Chapter 95 – The Fortress City of Enden
If one traveled north toward the old northwestern dukedom, the road began in beauty. Rolling fields stretched beneath a wide sky, mountains stood proud on the horizon, and forests whispered with life. But the further north one went, the more the land soured. The grass thinned. Forests gave way to jagged stone. By the border, the earth was little more than a barren expanse of rock and dust where almost nothing could thrive.
It was there, at the edge of despair, that the city of Enden stood.
More fortress than city, its walls rose defiant against the wasteland. From atop its battlements one could see the cursed lands beyond—the fog-shrouded Deadwood Forest, the broken ruins scattered like scars across the plain. Within those ruins danger never slept: giant insects with jagged claws prowled the dark, feral beasts slunk among shattered stone, and the undead wandered endlessly—skeletons, shrieking wraiths, even armored death knights whose burning eyes promised only hatred. Each day, the monsters pressed against Enden's walls, and each day the city fought them back.
The people of Enden were forged in this fire. Knights and soldiers formed its backbone, while adventurers came chasing glory or strength. But not all were warriors. Some, stubborn and unyielding, made their lives here—innkeepers offering a bed to the weary, blacksmiths hammering out weapons for the next battle, barkeeps pouring ale for those lucky enough to survive another night.
Life here followed a brutal rhythm: in the morning, the city fought. In the afternoon, it mourned. By nightfall, it celebrated survival.
Yet today, the rhythm faltered.
Whispers ran through Enden's streets: a new shop had appeared overnight. Where once there had been only a narrow alley, a strange building now stood. No one had seen it built. It was simply there, as if it had always been waiting.
Suspicion spread quickly, especially among the knights. One in particular—the second-in-command to Captain Serenya Vale, a sharp-eyed young woman—decided to investigate.
Her armored boots echoed against the polished floor as she stepped inside, expecting a cramped space. Instead, she gasped. The interior stretched impossibly wide, a hall of wonders behind a humble exterior. Shelves lined the walls, each stacked with artifacts unlike any she had seen. Handwritten tags, neat and precise, described their strange powers:
Mantis Claw – A jade gauntlet granting impossible leaps, vanishing from one spot to reappear in another. One use.
Fist of Tebigong – A palm-sized bronze idol shaped like a clenched fist. When thrown, it unleashed a shockwave strong enough to topple an ogre or blast open a gate.
Eye of Dashi – A crystal sphere etched with lightning. Crush it, and a stormbolt would strike a chosen target.
Shroud of Shadows – A folded silk cloth. Draped once over the shoulders, it rendered the bearer invisible for a minute.
Reversing Mirror – A silver hand mirror. Break it, and it would reflect any spell or curse back at its caster, one time only.
Serenya's brows furrowed. Artifacts of this magnitude could alter the fate of battles, yet here they sat on open shelves, priced like trinkets for adventurers. Her suspicion deepened as she approached the counter.
"Where is the owner of this place?" she demanded, her voice stern.
Before the clerk could answer, a playful voice drifted from the floor.
"Master isn't here right now. He went out to look around."
Serenya looked down—and froze. At her feet sat a black cat, fur sleek as silk, eyes glimmering with mischievous intelligence.
"Hi! My name's Amber!" the cat chirped.
The knight's façade cracked. "By the Saints—you're adorable!" She scooped Amber up and hugged her tight.
Too tight.
"Mrrrow!"
Rainbow flames erupted from the cat's fur—heat and light searing together, mana of every element sparking at once. Serenya's gauntlets hissed as the fire bit into steel; the exposed skin at her collar blistered in an instant.
"GAAH!" She dropped Amber with a cry, staggering back.
The cat landed gracefully, tail flicking smugly as the last sparks winked out. Smoke curled faintly from Serenya's armor. Her skin throbbed where the rainbow fire had kissed it, red burns angry against her pale flesh.
Still, pride forced her upright. She swallowed the pain and offered a stiff nod.
"Tch… my mistake. I… apologize for my carelessness."
Amber licked her paw, unconcerned. "You should be more careful. Not everything cute wants to be squished."
The silence stretched until Serenya straightened, her composure restored. "Enough games," she said coldly, though her burns still stung. "What business do you have here?"
Amber's golden eyes sharpened. Her voice lost its playfulness, carrying an unnerving calm. "This place is no threat to Enden. My master seeks only an audience. Specifically…" She let the pause linger like a blade over the throat. "…with Sorin Kaelthorn."
Serenya's expression flickered. Few outsiders even knew the man's name.
A second voice, smooth and deliberate, followed Amber's. "We won't be here long. Originally, the boss intended to travel straight to the capital for a certain event. But when word reached him of an… interesting individual in Enden, he changed his course. This shop is merely a convenient place to wait."
Amber's tail curled as her eyes glowed faintly, a sly glint dancing in their depths. "And if Master can change his plans once, who knows what he might do next?" she added, sing-song, before hopping lightly onto the counter.
Before Serenya could press further, the bell above the door jingled. Then again. And again. Within moments, the once-empty storefront was teeming with people—adventurers straight from the walls, weary knights with coins to spend, curious townsfolk drawn by the glow. Shelves were swarmed, eager hands snatching at bottles that hummed with light, talismans whose inscriptions seemed to shift when looked at. Suspicion gave way to feverish excitement, like bees rushing a fresh hive.
Serenya clenched her jaw. Questioning further would draw attention. For now, she retreated.
"I'll… report this to the captain," she muttered, slipping out into the streets. One last glance at the shelves of impossible artifacts—and the smug black cat—burned itself into her memory. Behind her, the strange shop hummed with unnatural life, as though it had always been part of Enden.
---
Meanwhile, in another quarter of the city, the Iron Fang Tavern roared with life. Smoke hung heavy over the crowded hall. Adventurers, mercenaries, and soldiers jostled for space, mugs clattering, dice rolling across sticky wood.
At a quiet table, an old man with silver in his beard nursed his ale. His sharp eyes watched the crowd, listening more than drinking. He leaned toward a group of card-players, their laughter spilling loud.
"Tell me," he rasped, "where might I find a man named Sorin Kaelthorn?"
The laughter dimmed. One man smirked. "Sorin? Hah, he don't waste time in taverns. Spends his nights training on the northern wall, swingin' his blades till his hands bleed."
From the next table, a scar-faced adventurer barked, "Don't listen to that drunk. Sorin's always out in the ruins, hunting. Saw him cut down a death knight with nothing but steel—three blades flashin' like the devil himself was guidin' him. But here's the truth—he breaks his swords faster than most men swing 'em. Fights so hard the steel can't keep up."
Another leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Aye… but he's lucky. Only one blacksmith in Enden knows how to forge those eastern blades of his. Katanas, they call 'em. Thin as a whisper, sharp as a lie. Without that smith, Sorin'd be fighting barehanded."
A drunk hiccupped beside him. "Wouldn't matter. Bet he could kill with just his glare."
The old man chuckled softly and drifted to another table. "And you? What do you know?"
A grizzled veteran swirled his mug, eyes like iron. "What I know is this—don't go lookin' for Sorin unless you're ready to be cut down. He's no man's ally, no man's friend. Carries death in his wake. And yet…" He paused, voice low. "Folk here still look to him when the walls tremble. Like it or not, Enden stands taller with Sorin Kaelthorn inside it."
As Reyn moved through the tavern, he gathered the fragments—boasts of duels, awe-struck laughter, frustrated admiration.
At one table, a group of men jeered: "I faced him once—three strikes later, my armor was ribbons, and I was beggin' for mercy! How does one man fight like that?"
Nearby, women leaned close, whispering conspiratorially. "He's infuriating! I challenged him, and he didn't even fight back—just waited until I wore myself out. But against the men? He's unstoppable. It's maddening." Another sighed, torn between admiration and resentment. "I can't tell if I love him or want to strangle him. He's impossible."
Reyn smiled faintly, piecing it all together. Sorin's legend wasn't just in his skill—it was in the way he carved space in people's lives. Feared, respected, admired, hated.
One detail stood out above all: the blacksmith. A craftsman in Enden capable of forging and repairing katanas—a rarity in this empire. If Sorin trusted those hands with his blades, they were no ordinary smith.
As the tavern noise swelled around him, Reyn drained the last of his drink, stood, and murmured:
"If Sorin's strength rests on those blades, then it's time I see the hands that shape them."
Tomorrow, he would seek out the blacksmith of Enden who forged Sorin Kaelthorn's katanas.