Heh.
You claim you don’t have Dwarven blood? You’ve made the Dwarven Book of Hatred, the evidence is irrefutable!
You must be a Dwarven mixed-blood!
Herbert wasn’t surprised by this discovery; rather, he found it sowhat expected.
Looking back at Cyril’s record, it was typically when he was extrely angry that he awakened stronger power—anger was an important trigger for his growth.
Coupled with his height, beard, and other features, he was almost certainly connected to the Dwarves.
Even if it’s not a recent mixed blood, then it’s probably a part of the bloodline reawakening, awakening so natural abilities.
In the human world, mixed-bloods have a rather awkward situation, but over the long term, many mixed-blood descendants have remained for various reasons.
Their Demon bloodline is mostly very thin, possibly never activated in their entire lives.
Just like Teresa, before her Demon bloodline was activated, she was just an ordinary village girl, showing no signs of it.
The sa goes for Cyril; such a low-degree mixed blood that doesn’t even change appearance won’t face much criticism.
Although Herbert didn’t like Cyril much due to his previous behavior, he didn’t have much animosity towards him either.
In fact, he even found Cyril sowhat naively amusing.
"Book of Hatred? What is that?" Miser leaned down, his giant body pressed over Herbert’s head.
He glanced up at the massive mushrooms, nodding silently: Indeed, size is justice.
"Nothing, it’s just one of his notebooks."
Herbert wasn’t interested in deliberately peeking into others’ privacy—at least he wouldn’t actively want to look at a man’s.
"We won’t specifically go look at it, nothing worth researching... Hmm?"
But just when Herbert was about to put Cyril’s Book of Hatred back, his eyelid suddenly twitched lightly.
In an unintentional flip, Herbert saw the inner pages, noticing the distorted words stained with blood.
"Father, I’m sorry..."
Herbert’s eyes slightly shifted, pausing his action of putting it back.
Wait, isn’t this supposed to be a Book of Hatred?
"..."
Herbert hesitated for just a mont, then straightened and slowly opened the first page of the booklet.
"Sir Herbert? Didn’t you say you wouldn’t look?" Miser eyed the paladin who said one thing and did another, finding this guy increasingly odd.
After others left, his gestures and manners seed to beco younger, as if shedding a layer of disguise.
Herbert ignored the hidden teasing in her words, calmly talking nonsense:
"What I said before was not to ’deliberately’ look, but since fate has coincidentally brought it to my attention now, perhaps there’s so guidance from destiny."
Guidance of destiny?
No, I was rely intrigued by curiosity.
He wanted to know what kind of story Cyril’s Book of Hatred was telling.
"What destiny, it’s just that you want to see it..." Miser complained, yet she also leaned in proactively.
As a well-inford rchant, even she hadn’t heard of the Book of Hatred, very curious about its content.
Then, both of their eyes simultaneously looked at the text’s content.
...
...
Today, Father hit with the quenching tongs.
The severe pain from my back made grasp the ground tightly, my fingers scraping against it.
But I gritted my teeth, not shedding a single tear.
Father was "punishing" .
Because I lost a piece of forged wrought iron.
Because of my mistake, Father’s and Brother’s half a month of hard work was wasted.
Later, Father tiredly dropped the quenching tongs and collapsed onto the ground.
And Brother said nothing, only silently adding mineral powder and iron scrap into the furnace, preparing to forge a new product again by squeezing the ti.
At that mont, I felt anger.
I hated it.
I hated Father’s anger for not listening to my explanation.
I also hated Brother’s acceptance, silently confirming it was my fault.
I further hated the thief who stole the wrought iron.
And, most of all, I hated the noble who oppressed us, sucking Father and Brother dry of everything they had!
(The end of this paragraph recorded the nas [Father], [Brother], [Thief], [Noble] in distorted writing.)
...
...
Today, Brother broke my wooden sword and handed Father’s hamr to .
He said swords are used by nobles, but for us blacksmiths, hamrs are our weapons.
Six days ago, Father died of exhaustion.
A strong man who could swing a hamr ten thousand tis a day, died of exhaustion on the forge.
After we offered everything to that despicable family, they showed no gratitude.
They weren’t even willing to offer a single copper coin in assistance!
Not only did they throw Father’s body into the forest, but they also demanded we continue to turn in the required iron ingots!?
If it weren’t for Brother and carrying him back, Father would have been eaten clean by wild dogs.
They, they, they!!!
I hate it!
I hate it so much!!!
We’ve agreed to bury Father tomorrow, then leave this place.
Escape from here!
The two of us will survive.
We will surely survive!!!
([The nas of all mbers of the noble family])
...
...
Brother, he... died.
On the seventh day after Father died, he too fell into the furnace.
Father, I’m sorry...
They, they...
I hate them.
I will, kill them!
(This page has no nas.)
...
...
I killed them...
Haha.
I killed them all!!!
(Streaks of tears, mixed with dark red blood handprints.)
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