*Date: 33,480 Second Quarter - Iron Confederacy, Secluded Valley*
The valley shimmered under the light of Aethyros' false sun. A perfect morning for forging. The heat already rose off the stones, mixing with the rhythmic breath of the forge. A heartbeat of flame and smoke pulsed through the workshop.
Demir was wiping sweat from his forehead when Brovick waddled in, clutching a small bundle wrapped in cloth. The smell hit first. Burnt hide and metal dust.
"Right," Brovick grunted, dropping the bundle onto the table. "Today, we make somethin' that'll scare the piss out o' goblins and make spirits smile on ye. Ye remember them wyvern scales, aye?"
Demir nodded, already guessing what his master had in mind.
Brovick unwrapped the bundle. Silvery-black scales glinted like obsidian mirrors. Each one was no bigger than a palm, but hard enough to nick steel if mishandled. They caught the light and threw it back in sharp angles.
"Yer shield'll be yer second skin," Brovick said, laying out the tools with surprising delicacy for such thick fingers. "We'll start by bindin' these beauties to the face. Not all of 'em, just enough to turn aside flame or magic. The trick is heatin' 'em soft enough they bend without losin' their power. Get that wrong, and we waste somethin' rarer than a sober dwarf."
Demir smirked. "That bad?"
"Worse," Brovick said flatly. "Now get yer hands movin'."
The forge roared to life. Demir's arms ached already, but the rhythm came naturally now. They placed the scales one by one over the half-forged shield. Heat, hammer, temper. Each scale fused seamlessly into the steel curve. The wyvern scales shimmered faintly each time Demir struck, catching sparks and refracting them like starlight.
Brovick nodded with satisfaction. "Not bad, lad. When it's done, that'll block spells better than a priest's hymn. Now..." He wiped his brow. "We move to what really matters."
A slow, gravelly voice echoed behind them.
"About bloody time."
Both turned. Durnak stood at the forge's entrance, his walking stick tapping against the stone. His beard, braided with copper wire, gleamed under the forge light. His eyes burned brighter than the flames themselves. The old dwarf moved with deliberate slowness, each step measured.
"Ye've been playin' long enough with toys," the elder dwarf said. "Today, ye forge steel worthy of gods. The Orichalcum waits."
Demir's chest tightened. He'd been waiting for this moment. Dreading it too. The small crate near the wall contained the ingots he'd taken from the goblin camp. Golden-brown metal, smooth like liquid in solid form. Impossible to melt without precision.
Brovick opened the crate reverently, as if handling sacred relics. "It's time, eh?"
Durnak nodded. "Time for the boy to prove whether he's a smith... or a smelter's fool."
They began the process at dawn.
Demir worked the bellows. Sweat dripped from his chin, falling and hissing on hot metal. Orichalcum resisted the fire, glowing faintly, almost mocking his efforts. Brovick adjusted the flux mixture, muttering dwarven curses between breaths. The air filled with metallic tang and the hiss of coals pushed to their limit.
When the first billet finally softened enough, Demir's muscles screamed to hold it steady. The weight was unreal. Like molten stone compressed into metal form.
"Don't let it cool too much!" Brovick barked. "Hammer! Fold! Fold again!"
The forge became a symphony of clashing rhythm. Steel ringing, fire roaring, breath syncing to the heartbeat of creation. Demir's swings grew sharper, more focused. Each strike sent charged energy through the billet.
He felt it. Both pain and greatness. The charged swing skill responding to his determination. He timed it, guided it, letting the vibration sink through the metal until it sang under his hammer. The sound was different from regular steel. Deeper. Richer. Like striking a bell cast from the bones of mountains.
Durnak watched silently from his stool. "Good," he muttered. "Let the metal know who commands it."
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, beating down on the valley. Sweat pooled on the forge floor. When the billet took the shape of a blade, long and tapered and flawless, Demir's arms shook with exhaustion. But his eyes burned with purpose. The sword gleamed with a soft inner light, neither gold nor silver but a mix of both. As if the forge itself had poured its soul into it.
He quenched it. The hiss filled the valley. Like thunder meeting rain. Steam billowed in great clouds. When he pulled it out, the blade was unbroken, smooth, and gleaming. Not a single flaw marred its surface.
Brovick whistled low. "Well, I'll be a goblin's uncle. Ye did it, lad."
Demir smiled faintly but said nothing. There was still one step left.
The rune etching.
Demir prepared the chisel and hammer, but his hands trembled. He could still hear the echo of his failures. The shields shattered. The runes ruined. His chest tightened with fear.
"What if I ruin it?" he muttered. "After all that work..."
"Stop thinkin' like a smith," Durnak's voice rumbled behind him. The old dwarf pushed off his stool and hobbled over. His eyes met Demir's, sharp as chisels themselves. "Ye hear me, boy? When ye carve a rune, ye ain't makin' a mark. Ye're breathin' life. Blacksmiths hammer metal. Rune forgers whisper to it. If ye go in fearin' failure, ye'll carve that fear right into the steel."
Demir swallowed hard. "Then what should I think of?"
"The rune's intent," Durnak said simply. "Ye want power? Then see it. Feel it. Don't imagine a hammer. Imagine thunder in yer arm. Imagine a mountain's wrath, a god's breath. Give the metal that, and it'll obey."
He placed a hand on Demir's shoulder. The grip was firm despite his age. "Ye've got the heart for it. Now prove it."
Demir nodded. The forge grew quiet. Only the crackling of embers and the soft breath of heat remained. He lifted the chisel and set it against the blade's base.
Tap.
The first strike rang pure. He could almost see the energy curl along the groove.
[Bzzzt!]
The charged pulse came on instinct this time. Guiding his movements. He followed it, letting his breathing synchronize with each tap, each curve. The rune of Power slowly took form. An elegant line spiraling into a heart-shaped core. It hummed faintly when complete.
When the final tap landed, the entire blade pulsed once with golden light. Then settled into a steady glow.
Demir dropped the chisel and stepped back, panting. His vision blurred with sweat. But when he blinked clear, he saw Durnak smiling faintly. For the first time since he'd met him.
"Well," the elder muttered, "seems ye've done what few ever will. She's alive, that sword."
Brovick let out a triumphant cheer. "By the forges o' Durin! I can't believe me eyes! Lad, ye bloody did it!"
They worked into the evening on the finishing touches. Brovick fitted the pommel. Polished iron capped with a rune-inlaid stone. Demir smoothed the hilt and wrapped it in hardened leather. When they set it on the anvil, it gleamed like molten dawn.
The shield came next. Reforged with the wyvern scales fused perfectly to its curve. The rune of vitality carved neatly in its center. When Demir lifted both weapons, they felt perfectly balanced. As if the sword and shield were made for each other. Made for him.
Durnak called Demir over after the finishing touches. "Kid, ye made a good weapon. Most master smiths can only dream of workin' with material so rare and gettin' it right. Orichalcum, Mithril, those two're hard to come by. So it's hard to master them. Even in me prime, I made no more than ten."
"What are you saying?" Demir asked.
"What I'm sayin' is it's probably not the best weapon, and ye can make as good a weapon as this when ye're a better smith. When ye find better material in the future, don't waste it to make less than legendary like today."
"But I need power now."
"I know. So I didn't protest makin' it."
Brovick handed him the glass spectacles. "Go on, lad. Take a look. Let's see what ye've birthed."
"You know?" Demir blinked.
"I didn't born yesterday. I know player gadgets when I see them."
Demir hesitated, then slipped the glasses over his eyes. Text flickered into view, sharp and clear.
[Inspecting Item...]
**Name:** Wolf's Vow (Orichalcum Sword)
**Grade:** B
**Durability:** 500/500 (Repairable)
**Power Rune:** +10% Force (Tier 5)
**Power Stone Attached:** +10 to Force
**Physical Damage:** +220% (Tier 4)
**Bonus Stats:** +15 Force (Tier 6), +5 Stamina (Tier 8)
**Skill:** "Thunder Edge" - Charged attacks release stored energy in an arc, dealing 150% of total attack damage to enemies in a cone.
**Effect:** Each successful charged hit increases Force by +1 (stacks up to +10 until combat ends).
**Description:** Forged by Demir Strovan under the guidance of Legendary Artisan Durnak. The Orichalcum sings with the forge's heartbeat. Within its steel slumbers thunder itself.
Demir's jaw dropped. "B... class?" He turned to Durnak, who was now sleeping on his chair. "Legendary Artisan. Amazing."
Brovick burst out laughing. "Ye've outdone half the dwarves in the Confederacy, boy!"
Durnak grunted without opening his eyes. "Bah, it's no legend blade, but aye, it'll cleave through most things between here an' the mountains."
Demir turned to the shield next.
[Inspecting Item...]
**Name:** Wyvern's Aegis
**Grade:** C (Enhanced)
**Durability:** 230/230 (Repairable)
**Vitality Rune:** +5% Vitality (Tier 8)
**Physical Damage Reduction:** +40% (Tier 6)
**Magic Damage Reduction:** +35% (Tier 7)
**Bonus Stats:** +15 Vitality (Tier 6), +5 Resilience (Tier 8)
**Skill (Passive):** "Mirror Scales" - 20% chance to reflect magic damage back to the attacker.
**Description:** Forged with the scales of a wyvern gifted by the spirit wolf Asena. Sturdy as mountain rock, blessed against flame and curse alike.
Demir couldn't help but smile. Exhausted, filthy, aching. But proud. For the first time since he'd been trapped in this world, he felt capable of shaping his own fate.
His legs gave out. He dropped to both knees. All those pent-up emotions. Finally a win without killing. Without trying desperately to save people. Without failure crushing him. He started a silent weep. Tears cut clean lines through the soot on his face.
As the forge cooled, Durnak rested his weight on his cane. "Ye've made yer mark today, lad. Remember, every blade carries its maker's soul. Keep yers sharp."
Demir nodded, watching the sword glimmer under the dying firelight. "I'll make sure it never dulls."
From somewhere deep in the woods, a howl echoed. Low, resonant, and strangely approving.
Asena.
Demir smiled faintly and whispered, "Guess she approves too."
Brovick chuckled. "Aye. Even spirits got taste in craftsmanship."
The three of them laughed. Dwarves and human. Masters and apprentice. As the forge settled into silence. The Orichalcum blade gleamed on the anvil, alive with power and promise, marking the true beginning of Demir Strovan's legend.