“I still think it was a good name,” Tunde said as they left the Golden Pill Pavilion, its large doors closing behind them.
The sun beat down in full force, the heat making the stone floors burn as they made their way toward another section of the city.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead as the patron of some assassin-sounding house,” Elder Joran muttered. Tunde rolled his eyes discreetly.
The elder had changed the house's name from Dark Sword to Dark Fist, much to Tunde’s reluctance. Still, Baron Dale had accepted the contract immediately, signing alongside the two of them. Tunde had deposited most of the items he’d gained from the void rings, and the baron had purchased them all, nearly emptying his coffers. Five hundred thousand lumens—an amount that staggered Tunde. Yet, he knew how quickly that wealth could vanish, especially when investing in advancement.
Tunde had learned that lesson firsthand as the elder began shopping for elixirs and pills. In a single day, one hundred thousand lumens disappeared—spent on vitality elixirs, life elixirs, and even pure Ethra elixirs. With his body already tempered by the venom trials, the elder saw no need to put him through further body tempering just yet.
“Nothing good has caught my eye so far,” Elder Joran said as they walked.
“Most of the tempering techniques and scrolls sold by the Golden Pill Pavilion would taint your body. They’re fine for an average ranker, but with a body like yours, we need something stronger.”
With over four hundred thousand lumens still in his void ring, Tunde found himself in the smithing district of the city. The area spanned an entire swath of land, filled with smoking buildings and the constant ringing of hammers on metal. People bustled about—large, bulky figures carrying massive pieces of metal into various shops, each one marked with its own unique name.
Baron Dale had given them the name of a specific shop to visit, and Elder Joran, who knew the layout of Jade Peak as well as the back of his hand, led them through the district with ease. Tunde suspected the elder’s affinities helped him navigate, but he kept that thought to himself.
“When I was attacked in the forest, one of Verdant Arbor’s disciples said I had no aura,” Tunde said.
“Aura is the manifestation of a ranker’s ego, Tunde,” the elder explained, the heat from the surrounding forges enveloping them. “Egos, in turn, reflect how people see themselves.”
The answer left Tunde with more questions. If he had no aura, what did that say about him? Did he not have a view of himself at all?
“Usually, up until peak adept or early lord rank, most auras are intangible, without form. They’re just raw power—useful only for tracking other disciples. Your problem is that you’ve never considered yourself worthwhile. You’ve never even seen yourself as a person,” Elder Joran said, hitting the point directly.
“How do I fix that?” Tunde asked.
Elder Joran paused in the middle of the road. People passing by bowed slightly and muttered soft greetings, their eyes averted. If they had planned to be discreet on this journey, Tunde was sure that plan had already failed.
“You ask foolish questions sometimes. And that’s saying a lot, considering the questions I’ve heard,” the elder replied with a sigh.
Tunde blinked at him in silence.
“In the forest, during your rampage through the tier 1 and 2 domains, how did you feel?” the elder asked as they resumed walking.
Tunde wanted to argue that it hadn’t been a rampage, but the bloody aftermath flashed through his mind, and he winced.
“Like a predator, to be honest,” he admitted.
Elder Joran snorted. “Big fish in a small pond.”
He continued, “I want you to hold onto that mentality, no matter who or what you face. You might die—honestly, going after an adept right now would be foolish—but at least you’ll go down fighting fiercely.”
“More fiercely than I did with Thalas?” Tunde blurted before he could stop himself.
The elder paused, turning to him with sudden seriousness.
“You were a stream meeting a boulder—it stopped you, disrupted your flow,” he said. “But what happens to the water in that stream?”
“They find another route around?” Tunde answered carefully.
The elder nodded, then turned and continued toward a small building marked with the insignia of a snarling beast.
Tunde followed quietly for a few moments. “So, you want me to find a way around him?” he asked for clarification.
Elder Joran snorted. “No. I want you to become an ocean and drown that boulder,” he replied.
**************************
The inside of the smithy was sweltering, forgesmiths bustling around with red-hot metal in their bare hands—or so it appeared to Tunde at first. Only upon closer inspection did he realize they wore skin-tight gloves that somehow negated the heat despite their thinness. That wasn’t the only surprise. In one corner, piles of weapons were stacked haphazardly—long and short blades, metal-forged bows, cannons, and gauntlets. Each item had a silver sheen, some darker, some lighter, and above them, a metal plaque read:
1,000 lumens per weapon.
Tunde’s eyes bulged at the absurd price as he strayed from Elder Joran’s side, moving closer to the pile where a bored-looking kid sat.
“Welcome to the Iron Wolf Forge. One thousand lumens per weapon. Buy more than one and get a free one-time repair,” the kid said flatly, as if he had repeated the phrase a hundred times.
Tunde glanced from him to the weapons. "Sorry to bother, but is there any way I can test one first?"
The kid lazily dipped his hand under the shelf and produced a bland-looking blade. “Forged with a quarter Ethereon, conducts Ethra up to peak disciple rank,” he said with a sigh.
Tunde picked up the weapon, noting its lightness as he ran his Ethra through it. The blade vibrated erratically, and Tunde, startled, drew his Ethra back and handed the blade back sheepishly. The kid stared at him blankly.
“Thanks,” Tunde said softly, about to turn away.
“That’ll be twenty lumens,” the kid said.
Tunde froze, confusion crossing his face. "What?"
“Twenty lumens for testing the weapon,” the kid repeated with a sigh.
“You didn’t say that before!” Tunde protested, shocked.
“I don’t make the rules. The boss does. Now pay up,” the kid replied, calmly holding out his hand.
Grumbling, Tunde dropped a few silver coins on the table and turned back toward the elder, who was speaking with a muscular, sweat-covered man. Slipping in behind Elder Joran, hands folded, Tunde watched as the forgesmith eyed him briefly before returning his attention to the elder.
“Venerable Elder, I beg your indulgence, but Master Forgesmith Borus is busy with an important order for the child of a family head. He’s currently unavailable,” the man said nervously, clenching and unclenching his fists as if telling an elder no might give him heart palpitations.
Elder Joran smiled, nodding calmly. “Even if you tell him we’re here on behalf of Baron Dale from the Golden Pill Pavilion?”
The man’s eyes widened slightly before he stammered, “P-please, give me a moment.” He hurried off toward a large door.
Satisfied, Elder Joran turned to Tunde. “You realize that kid just scammed you out of twenty lumens, right?”
Tunde blinked in surprise, turning back toward the boy, ready to confront him.
“Are you going to complain every time you get cheated?” Elder Joran asked with a soft laugh.
“But, Elder Joran—” Tunde began, only for the elder to shake his head.
“Leave him be. He probably earns five lumens a day working in the smithy. My guess is he’s aiming to become an apprentice forgehand. It’s a highly respected profession—few make it to artificer rank. We only have one artificer in all of Jade Peak. That should tell you how hard it is.”
“Artificer? I’ve heard of them. What exactly are they?” Tunde asked.
“Artificers, craft mages, rune forgers—they go by many names, but they aren’t to be confused with arcanists,” the elder replied. “They are forgesmiths who’ve advanced to the pinnacle of their craft. They forge Ethereon, runes, and creature cores into weapons. And before you ask, no, their advancement doesn’t follow the normal ranker system,” the elder added, noticing Tunde opening his mouth.
Tunde closed it wordlessly, absorbing the information.
“If they did scale with rankers, I’d put them at peak high-lord or early master rank. They’ve perfected the art of forging, creating some of the most powerful weapons you can find.”
Tunde’s eyes widened at the thought. “Powerful weapons?” he asked.
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“Of course,” Elder Joran said with a smile. “But also bloody expensive. Most rankers can’t afford one until they reach the lord rank—unless they come from wealthy families or have patrons.”
Tunde’s heart skipped a beat, and he bowed deeply to the elder, gratitude filling his voice. “I cannot express my thanks enough, Venerable Elder, for this gift.”
The elder patted his shoulder fondly. “Don’t mention it. That’s what teachers and patrons are for—to guide you. Now, with three hundred thousand lumens left, you should get a bonded weapon that can grow with you to peak adept rank.”
Tunde froze, standing straight as he began to sweat—not from the heat of the forges, but from the realization of what the elder was saying.
“With my lumens?” he croaked, feeling faint.
“Of course! Wait, you didn’t think I was going to fund your weapon, did you?” Elder Joran asked, laughing as Tunde nodded mutely.
After a hearty laugh, the elder sighed. “Oh, my young student. Not even the blessed hegemons could make me pay for your weapon after I spent over thirty thousand lumens on your forest expedition.”
Weak on his feet, Tunde watched as the muscular man shuffled back, the dim orange and blue glow from the forges casting a flickering light over him. Bowing to the elder, the man gestured toward the door. “Please, this way, Venerable Elder.”
As they followed the man, Tunde leaned toward the elder, a thought occurring to him. “Didn’t you say there’s only one artificer in Jade Peak?”
“Indeed. Artificer Iphan, the patriarch’s personal forgesmith, resides within the Jade Citadel, home to the patriarch and his direct bloodline,” the elder explained.
“So... what are we doing here?” Tunde asked, genuinely puzzled.
He hadn’t been privy to the conversation between Baron Dale and Elder Joran about the forgesmith, having spent that time sampling the vitality-infused fruits of the garden.
Remembering that he hadn’t yet spoken to the elder about the rift energy he’d managed to absorb, Tunde debated whether to bring it up. In the end, he decided to keep it to himself for now. He already had enough strange things going on—his relic weapon disguised as a band, his peculiar Ethra, and his tempered body. Adding another mystery to the list might just overwhelm everything.
“Because Baron Dale said he’s a good forgesmith, a really good one,” Elder Joran said, glancing meaningfully at Tunde.
It was hard to read the blindfolded elder’s expressions, but this one, Tunde understood perfectly. He nodded quietly as the muscular man beside them spoke.
“Indeed, Venerable Elder,” the man said, puffing up with pride. “Forgesmith Borus may not be an artificer yet, but his mastery of forging weapons is unmatched by anyone beneath that rank.”
“We’ll see,” Elder Joran replied.
They passed through the heavy doors and entered a smaller room, where a large man stood bent over an anvil, swinging a red-hot hammer engraved with glowing blue runes. He brought the hammer down repeatedly on a piece of metal, his massive bulk obscuring the details of his work. His long, black-and-grey hair hung to his shoulders, but it was his glowing metal hand that caught Tunde’s attention. Silver, with tiny runes inscribed across it, the hand radiated power with every movement
Tunde switched on his Ethra sight, marveling at the display before him. Blue Ethra, harsh and powerful yet restrained, flowed from the hand to the hammer, then into the glowing metal. Every strike seemed to subdue the weapon, as though a beast within the flames was being forced into submission. Enraptured, Tunde watched the process, disappointed when the man—undoubtedly Forgesmith Borus—paused and turned to them.
Charcoal-grey eyes stared out from a face weathered by decades at the forge. Calloused hands—one flesh, the other metal—rested by his side as he bowed slightly.
“Venerable Great Elder Joran, Disciple Tunde, welcome to the Iron Wolf Forge. I am Forgesmith Borus. How may I assist you today?” he asked.
Elder Joran gave a charming smile, and Tunde couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for the forgesmith. The elder stepped forward, handing Borus a small, transparent pearl.
Borus stared at it for a moment, the pearl tiny in his large hand. He clenched it in his fist, shutting his eyes as he spoke. “Shut the doors to the forge,” he commanded.
The muscular man who had brought them in nodded without hesitation, moving swiftly to close the door.
“Why would Baron Dale give his one chance at something great to you?” Borus asked.
“Because we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Elder Joran replied with a smile.
Borus snorted, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. “We?” he said, opening his eyes and turning to Tunde.
Tunde felt as if he were being stripped bare—his soul laid open for examination. It was an uncomfortable, almost terrifying feeling, like standing before a predator. He glanced at Elder Joran for reassurance.
“The elder of the clan, I can understand,” Borus continued, his voice low and skeptical. “But him? A disciple? What could he possibly offer me?”
Elder Joran turned to Tunde, who was still transfixed by the forgesmith’s gaze, as if held in a trance. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” the elder murmured before turning back to Borus. “What we offer you is a legacy.”
Borus snapped his gaze away from Tunde, and the young disciple exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. It felt like escaping the presence of a predator. Hadn't the elder said forgesmiths weren’t powerful?
“Explain,” Borus replied, his tone gruff but intrigued.
“May I address you properly, then?” Elder Joran asked, his voice calm.
Borus was silent for a moment before he nodded slightly.
“Tunde,” Elder Joran said seriously, snapping Tunde to attention. “Bow and pay your respects to the second artificer of Jade Peak, the forger of soulbound weapons—Artificer Borus.”
Tunde immediately bent at the waist, words tumbling from his mouth as he shivered.
“This unworthy disciple, Tunde of House Dark Fist, greets the venerable artificer and hopes to find favor in his sight,” he stammered.
“Favor,” Borus echoed. “There is no such thing in this world, child.” He looked down at Tunde, still bowing. “There’s only the exchange of power, value, and will.”
Tunde glanced up, maintaining his bowed posture, unsure how to respond. The weight of the artificer’s words hung heavily in the air, but Tunde knew they carried a lesson—a truth about the world he was still coming to understand.
The artificer grabbed the large blade he had been working on, the metal writhing like liquid, fighting against the form Borus had been forging. He continued speaking as he eyed the weapon, then smashed it onto the anvil.
"Fate ties us to each other, whether we like it or not. Everyone is either a hindrance or an advantage on the path to advancement," Borus said. The metal let out a keen cry as it shattered, and blue and silver flames surged from it, taking the form of a large feline creature. Its blue eyes stared balefully at the artificer, who raised his glowing hand and began to chant in a guttural tone, the sound grating like metal scraping metal.
Tunde shuddered and quickly shut off his Ethra sight. The air had been filled with more than just Ethra—something darker and far more intense. His eyes stung, and tears began to fall involuntarily. Wiping them quickly, he noticed Elder Joran holding a core in his hand, the same blue and silver flames swirling inside it. Somehow, the elder had trapped the creature back within.
"And yet, you ask for my favor?" Borus said, his voice sharp. "Is that what you teach your student, Elder Joran? That favors are the way of rankers?"
Elder Joran calmly folded his hands behind his back. "No. He has passed through the flames, and you can see it too. He may still be impure, but the best metals to work with are always impure, are they not?"
Borus let out a low chuckle, the sound reverberating through the room, making Tunde’s body tense.
“The first creed of metal,” Borus said with a nod. “You’ve done your homework, Venerable Elder.”
“One doesn’t come to an artificer’s forge ignorant,” Elder Joran replied with a slight inclination of his head.
Borus tucked the core away—perhaps into a void ring Tunde hadn’t noticed—before turning his attention back to them.
“So, this is part of the legacy? You believe he’ll rise to the heights of the paragons? Or perhaps even the regents?” Borus asked, his tone skeptical.
“Even higher,” Elder Joran replied, causing Tunde to snap his head toward him in surprise.
Borus let out a great bellow of laughter, his grey eyes gleaming with amusement. “Lofty dreams indeed! The divine hegemons! Well, we shall see about that.” He turned to Tunde, his gaze piercing once again. "I assume you have something for me to work with?"
At Elder Joran’s nod, Tunde handed over the core of the moss golem. Borus barely glanced at it before clicking his tongue. With what seemed like a light squeeze, the core shattered. Tunde gasped in shock as the core’s power—light green and grey—swirled out. Borus opened his mouth and inhaled the energy before smacking his lips and shaking his head.
“No,” he said simply.
Tunde’s heart sank. He had priced that core at fifty thousand lumens. It could have provided countless resources. Staring at the shattered remains, he turned back to Borus, bewildered.
“Why?” Tunde croaked.
“Because you were unworthy,” Borus said bluntly. “And so was the core.”
Tunde wanted to ask more, but before he could speak, Borus’ eyes narrowed. His gaze locked on Tunde’s hand, where the band lay. In an instant, the forgesmith was in front of him, gripping his hand tightly.
“What manner of deceit is this?” Borus growled.
The room grew hotter, as if the flames in the forge had intensified. Borus tapped the band, which shivered under his touch, glowing faintly as runic inscriptions began to swirl around it. He turned toward Elder Joran, fury in his eyes.
“Who sent you?” Borus demanded.
“I swear on my soul and that of my disciple that we have no knowledge of what that thing is or where it came from,” Elder Joran said hastily.
Tunde felt the weight of the oath wash over him, searching for lies before vanishing. Borus released his grip, his expression unreadable as he glanced between them.
“You play with forces far beyond your understanding,” Borus said, his tone softening slightly. “And yet, I’m intrigued.”
He stared at the band for a moment, then spoke again. “I believe I know what it is, but I cannot—and will not—tell you. To utter its true name is to invoke its true state, and you,” he gestured at both of them, “are not ready to defend yourselves or face the consequences of awakening such power. Please tell me you haven’t been foolish enough to use it recklessly.”
Tunde shook his head quickly, glancing down at the band.
“Good,” Borus muttered, “I’m not in the mood to relocate continents today. Not when I’ve got it good here.”
Tunde’s eyes widened at the implications of Borus’ words. He noticed a stiffness in Elder Joran as well, no doubt equally disturbed by what had just been revealed. Tunde’s thoughts raced. The band had saved him, guiding him onto a path of new life. But was it also drawing catastrophe toward him? What had he unknowingly involved himself with?
His thoughts were interrupted by Borus snapping his fingers. A pair of gauntlets appeared in his hand, gleaming in the forge’s light. They shimmered like pure silver, etched with intricate carvings—odd shapes and creatures that stretched from the shoulders to the knuckles. It was as though the wearer’s arm would become an extension of the metal itself.
“I call them Vengeance,” Borus said, holding up the gleaming gauntlets. “Forged from the hide of an iron-back ape, a peak-tier three beast. I believe they’ll serve the purpose you intend for them—your duel, if I’m correct?”
“You seem to know a lot,” Elder Joran remarked, a note of suspicion in his voice.
Considering that Borus knew the true nature of the band, Tunde had no doubt the artificer knew far more about him than he had let on—perhaps even where he had originally come from.
“The story of the young initiate whose elder consigned him to death by challenging the second-ranked disciple of the entire clan? I’d be a fool not to recognize you,” Borus said with a smirk.
Tunde winced at the description.
“And then I heard that same initiate advanced to disciple rank in a few short days. Naturally, I thought it was foolish. It could only mean a weak foundation and brittle strength,” he continued, his words chipping away at Tunde’s fragile ego.
“But,” Borus added, his eyes glinting, “I see the tempering of a true beast in your body—the will of that beast and the power to back it up. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet, if you survive.”
“Pardon, but what was that about his tempering?” Elder Joran asked, frowning.
The artificer sighed, clearly irritated. “Do you two know nothing about your student?”
“Forgive us,” Elder Joran said. “He was just a mere wastelander when we brought him in. Fate has smiled on him, and he’s enjoyed remarkable luck so far.”
Borus grunted, then turned his attention back to Tunde. “Heed my words, disciple,” he said, handing the gauntlets to Tunde, who accepted them with care. “*Vengeance* will shield that relic of yours from any accidental activation. The gauntlets aren’t soulbound—they’re merely a loan.”
Tunde blinked in surprise at the mention of the relic. It was as if Borus knew every secret he carried.
“Should you die in battle,” Borus continued, “I’ll simply retrieve them from your rotting corpse. Perhaps then, I’ll reveal myself to Iphan—his overinflated ego could use some correction.”
Tunde’s heart raced at the casual mention of his potential death.
“But should you survive,” Borus said, his voice growing softer, almost conspiratorial, “it would favor not just you, as you get to keep your life, but your master as well.”
Borus leaned closer; his grey eyes gleaming with something that bordered on curiosity. “Then, and only then, come back here. I will tell you about the true beast whose body you’ve gained but the tiniest fraction of. And perhaps... just perhaps, I’ll reveal the truth of the blessing—and curse—you carry.”