Chapter 387 - 371: Stone Speech Syndrome

Chapter 387: Chapter 371: Stone Speech Syndrome

Hearing the familiar, despair-filled voice from inside, a faint smile touched Roland’s lips. He raised his hand and gently knocked on the wooden door.

Before the sound of his knock had faded, the despairing voice inside twisted into an irritable roar.

"I said we don’t need any ’special services’!"

The irritation in his voice made it clear that the constant interruptions had worn him thin.

Roland chuckled softly and spoke quietly through the crack in the door.

"Hobbit, it’s me."

The room was plunged into sudden silence.

A moment later, the door was yanked open.

A poor Half-Elf stood there, his hair a tangled mess, his apron splattered with a suspicious-looking sauce, and his face a mask of exhaustion and exasperation.

However, when he saw it was Roland standing outside, his wide eyes instantly lit up with delight.

"Mr... Mr. Roland?"

Hobbit’s voice trembled with emotion. His delight was mingled with an obvious sense of distress and profound relief.

"You... you’re finally here!"

Seeing Hobbit’s sorry state, a flicker of amusement crossed Roland’s eyes.

But he knew this was no time to tease the dutiful "butler," so he reached out, gently patted the Half-Elf on the shoulder, and spoke in a warm tone.

"You’ve been working hard, Hobbit."

With that, he leaned down, put an arm around Hobbit’s shoulders, and walked into the room with him.

Although the commotion he’d heard from outside had given him some idea of what to expect, the scene inside was still beyond his imagination.

Several chairs were strewn about, toppled over and askew. A wine-stained coat was draped over the back of one.

Bread crumbs and a few open books were scattered across the floor. An empty wine glass lay on the rug in front of the fireplace.

The desk by the window was piled high with parchment scrolls and open tomes. An inkwell was on the verge of being knocked over, and a quill was stuck crookedly into a half-eaten apple.

A peculiar smell—a mix of ale, ink, and food—permeated the air.

This didn’t look like a guest room at all; it was more like a general store that had just been looted.

Roland bent down and patted Freddy, who was passed out drunk in a corner. Seeing no reaction, Roland could only shake his head in resignation.

His gaze then shifted to Bronson, who was at the dining table, eating while engrossed in a scroll.

"Mr. Bronson, it’s been a while."

The scholar slowly looked up, crumbs clinging to his beard.

"Ah... It’s you, Roland..."

He murmured as if waking from a dream. As his eyes gradually cleared, he shot to his feet, his voice full of delighted surprise.

"Roland! You’re finally here!"

He excitedly strode forward, nearly tripping over the clutter on the floor, and quickly grabbed the edge of the table for support.

"I’ve made a major breakthrough in my research! I’ve found key textual evidence supporting the theory of ancient Magic Power tides and Elemental Resonance!"

He waved the parchment in his hand excitedly.

"Just give me a little more time to organize my notes, and I’ll be able to discuss it with you in detail very soon!"

Just then, a tiny figure landed gracefully on Roland’s shoulder.

Pikachu Tress pouted and complained.

"Roland, you’re finally back! Hobbit is always bossing me around. It’s not nearly as fun as when I’m with you!"

Hearing this, Hobbit, who was standing nearby, ground his teeth, and a vein throbbed on his forehead.

Roland saw this and immediately understood that Tress’s usual mischief had pushed the good-natured Half-Elf to his breaking point.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Roland carefully stepped around the clutter on the floor. Only then did he notice that the plates on the dining table had been picked clean.

And next to those empty plates, a roly-poly figure was curled up.

It was Little Squirrel Qiao.

Compared to before, however, the little fellow was noticeably chubbier.

Its once-fluffy fur now looked exceptionally sleek and glossy. In the flickering firelight, it even seemed to have a faint, strange metallic sheen.

What was most striking was its tail. It was not only nearly twice as thick as a normal squirrel’s, but the fur there was also exceptionally dense and lustrous.

From certain angles, the fur’s texture seemed to form some kind of indescribable, almost orderly pattern.

Right now, this "little" squirrel was fast asleep, clutching a half-eaten nut.

Each breath was a contented snore, and it was completely oblivious to the surrounding commotion.

Roland glanced around the room, which looked as if a Storm had just passed through, and shook his head in resignation.

He looked at the exhausted Hobbit and said in a gentle voice,

"Alright, let’s get this place cleaned up first."

.......

.......

By the time the last item was put away and the final stain wiped clean from the floor, the dusky sky outside had already deepened into the black of night.

Roland set the cleaning rag aside, sat down at the table, and let out a soft sigh.

Hobbit handed him a cup of water at just the right moment. He glanced at Tress, who was now perched quietly on Roland’s shoulder, and breathed a long sigh of relief.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down across from Roland, his tone regaining its usual composure.

"Mr. Roland, what are... your plans now?"

Roland took the cup. Having nothing to hide from his loyal partner, he told him of his plan to travel to the Aiselon Continent.

"Aiselon?"

Hobbit’s eyes lit up instantly, his voice filled with a rare excitement.

"I’ve heard that name from my older brother! He said it’s a land completely different from this one, home to ancient ruins that even history has forgotten and the burial place of countless lost legacies and knowledge."

"They say you can even find many sentient Races there that have long vanished from our continent, like the Hill Giant Spirits who can speak with stone, or the Feathered People who dwell atop the storms... That’s a land truly filled with endless legends and mysteries!"

His face was filled with longing, but then his brow furrowed slightly as his pragmatic side took over.

"However, according to my brother, Aiselon and our continent are separated by the vast Sea of Fury, an immense distance."

"Sturdy ships capable of withstanding such a long voyage... I’m afraid only the Dwarves, at their ’Roaring Harbor’ on the northern coast, can build and provide those. And the Rock Kingdom..."

Hobbit’s voice dropped, and he unconsciously rubbed his fingers together, his expression growing serious.

"It seems they’ve been troubled by a secret calamity lately."

He leaned forward slightly, a hint of unease in his eyes.

"They call it ’Stone Speech Syndrome.’"

"It’s not some cataclysmic Destruction, with no fire or fighting. It’s more like... a slow, stubborn corrosion, like damp seeping into stone walls."

Roland listened quietly, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table, gesturing for Hobbit to continue.

"According to my brother’s most recent letter..."

Hobbit began to speak a little faster, his brow still furrowed.

"At first, it was only in the deepest mines—in the tunnels of Stone Furnace Castle, for instance, the ones that reach deep into the earth. The miners started reporting a cold, ethereal glow seeping from the walls, with no discernible source. In the silence, they would hear low whispers that seemed to come from within the rock itself."

He spread his hands.

"At first, the Dwarves didn’t pay it much mind. After all, the light plays tricks deep in the mines, and strange tales are common enough. But the situation seems to have worsened without anyone realizing."

Hobbit shook his head, his expression worried.

"The Dwarves who had prolonged exposure to the ’cold light’ and the ’whispers’ began to show clear abnormalities. They grew taciturn, staring blankly at the rock walls for hours on end, their eyes vacant, as if they could truly understand the language of the stone."

He held up a hand, pointing to his own arm and fingertips.

"Their skin gradually lost its healthy, ruddy color, turning grayish, rough, and coarse. Their fingertips even began to show a slight, stone-like hardening. And worse..."

Hobbit’s voice was laced with disbelief.

"They started to instinctively reject forging, loathing and even fearing the heat of the forge... As you know, Mr. Roland, a Dwarf’s love for the forge fire is practically etched into their very souls. This change is... it’s like a betrayal of their own bloodline."

He sighed and concluded.

"Now, I hear that several of the richest main lodes have been sealed off in an emergency. The forge fires of Stone Furnace Castle, which once burned day and night, have dimmed considerably as a result."

"This silent calamity is quietly undermining the very foundation of a Race that takes glory in rock and molten fire."