The Living Steel: Soul of the Smith

The air in the chamber tasted like ozone and burnt sage. Kaedron Volnaris coughed, his lungs burning as the blinding white light of the summoning circle finally began to recede. He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his vision, only to find himself standing in the center of a cavernous hall paved in polished obsidian.

"Is he the one?" a voice boomed from the shadows. "Tell me he’s the one we’ve been waiting for."

Kaedron squinted, seeing a dozen hooded figures surrounding the circle, their hands trembling with exhaustion. High above them, seated on a throne that looked like it was carved from a single block of gold, sat a man with hair the color of hammered silver.

"Check the plate, High Mage," the man on the throne commanded. "Don't just stand there gawking."

One of the hooded figures stepped forward, holding a shimmering piece of crystal toward Kaedron’s chest. "I need you to hold still, kid. This won't hurt, but it’s going to tell us everything you’re worth."

"Where am I?" Kaedron croaked, his voice cracking. "What just happened? I was literally just at the hardware store."

"Standard displacement disorientation," the mage muttered, ignoring the question. "Now, stay still. Let’s see those stats. Strength... low. Agility... average. Magic capacity... wait, what?"

The High Mage squinted at the crystal. He tapped it. He shook it. Then his face went pale.

"Well?" the King called out, leaning forward. "Does he have the Holy Sword Art? The Infinite Mana Pool? Tell me we didn't just burn through the kingdom’s entire supply of Star-Iron for a nobody."

The mage swallowed hard. "Your Majesty... it says his unique skill is... [Basic Blacksmithing]."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.

"Excuse me?" Kaedron asked, looking between the mage and the King. "Did you say blacksmithing? Like, making horseshoes?"

"Silence, boy," the King snapped, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous growl. "High Mage, look again. There has to be a sub-skill. 'Godly Forging'? 'Creation of the Heavens'?"

"No, Sire," the mage whispered. "It just says... 'Basic Blacksmithing.' Level one. No combat skills. No passive buffs. He’s... he’s just a smith."

King Veydrik Sol stood up, his regal cape fluttering behind him like a dying wing. He descended the stairs of the dais, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. He stopped inches from Kaedron, smelling of expensive wine and old parchment.

"Look at me," Veydrik ordered.

Kaedron looked up. "Look, Your Majesty, or whatever you are. I don't know what’s going on, but if you need a gate fixed or something, I guess I could try, but I was actually a mechanic back home—"

"A mechanic?" Veydrik sneered. "I summoned a Hero. I sacrificed three years of the national treasury to bring a savior from across the veil to break the siege of the Iron Peaks. And the universe sends me a peasant who hits hot metal with a hammer?"

"I didn't ask to be here!" Kaedron barked back, his own temper finally flaring. "You snatched me out of my life! You don't get to be picky about what you dragged through the hole you poked in reality."

The King’s eyes narrowed. "You have a tongue on you for a man with no value."

"Value?" Kaedron laughed bitterly. "I’m a person, not a trade commodity."

"In this kingdom, everyone is a commodity," Veydrik said, turning his back. "And you, boy, are a deficit. High Mage, can we send him back?"

"The ritual is one-way, Sire," the mage said, bowing his head. "The bridge collapsed the moment he crossed over."

"Fantastic," the King sighed. "So I’m stuck feeding a useless mouth. Captain Thorne!"

A massive man in heavy plate armor stepped out from behind a pillar. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Take this 'Hero' away," Veydrik said, waving a hand dismissively. "Strip him of those strange clothes. Give him a tunic and get him out of my sight. If he’s a blacksmith, let the world have him. He’s not worth the air in this palace."

"Wait, you’re just kicking me out?" Kaedron asked, stepping forward as the Captain’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "I don't know anyone here! I don't even know where the hell 'here' is!"

"Not my problem," the King said, not even looking back as he walked toward a side door. "Be glad I’m not executing you for being a disappointment. It’s more mercy than you deserve."

The Captain began dragging Kaedron toward the exit.

"Hey! Get your hands off me!" Kaedron shouted, struggling against the iron grip.

"Just walk, kid," Thorne said, his voice surprisingly deep and gravelly. "Making a scene only gets you bloodier. You’re lucky the King is in a good mood. Usually, failures end up in the pits."

"A good mood?" Kaedron spat. "He just kidnapped me and threw me in the trash!"

"Welcome to Oakhaven," the Captain muttered. "Life’s a bitch, then you die. Or in your case, you get dumped at the border."

The journey from the capital was a blur of bumpy carriage wheels and cold nights. Kaedron was kept in a small iron cage at the back of a supply wagon, treated less like a guest and more like a diseased animal. The guards didn't speak to him much, and when they did, it was only to mock his "legendary" skill.

"Hey, Blacksmith!" one of the guards yelled, tossing a piece of stale bread through the bars. "My boot’s got a loose nail. You want to use your 'Hero' powers to fix it?"

The others erupted in laughter.

"Go to hell," Kaedron muttered, huddled in the corner of the cage.

"Careful now," the guard laughed. "If you’re mean to us, we might forget to give you your parting gift."

Three days later, the wagon came to a halt. The air was cold and smelled of damp earth and rot. Captain Thorne walked to the back of the wagon and unbolted the cage.

"End of the line," Thorne said.

Kaedron hopped down, his legs cramped and shaking. They were standing on a muddy road overlooking a valley. In the distance, a cluster of dilapidated huts sat huddled together like gravestones.

"Where are we?" Kaedron asked, shivering in the thin linen tunic they’d forced him into.

"The Edge," Thorne replied. "About as far from the King’s eyes as you can get without crossing into the Deadlands. That village down there is called Oakhollow. Though 'hollow' is the right word for it. Most people have already left."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

Thorne reached into the wagon and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in burlap. He tossed it at Kaedron’s feet. It landed with a dull thud.

"King’s charity," Thorne said. "He said you should have the tools of your trade."

Kaedron unwrapped the burlap. Inside was a hammer. It wasn't fancy. It was made of dark iron with a rough wooden handle, pitted and slightly rusted.

"A hammer?" Kaedron looked up, incredulous. "One hammer?"

"And a pair of tongs if you look deeper in the wrap," the Captain added, turning back toward his horse. "Good luck, kid. Try not to starve. It makes the place look messy."

"That’s it?" Kaedron yelled as the guards began to turn the wagons around. "You’re just leaving me in the middle of nowhere with a rusted hammer?"

"Better than a sword you don't know how to use!" the guard from before shouted back, laughing as the horses broke into a trot.

Kaedron stood in the middle of the road, the silence of the valley crashing down on him. He looked at the hammer in his hand. He felt a strange pulse in his palm, a warmth that shouldn't have been there.

Skill [Basic Blacksmithing] Active.

Current Status: Unequipped.

"Great," Kaedron whispered to the empty air. "I have a UI. Now I can see exactly how screwed I am in high definition."

He picked up the burlap bundle and began the long walk down into the village. As he got closer, the desolation became more apparent. The fences were broken, the fields were overgrown with grey weeds, and the few people he saw through windows looked like ghosts—hollow-eyed and thin.

He reached the center of the village, where a large building sat with a collapsed roof on one side. A sign hung by a single chain, creaking in the wind. It showed a faded anvil.

Kaedron pushed the door open. The interior was thick with dust and cobwebs. A layer of soot covered everything, but in the center of the room sat a massive stone hearth. Beside it stood an anvil, its surface scarred but solid.

"Anyone here?" he called out.

Only the wind answered, whistling through the holes in the thatch roof.

Kaedron walked over to the forge. He ran his hand over the anvil. It was cold—dead cold. He looked at the hammer in his other hand. His heart was pounding against his ribs, a mixture of fury and a desperate, clawing need to survive.

"They think I'm trash," he whispered, his grip tightening on the wooden handle. "The King, the guards... everyone."

He looked at the hearth. There was a small pile of charcoal in the corner, forgotten by whoever had lived here last. He grabbed a flint from the workbench and began to strike it.

"I’m a blacksmith?" he said, his voice growing steadier, louder. "Fine. If that’s what I am, then I’m going to be the biggest problem this world has ever seen."

He managed to catch a spark. A tiny orange glow bloomed in the dark. He blew on it gently, watching the charcoal catch. The light flickered against the walls, casting long, dancing shadows.

Kaedron picked up a discarded, rusted iron rod from the floor. He thrust it into the growing heat of the forge. He waited, his eyes fixed on the metal as it began to change color—from dull grey to a faint, pulsing red.

He pulled the glowing metal out and laid it across the anvil.

"You want a Hero?" Kaedron hissed, lifting his hammer high. "I'll build one myself."

He swung.

Clang!

The sound echoed through the dying village like a heartbeat. The system window in his vision flared, the words turning from white to a searing, molten gold.

[Unique Skill: Basic Blacksmithing] has leveled up!

New Trait Acquired: [Spiteful Heat].

Kaedron didn't stop. He swung again, and the world began to shake.