A deep voice, low and gravelly, echoed from behind the thick door. "Come in."
Toki exhaled slowly and pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first—metal, oil, and scorched earth, pungent and dense in the air. Then came the heat, radiating off the forge like an open furnace. Inside, the room was dim except for the roaring glow of the forge at the far end, its flames dancing violently, casting erratic shadows against soot-blackened stone walls. The crackle of burning coals merged with the occasional pop of molten slag, filling the space with a primal rhythm.
Weapons of every shape and size lined the walls—swords, daggers, polearms, curved blades, even what looked like an ornamental halberd. Some gleamed with recent polish; others were scorched, pitted, or bent, remnants of battle. The floor was layered with a chaotic mess of iron filings, half-finished projects, and tools scattered with purpose. It was not messy—it was lived-in, the organized chaos of a craftsman obsessed.
Toki's boots crunched softly as he stepped forward, squinting through the shimmering heat. Slowly, a figure emerged from the shadows behind the forge—a man of enormous stature, his chest bare and slick with sweat, every muscle honed through years of relentless labor. His shoulders were broad enough to block the fire behind him. A thick beard clung to his jaw, matted with soot. His arms, veined and scarred, held the weight of a hammer like it was a toy.
The man's eyes—bright and unwavering—locked onto Toki.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" the smith asked, his voice low, edged with suspicion and command.
Toki stood his ground, raising his hands slightly, palms out.
"My name is Toki. I was sent here by Archibald..." he said calmly, then slowly retrieved the small wooden box from within his coat. He opened it, revealing the insignia—a gleaming emblem of a dragon grasping crossed swords.
The man's expression shifted. His brows lifted slightly, and something like recognition flared behind his stern gaze.
"Archie sent you?" he rumbled, voice softer now, surprised.
Toki gave a small nod. "He said you could help me... I need a sword."
The smith grunted, setting the hammer aside. "Well, if old Archie vouches for you, that's enough for me. Come."
He gestured toward the forge, moving around it with surprising grace for someone of his size. Toki followed, careful not to trip on the uneven floor. The smith leaned down and rummaged through a heavy chest of raw iron and strange ingots glowing faintly, like they had been infused with something more than heat.
"You're in luck," the smith said. "Had a batch of dragon-tempered steel left over from a commission that got canceled. Stuff's hard to work with, but it makes a blade that can slice through a war golem."
Toki raised a brow. "Dragon-tempered?"
"From the bone of a fire drake," the man said with a crooked smile. "You melt the iron with powdered bone mixed in. Strengthens the alloy. Cursed stuff, some say, but I've never had one of these break."
He pulled out a half-forged blade, long and gleaming faintly gold. It looked like it had been sleeping—silent, deadly, beautiful.
"We'll finish this one. Should fit your grip just fine."
Toki exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders. Archibald had warned him the smith might be eccentric, but this man seemed... normal. Stern, yes—but kind beneath the soot and heat.
Lost in thought, he didn't notice the smith moving behind him.
A loud thump jolted him.
He turned. The door.
The smith had placed a massive log across it like a barricade.
"What are you—"
The words were cut short as the smith lunged.
The blade came out of nowhere. A flash of steel—a horizontal strike aimed with chilling precision. Toki reacted a moment too late. Pain tore through his left arm. He stumbled back, blood spurting in a bright arc onto the dirt floor.
"Gah—!" he hissed, clutching his bicep. The wound was deep.
The smith's face had changed. Gone was the calm craftsman. What remained was something colder—ruthless, calculating. His stance shifted, readying for a second strike.
"You've got no idea what you're walking into, boy," the smith growled.
Outside, Tora flinched at the sudden crash.
She rushed to the door, pushing hard. It didn't budge.
"Toki?!" she called, panic rising in her voice.
"Stay back!" he shouted through clenched teeth, voice cracking from the pain. "Don't open the door!"
She banged on the door, desperate. "What's happening?!"
Inside, Toki ducked as another strike came, this one overhead. The blade hissed through the air, missing his scalp by inches.
"Why?!" Toki demanded. "Why are you attacking me?!"
"Because not all favors come without a price," the smith snarled.
Toki staggered backward, searching the room for something—anything—he could use. He grabbed a pair of iron tongs, wielding them like a crude blade. Blood ran freely down his arm, but adrenaline numbed the worst of it.
"You're insane," he spat.
The smith barked a laugh. "No. Just tired of pretending. You came here to get a sword. Consider this your test. If you survive, maybe you'll earn it."
He lunged again, but this time Toki was ready. He parried with the tongs, sparks flying. The force of the strike rattled his bones, but he stood his ground.
Outside, Tora continued to beat on the door, fury and fear warring in her voice.
"Let me in! Toki, talk to me!"
"I said stay out!" he barked again, barely ducking another blow.
The smith advanced relentlessly. "Show me, Toki. Show me why Archibald gave you that emblem. Prove you're more than a soft noble playing knight."
"I never said I was a knight," Toki hissed, shoving back with all his might.
"Exactly!" the smith shouted, clashing blades again. "So why should I forge you a weapon that could shift the balance of power in the capital? You want a sword? Earn it!"
And Toki understood then.
This wasn't madness. This was trial. Fire and iron. A forge in every sense of the word.
And if he wanted to rise, he would have to bleed first.
The man attacked with terrifying precision. These were not sparring blows—each strike was aimed to kill. Toki staggered under the weight of the onslaught, every swing from the towering figure crashing down with earth-shaking force. The man moved like a boulder set aflame—unstoppable, and faster than his size should have allowed. Toki's only defense, a pair of iron tongs, clanged desperately against the blade that sought his life. Dodging wasn't a choice. He couldn't outrun this. All he could do was endure.
Blood burst from his wounds, running in crimson rivers down his side, soaking into the dirt beneath his feet. Pain dulled into a haze, replaced by the choking weight of despair. Why was he here? Why had he thought he could do this? Utsuki…
He thought of her—sharp, graceful, unrelenting. The way she had danced between the blades of assassins that day in the alley, her daggers singing with speed and precision. He was nothing like that. Weak. Clumsy. A burden, not a protector.
He could almost hear her voice, cold and disappointed. Could almost see her walking away, shoulders stiff.
Tora was outside, waiting. He had promised Utsuki they would return before dinner.
That promise rang louder than the smith's blade.
With a cry, Toki staggered back. Blood pooled at his lips. He spat—right into the smith's face. The man recoiled, eyes squeezed shut.
Toki lunged forward and slammed the tongs into the man's chest with all the strength he had left. The smith's weapon fell from his hand. Toki twisted behind him, planted a foot behind the smith's left leg, and with a shout born from rage and desperation, shoved him.
The door exploded from its hinges as the smith crashed through, landing in a heap on the scorched earth outside.
Toki stumbled after him, chest heaving, blood soaking his shirt. He raised the tongs again, shaking from the strain, poised to strike.
The man blinked up at him through dust and sweat. Then, impossibly, he laughed. Deep, ragged, honest.
"Well damn," he said. "You've got fire after all."
He spread his arms in surrender.
"I yield."
Footsteps pounded toward them. Tora's voice broke the silence.
"Toki!" she cried, falling to her knees beside him. Her hands trembled as she pressed her bonnet to the worst of his wounds. "What happened? You're covered in blood!"
Toki let the tongs fall. "It's alright. I'm alright," he said, though he swayed on his feet.
The smith sat up, one hand pressed to his ribs. "You're the first to survive my trial. Didn't expect it, honestly."
Tora glared at him. "Trial?! You nearly killed him!"
The smith didn't answer. His gaze was locked on Toki.
"My name is Wiliam," he said, solemnly. "This forge doesn't hand out blades to anyone. They must be earned—in fire, in blood, in purpose."
He looked down at the floor, where iron filings shimmered red.
"You bled for this. I'll make your sword from this floor—from steel that knows your struggle."
He offered a soot-darkened hand. Toki took it.
"Come," Wiliam said. "Let's begin."
The forge roared anew as Wiliam shoveled coals with deliberate care. Toki sat on a bench, bandaged but pale, watching the flames swell and spit.
"I mix the filings with raw ore," Wiliam explained. "The heat will bind them. Your blood will temper the steel."
Toki flinched. "That sounds... a bit dark."
Wiliam chuckled. "All great weapons have blood in them. Better it's yours than someone else's."
Hours passed. Sparks flew. Wiliam's hammer rose and fell with rhythmic certainty. Toki's vision blurred, the pain in his arm like fire licking his bones.
Tora sat beside him, never leaving, holding his hand. "You scared me," she whispered. "I thought he killed you."
"I was almost sure he had," Toki muttered.
"You shouldn't have had to do that alone."
"I needed to. If I can't face this, how could I ever protect Utsuki?"
Tora was quiet for a moment. "You're stronger than you think."
The hammering stopped. Wiliam stood over the anvil, sweat pouring off his face, holding a blade that gleamed gold and crimson.
"It's not finished," he said. "But this is its heart. The rest is detail."
He brought it over. Toki reached out, but Wiliam stopped him.
"Not yet. You'll hold it when it's ready. A sword is more than metal. It's an oath. You're not just carrying a weapon—you're declaring who you are."
Toki nodded, breath slow, solemn.
"Then let it say this," he said. That I'll protect those I love. That I'll earn the right to stand beside her."
Wiliam smiled. "Then this blade will carry that truth."
Wiliam's massive hands moved with surprising finesse as he layered two pieces of metal onto the anvil—one dull and gray, the other bright with a silvery sheen.
"We use soft metal for the core," he said, holding the dull piece up to the light of the forge. "Gives the blade flexibility. If it bends, it doesn't break."
He reached for the silvery metal. "And this one's hard. It'll form the edge. Keeps it sharp, doesn't wear down too fast."
Toki leaned closer, watching with rapt attention. The pain in his arm still pulsed, but he ignored it. This—this was a ritual. Not just craft, but something spiritual.
"Now comes the dance," Wiliam said, positioning the pieces. "We fold them, beat them, again and again. That's what gives a sword its spine. A good blade's like a good man—shaped by pressure, not shattered by it."
With each strike of the hammer, sparks flew like fireflies. Wiliam moved with practiced rhythm, the hammer rising and falling in a flow that almost felt like a heartbeat. The clang of metal filled the forge, echoing like distant thunder.
"We hammer out impurities," he explained between strikes, "but not all of them. Too pure, and the metal gets brittle. Impurities, in the right places, give strength. Just like scars on a warrior."
Toki nodded slowly. "Imperfection with purpose."
Wiliam grinned. "Exactly."
Tora sat nearby, tending to a small kettle over the coals, preparing herbs for Toki's wounds. The forge's heat flushed her cheeks, but her eyes never strayed far from the two men.
As Wiliam paused to reheat the metal, Toki's gaze wandered across the forge. His eyes caught on a thick, leather-bound book resting on a dusty shelf beside a broken helm and a cracked drinking horn. The gold-embossed title gleamed in the firelight:
The Myth of Creation.
Without thinking, Toki stepped closer.
Wiliam followed his gaze. "You know that story?"
Toki reached out, fingers brushing the book's cracked spine. "I studied it... a long time ago."
Tora perked up, curiosity in her expression. "Will you tell it?" she asked softly.
Toki hesitated, then opened the book. The scent of aged parchment and soot met his nose.
He began, voice steady despite the ache in his body.