13th Rotation of the Cycle, 3448 A.E.
Unnamed Blacksmith — Brinewatch
The pedicab came to a stop in front of the blacksmith’s workshop, a squat, soot-streaked building with a cracked sign that simply read Blacksmith. Even in the emerging light of dawn, the forge's glow pulsed like a heartbeat through the open windows.
Kael stepped off the cab, nodded to Brogan—who leaned back with a toothpick in his mouth and arms crossed—and approached the entrance. He pushed through the heavy door and was immediately greeted by the furnace's heat and the bitter tang of burned iron, oil, and sweat.
Garrick stood near an anvil, hammering a blunt blade until sparks burst like fireflies. He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“I’m early,” Kael replied dryly, brushing soot from the doorframe off his sleeve.
Garrick grunted. “The pile’s out back. Deal with it.”
Kael followed the narrow corridor around the workshop, finding the waste heap tucked behind the forge building, roped off but still exposed to the cooling evening air. It was a rough blend of jagged mana stone shards, corroded chemical containers, strips of leather soaked in god-knows-what, and a half-dozen twisted metal scraps from failed reinforcement attempts. A faint shimmer of ruined enchantments clung to the fragments like fading embers.
But Kael’s eyes fixed on the gleam buried under the rubble—scattered pieces of scorched orichalcum and cracked mithril.
He didn’t waste time.
Closing his eyes, he extended his will. His talent responded, threads of dark hunger reaching from his mouth and weaving out like veins into the trash. A warm surge flowed into him in pulses as the corrupted materials were broken down and devoured. The materials were rough—fractured and contaminated—but his inner world consumed them greedily, converting them to energy reserves that resided only god knows where inside his trait.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Quantitative Aura, Mana and Prana Reserve Increase Detected]
Source: Corrupted Legendary-Tier Ore — Mithril
Mass: 0.020 mAq
Effect: +2.06 Mana | +8.08 Aura | +1.623 Prana
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Quantitative Aura, Mana and Prana Reserve Increase Detected]
Source: Corrupted Legendary-Tier Ore — Orichalcum
Mass: 0.018 mAq
Effect: +6.06 Mana | +2.08 Aura | +0.008 Prana
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Quantitative Mana and Aura Reserve Increase Detected]
Source: Corrupted High Density Manastone
Mass: 0.012 mAq
Effect: +0.860 Mana | +0.082 Aura
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Quantitative Aura and Prana Reserve Increase Detected]
Source: Corrupted Legendary-Tier Ore — Adamantite
Mass: 0.0431 mAq
Effect: +10.706 Aura | +0.083 Prana
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Quantitative Aura Reserve Increase Detected]
Source: Corrupted High-Quality Common Ore Matrix — Titanium, Chromium, Tungsten, Osmium, Iron, Gold, Platinum
Mass: 0.914 mAq
Effect: +1.706 Aura
A series of system update notifications spammed his vision one after the other. Kael had to catch his breath as he saw the numbers, and finally saw what he had been looking for—Prana. His guess was correct. He must have gotten prana from the mithril and orichalcum he had devoured last time.
Kael determined that Mithril had the highest Prana concentration of all metals, orichalcum had the highest mana concentration, and adamantite had the highest aura concentration. Although they didn't compare to any of the legendary-tier ores, the high-quality common ores' aura concentration dwarfed that of the common quality materials, including steel, he had been consuming up to the point.
He had to eat whole buildings to get the equivalent amount of aura from a small piece of any of these ores. He had to get more!
By the time he finished, nothing was left of the heap but smears on the ground. Kael dusted his hands and walked back inside, feeling fuller and stronger.
Garrick raised an eyebrow when Kael returned. “Took longer than I expected.”
Kael shrugged. “Could’ve spent that time on a contract worth five, maybe ten thousand Marks.”
“You want a bonus for doing your damn job?”
Kael folded his arms. “I want a raise. One Gold Mark per visit? It’s not gone cut it anymore.”
“Hmph.” Garrick scratched his beard with his blackened glove. “Fine. Ten Platinum Marks. Don't say I never did anything for ya.”
Kael didn’t flinch. “One Mithril Mark.”
Garrick let out a short laugh, more like a bark. “You think you’re worth that? Kid, a Mithril Mark’s worth over a hundred Platinum to someone like me. I could forge a Legendary weapon with that. One that an S-rank will pay millions for. You’re not worth that yet.”
“Yet,” Kael echoed, filing that word away.
“Ten Platinums. And that’s me being generous,” Garrick said. “I’ll even throw in a few pointers if you’re serious about that hammer I saw you carrying around.”
Kael didn’t miss a beat. He clasped his hands and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Master. I’ll study hard under you.”
Garrick froze mid-step. “Don’t call me that.”
“Understood, Master.”
“I’m not your master,” Garrick growled. “I said I’d show you a few things. That doesn’t make you my apprentice.”
“But if I learn from you,” Kael said, his eyes glinting, “then it makes sense to call you Master. Even just for appearances.”
“It makes you a pain in my ass,” Garrick snapped. “I already regret saying anything.”
“But you’re a man, aren't you?”
That earned Kael a glare—and then a tired sigh. “Fine. Come back before dawn. I’ll give you a few hours each morning. That’s all.”
“I’ll be here,” Kael said, already turning toward the door. “Thank you, Master.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Right. Sorry, Master.”
Kael slipped out before Garrick could throw something at him.
He hopped back onto the pedicab, eyes still bright with calculation and hunger. Garrick might not have accepted him as an apprentice, not officially—but Kael wasn’t going to waste the chance. Garrick didn't send chills down his spine or have legendary-tier materials lying around for no reason. If Kael and Lira's guess was correct, and he really was an S-rank talent holder…
Then Kael had just taken his first step toward untouchability.
Six Cycles Later — Cycle 11, Rotation 14, 3448 A.E.
The Blacksmith, Brinewatch
The forge’s heat slammed into Kael like a wall as he lugged a sack of raw iron across the blackened stone floor. Coal smoke clung to the air, thick and bitter, stinging his lungs with every breath. Sparks hissed like angry insects where molten flecks popped off the anvil. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his back, his arms trembling as he dropped the sack by the fire with a thud. Iron rattled, muffled under the roar of the flames.
Same as every morning. Six full cycles of this.
He gripped the bellows and pumped, steady and rhythmic, feeding the furnace’s hunger as Garrick hammered a glowing rod, each strike measured and deliberate. Kael watched the sparks fly, a small part of him still in awe—while the rest of him burned with frustration.
Six cycles. Every morning, before sunup, he showed up. Hauling ore. Stoking the furnace. Sweeping ash. Pumping bellows. Fetching, lifting, cleaning, watching. Always watching. Never forging. Not once. Not even a single Elandor-damned nail.
His arms had thickened. His back had hardened. His skin had calloused. But still no hammer in his hand.
It was almost funny—every other part of his life had transformed.
Six cycles ago, he was still scrambling for drips just to keep Elira and Sera alive. Now? Ashport Disposal & Recovery had blown up, turned into a full-blown industrial beast. Lira ran the day-to-day like a war general—relentless, sharp, terrifying when angry. She’d moved their HQ to Luminaris Ward, a Tier 2 district in Inner SW-2, where the mana-lamps never flickered and the streets smelled like polished stone and imported flowers. The company had just cleared a private valuation of over 500 million Dravaran Marks.
Lira had bought a mansion in a gated community. Retired her father, Kevyn, who now spent his days sobering up in a fancy chair surrounded by peace and air filters.
And Kael? He’d stayed in the Grays in order to stay close to Garrick's. Same neighborhood. Same cracked streets. But he’d bought the whole building. Tripled the size of the storefront. Reinforced it with steel framing, added a warehouse with hydrogen-powered rigs—dump trucks, lifters, loaders. The old loft? Now a sleek, three-story luxury apartment with climate enchantments, glass floors, and real stone tubs. Security too—D-rank combat talents who carried heat, cold blades, and didn’t ask questions.
It was still the Grays. But it was his.
Elira had bounced back like spring after frost. Color in her cheeks. Strength in her voice. She was even back to brewing again, her fingers deft and sure as they worked with herbs. Her nonprofit—Voren Vitality LLC, doing business as VitalPath Pharmacy—operated right under his company. Every quartermoon, she traveled to Brinewatch and the nearby slums, distributing healing herbs, pills, and elixirs that made people weep.
And Sera—twelve now—had finally started looking like it. Her bones no longer jutted from under her skin. Her eyes no longer looked too big for her face. Elira had drilled her hard, and the kid had caught up fast, testing into Secondary School even though she was years behind.
Malik had opened Grays Haven Orphanage in the same slum he’d grown up in. Gave kids a bed, a meal, a shot at something better.
Kael’s own nonprofit—Ashport Aid Network—ran kitchens across the city’s poorest zones. Three hot meals a day, every day. No paperwork, no questions. Just food. That alone had changed thousands of lives.
Everywhere else, everything had changed.
Except here.
This forge. This routine. This damn bellow. This silence.
He kept pumping, but his jaw clenched.
He couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Kael stopped and wiped his forehead with the crook of his arm, then glared across the forge. “Six cycles, Master,” he said, voice low but tight with irritation. “Six. I ain’t touched a hammer yet. Ain’t forged nothin’. Not even a knife.”
Garrick didn’t look up. His hammer rose and fell in slow, even rhythm. “Patience,” he grunted. “Forgin’ ain’t just swingin’ steel. It’s heat, timing, feel. You’re doin’ better than I figured. Most would’ve quit.”
Kael snorted. “Yeah, well. I ain’t most. But I also ain’t a Elandor-damned mule.”
Garrick set the rod down onto the anvil and finally looked over, one soot-streaked brow raised. His eyes glinted under the forge-light. “You callin’ it quits, boy?”
“Nah,” Kael muttered, tugging his gloves off. “But I ain’t comin’ in tomorrow. Lira’s awakenin’—sixteen tomorrow. Big party. Me, Malik, Mom, Sera, Kevyn. I’m spendin’ the night with her. Gotta take her to the Registrar in the mornin’. Just in case…”
He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to. They both knew the risk—every kid dreamed of some powerful talent, but most awakened something basic. Or worse.
Garrick grunted and turned back to the forge. “Don’t care. But you’ll make up the work.”
Kael rolled his eyes and turned to leave. “Sure, Master. Whatever you say.”
Kael’s ArkSeal buzzed, a faint hum in his palm cutting through the forge’s roar. He focused, and a window flared in his mind: Incoming: Luminaris Events. He glanced at Garrick, who was mid-swing with the hammer, and answered, voice rough but steady.
“Yes, this is Kael Voren speakin’.”
Garrick’s hammer halted midair. His gaze snapped toward Kael, sharp and sudden. Kael didn’t notice—too focused on the call.
“Yeah, venue’s confirmed for Lira’s party. Tomorrow at dusk. Got the space, lights, tables—everything. Appreciate it.”
The window dimmed, fading from his vision. Kael exhaled, the weight of tomorrow settling on his shoulders.
Garrick set the glowing rod aside, stare anchored on him. “You said Voren.”
His voice was quieter than usual, but heavier. “You a real Voren… or some knockoff family ridin’ the name?”
Kael’s jaw tensed. Old anger stirred. “Real,” he said flatly, Brinewatch grit thick in his throat. “Me and Mom got tossed out after my dad vanished. Over a decade back. Vorens didn’t want nothin’ to do with us.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed, his tone shifting. “What was your dad’s name?”
Kael hesitated a breath. “Tharan. Tharan Voren.”
Garrick went still. His face, always ironclad, slackened. For the first time Kael had ever seen, the man looked genuinely stunned.
“Tharan Voren. The artificer?”
Kael nodded slowly. “That’s him.”
Garrick leaned back, like the name carried weight his spine couldn’t bear. He let out a long breath, thick with something Kael couldn’t place—respect, maybe. Regret.
“Next time you come in,” Garrick said, voice low, “we start real work. Forge work. No more haulin’ scrap.”
Kael blinked. “What changed? ‘Cause of my name?” His voice sharpened. “I don’t care if I’m blood. The Vorens threw us out. If this is for them, forget it.”
Garrick met his glare, unmoved. “Ain’t for them. It’s for Tharan.” He turned back toward the anvil, voice distant. “Man helped me once. Pulled me outta a bad place. Never got the chance to return the favor. He vanished before I could.”
He glanced back at Kael. “You? You’re the next best thing.”
The forge hissed, heat pressing against Kael’s skin, but it wasn’t the fire that unsettled him. It was the weight of a debt he never earned.
“…Fine,” Kael said, turning toward the door. “See you after tomorrow, Master.”
Garrick grunted, already reaching for the hammer again.
Kael stepped outside into the grime and salt of Brinewatch, the wind dry in his throat, and for the first time in six cycles, he felt the spark of a path opening.
