activity resumed—others scrambled for weapons, preparing for some fight.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Probably against Nexa, Monica realized.

She felt a fiery hot rage coursing through her body at the thought of what this Old God, this monster, had done to the Three Races, Dwarves, Elves, and Dragons alike.

But before she could see anything else, she felt darkness envelope her once again.

* * *

Then, the darkness lifted, and she snapped back into the temple hall. Her hand jerked away from the cradle. Chest heaving, she steadied herself.

“It’s… destroyed,” she gasped. “The spear… the Dwarves broke it up and scattered it in the second floor, hidden in the dwarven forges. They broke it to keep it away from Ne—the Queen of Stone.” She swallowed, turning to the others, who eyed her with alarm. “And only a very powerful Blacksmith can put it back together.”

Monica then gave a more detailed explanation.

"Wait—so,” Ted said, “the spear's actually broken to bits? And they're scattered all over that crazy hot floor? Dude, I'm all for the power of music and whatnot, but Gromorlig said my poor lungs would fry if I stepped foot down there.”

Dotty leaned against a column in the temple and shook her head, “But… Monica can’t go alone, right? She just fought that massive spider-thing almost to the death. If the second floor is that dangerous, how can we be sure she will be able to handle it? I mean—Ted’s music helps a lot.”

Dotty seemed almost ashamed to admit she considered her own contribution to battle important, despite being the one who had delivered the killing blow to the Black Widow.

"I’m not thrilled about going by myself, but it’s the only way. The spear is useless in pieces. If we want to kill Machina… or fend off anyone else who tries to abuse that power, it has to be reforged. I’ll just do as Gromorlig said and find a Blacksmith who can teach us the Fire Breathing Skill and bring him back.”

“Can we try and check for ourselves how hot it is?” Sir Tristan asked. “If it’s too much, we’ll immediately retreat.”

Monica shrugged.

“Sure.”

* * *

They gathered outside the temple, swallowing disappointment at finding nothing but an empty cradle for Dhoznil’s spear. Though Dotty’s injuries had been partially healed, everyone in the group was still feeling a different type of exhaustion—a mental one.

All of them—Monica, Dotty, Sir Tristan, Ted, and Heidi—paused on the massive stone steps outside the temple’s towering pillars. For a moment, they just breathed, letting the cold, cavern-y dwarven air wash over them.

The relief was short-lived. Monica’s eyes drifted to the flickering System interface lingering in her peripheral vision.

*Ding*

Your Quest has Been Updated with a Tracker

*Ding*

Chain Quest: Corrupted Gods, Machina (I/III)

Directions: follow the pulsating arrow to the second floor of Viscera.

She instantly saw the orange arrow that also led her to the Crystal Wolves Dungeon appear and tug at her attention, pulling her eyes toward a remoted part of the city.

almost feel that arrow tugging at her attention, pulling her deeper into the dwarven city’s second floor.

Sir Tristan noticed Monica’s distant stare. “The quest arrow?”

“It’s pointing there. Must be where the second floor is accessed.”

Ted rubbed the back of his neck. “You sure that arrow means we have to go now, dude? We’re all running on fumes.”

“Let’s just check it out and then you guys can get a rest.”

After the vision of Dhoznil and the other Dwarves, Monica had no intention of resting. Not ever again until all the Old Gods were dead once and for all.

They followed the arrow’s trajectory through Viscera’s main roads.

“This is big enough for carts and horses,” Sir Tristan noted. “It makes sense that it would lead to an entire other floor.”

She looked back at the large man raised an eyebrow. Sir Tristan’s visor, battered and smeared with black ichor, gave him a grim, haggard look.

He looks hot, though, Monica smirked and cracked her neck.

At last, they glimpsed a wide corridor—the sort that dwarves might have used to shift entire caravans of ore. It sloped gently downward until it hit an intersection. A sharp right led to a flight of broad, shallow steps descending further underground.

Monica checked her chain quest arrow again—it pointed straight down those wide steps, deeper and deeper into Viscera.

Barely half a minute in and they found themselves in front of a giant crevice in the ground. Enormous elevators made of stone stood in front of them, lining up one beside the other, large enough to be carrying hundreds of people at once.

“Dwarven craftsmanship,” Sir Tristan said in awe.

They all got closer to the elevators and a pulse of heat rolled across them as if the depths of Viscera were exhaling.

A sheen of sweat shimmered across Heidi’s brow. Ted fanned himself with his hand, gulping in hot, dusty air. Even Dotty’s cheeks looked flushed. Yet Monica, standing at the forefront, didn’t seem bothered by the rising temperature at all.

Heidi took the lead, stepping onto one of the wide elevator platforms and toward a console on its side.

“Let’s at least see if we can get this thing moving,” she murmured.

She reached out hesitantly, but the metal nearly scalded her fingertips. “Ow!” she gasped, yanking her hand back. “It’s burning up.”

Ted wiped his sweaty brow. “I’m not touching that,” he muttered. “Dude, I feel like a roasted chicken already.”

Sir Tristan peered over Heidi’s shoulder at the runes. Even he flinched at the wave of heat radiating from the console. “Must be connected to some Fire Mana or a molten power source… This is intense.”

“Let me try,” Monica said, turning the biggest lever down.

The platform slowly started descending, but they were not even ten seconds in that the hot currents started swarming them.

The entire platform shook, and the heat intensified so violently that Dotty staggered back.

“We can’t stay here!” Dotty coughed, eyes watering. “It’s like an oven.”

Monica exhaled a frustrated breath. Her lips thinned as she surveyed the console and the gargantuan chains, then glanced at her exhausted friends—especially Ted, who was now flushed pink and struggling to breathe.

Without Ted, I lose a lot of my attacking power.

Monica had grown extremely reliant on the Song of the Phoenix in battle. Not having Ted on her side made her nervous.

“All right,” she relented, voice taut. “We’ll pull back for now.”

Relief washed over their faces. They retreated from the elevator platform, back along the corridor where the air was merely stale and cool—rather than singeing hot. Ted all but slumped against a wall, and Heidi gulped down water from a dented flask. Sir Tristan, panting, lifted his visor to let the cooler air reach his face. Dotty’s chest still rose and fell raggedly, but some color returned to her cheeks.

At a short distance away, Monica paused. She cast one last glare toward the dwarven platform.

“Dude, Gromorlig was right,” Ted told Monica. “You’ll have to go alone.”

“It’s not a problem,” Monica said, sighing. “Leave it to me.”