The forge of the divine blacksmith of Hindu mythology—Tvastar’s Forge. Dasha did not miss the slight misspelling of Tvashtr.

Finally, Dasha was here. Finally, it was time to craft the object he had been building towards since the inception of the Heavenly Games.

Beside him were his assistants: Xavier and Grace. A man of dark mysteries and a woman of sunflowers.

At ground level, the forge's immense entrance loomed like an ancient gateway. The open sides depicted scenes of legendary craftsmen forging mighty weapons and celestial beings imbuing enchantments. Massive double doors, weathered by time and marked by the symbolism of countless creations, stood ajar, welcoming craftsmen and visitors alike into the heart of creation.

Players bustled in and out, carrying raw materials—glowing ingots of molten metal, sparkling gemstones, and rare ores—while others transported crafted goods: swords that gleamed like starlight, ornate armour adorned with sigils of power, and enchanted artifacts pulsating with latent magic.

Through the entrance, a factory thrust itself upon him. The legendary Golden Maidens, the Kourai Khryseai, were a foot taller than him and marched everywhere. Helping, assisting, and guiding players. Hundreds upon hundreds of forges were set on the left and right sides. No physical material worked as a ceiling. Instead, a warped layer of red magic protected them.

The walk was long and rushed. A Templar bumped Grace on the shoulder and nearly caused her to drop her briefcase. Two paths emerged to the east and west, to parts of the factory offering alternate services. However, that wasn’t their focus and they kept going. In half an hour, a platform came into view. A man sat in the chair, snoring away.

“Told you,” Grace said. “He says he’s supervising but he’s napping.”

Dasha didn’t dignify her with a response. Nobody seemed to disturb him yet he marched onto the platform and changed that.

Two of the tall Golden Maidens were by his side. Their legs stalking the man protectively, their voices synchonized and robotic, they asked, “What is to you want?”

“To speak to Hephaestus,” Dasha replied. “I have an S-class item for him to forge.”

Hephaestus did not work the forge. Not anymore. His job was to speak and inform. His Golden Maidens did the heavy lifting for him. Talent ignored in favour of mass production. He was blameless given the sheer scale of players that attended the Heavenly Games.

The Golden Maidens were automones literally made of gold. The gears audibly turned in their heads.

“Acceptable,” they said, returning by his side. Both tapped on the shoulder and woke him up.

“Huh? What? What’s wrong?” Hephaestus yawned and stretched his arms. The Golden Maidens gestured to Dasha and the two suit-carrying man and woman. “Oooh. What, you Templars? A new guild? Sorry, but even S-class weapons don’t pique my interest.”

“Respectable. You are the best blacksmith in all the realms. I would not approach you if it was not worth your skill.”

Hephaestus jumped off his seat. A thick torso, strong muscles in the arms, and hunchback. His deformed feet were laid bare, stepping across the realm with a notable limp.

For all intents and purposes, he was ugly. A hairy back that was lightly seen by the loose chiton and a face scratched by a brown, messy beard. He should have garnered looks of sympathy. But no, Dasha's gaze was different. He saw strength. He saw knowledge.

He saw a tool to be wielded.

“Continue,” Hephaestus said.

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‘So he and Tvashtr do have a rivalry, as I suspected. Blacksmiths is a lucrative, self-serving job. It relies entirely on skill. Therefore, two master blacksmiths forced to share one space would create conflict. Conflict I can cleanly exploit.’

“The Járngreipr. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Dasha asked.

“Woah. That’s…hm, okay. Okay, okay! I see you!” A smile worked its way on his dry brown lips. Then suddenly, his expression dipped. “Hold on…your smell. It is like Thanatos.”

‘Thanatos, god of death? It must be my mask. It’s creating an unsavoury aura.’ Under it, he remained unfazed. ‘Just as I thought it would.’

“Athena blessed me with this mask,” Dasha said. The small god stiffened. “And it was also her that told me to come here.”

“What? S-she did?” It was as if the mask didn’t matter anymore. “Athena herself?”

Athena and Hephaestus. Hephaestus was to men as Athena was to women; an ultimate symbol of their potential. In Athens, the city of Athena, there were statues depicting Hephaestus favourably. A healer, a worker, and a man that was able to work past his physical disability, as subtle as the statue was in displaying it. That worship manifested into affection and love, or so they say.

The folklore was vague, but every folklore had a grain of truth to them.

“Yes, Athena spoke highly of you. Only I could decode the words of the dwarves and only you could help me in my endeavor. There was no messenger, it was a direct piece of advice from her lips.”

Hephaestus seemed almost dazed. He touched his forehead, rubbing his widow’s peak. “Athena…”

Almost there, he thought. He signalled Xavier to come forward and he did. “Here…”

Snap!

The divine white hair tying the suitcase together came undone and let out a bright shine. Hephaestus squinted, then went agape. “This wood…yes, yes, it belongs to Athena! You are honest! I knew it! She really does care!”

Hephaestus jumped up high and started pacing, arms behind him and a stupid grin on his face.

He could feel in the air; his two assistants couldn’t believe that worked. Dasha had been planning for weeks. He knew what would be the strongest piece of evidence for his fake affiliation with Athena: mystical olive tree branches from Ancient Athens. He thought it would take a while longer to cultivate them. He had managed to snag one from the Nebulous Bazaar for two hundred thousand points. Luckily for him, the Whispers’ treasury had the remaining two branches of the sacred olive tree.

“What will the wood be for?” Hephaestus asked. “Ah, wait! The schematics! May I see them?”

Dasha tapped at the top portion of his mask. “It is all in here. Athena has blessed me with wisdom and knowledge.”

“I see, I see.” Hephaestus seemed more convinced by the second. “Wisdom, indeed! Come! Let me take you to the Great Forge!”

He clapped his hands together and the chair that he had been sitting on was replaced with a yellow portal. “Come, come,” Hepheastus said, “I am sure Tvashtr will enjoy this project.”

Wherever they went, it was beyond Dasha’s expectations. The ceiling soared to great heights—a canvas painted with scenes of stars, constellations, and celestial events.

The actual forge was simple as it was pristine. Two large enchanted anvils, crafted with divine precision, and parallel to one another. One black, one white, yet each bearing the etches of sacred symbols and sigils.

Large windows within the chamber offered glimpses of celestial vistas—ethereal landscapes bathed in golden light and astral nebulae twinkling with celestial stars. As a scientist, he wished to study each individual sparkle he witnessed. Instead, he looked to the man peering out the serene world, infatuated by the stars.

“Tvashtr,” Hephaestus called. “We have visitors.”

Tvashtr, an Aditya, and a god of artistry and fashions and a craftsman distantly connected to Vishvakarma. His weaving skills were said to be the greatest in all of the White Abyss, though some say Al-Khayzuran's mortal hands were capable of matching him. “...a weapon?” the offspring of Aditi asked.

“Járngreipr, the iron gloves of Thor,” Hephaestus responded. “Are you interested?”

“The language of the dwarves has been decoded?”

“With the help of Athena’s wisdom.”

“Hm.” Tvashtr turned. He was distinct from Hephaestus. A brown-skinned giant of exceptional beauty, bestowed with a golden crown and accessories, and four arms. Scowling, arms folded on his bare chest, he peered down at the mortal guests.

Dasha stepped forward. “There are two things I wish to be built.”

“Two? Of course, of course!” Hephaestus approached Tvashtr, looking like his feeble son rather than an equal partner. “Tvashtr, we will get it done, no?”

Tvashtr didn't share the same enthusiasm as Hephaestus. “You believe you will gain Athena’s favour with this creation?” His voice wasn’t deep. On the contrary, it was high-pitched and polite, yet still half accusatory.

“Does it matter?” Hephaestus said. “You wish to test your mettle. So do I. That is all we smiths need, no?”

“O, Heavenly Builder, The Maker of Divine Implements. I come to you as a skilled partner, not a friend.” Dasha took another step. The gods could feel it. The mighty arbiters of metal were uncomfortable. To accept the darkness in the form of a human would have been foolish, yet what he said next convinced them to obey.

“I wish to make—”