Clang!.. Clang!..
The violent, deafening strikes of the hammer resonated in a rhythmic cadence, harmonizing perfectly with the roaring breath of the flames inside the massive smelting furnace. The volume of the pounding intensified with each passing second, saturating the air with a commanding, distinct gravity. Standing within that heat was a man of short stature, sporting a dense, fiery-red beard and a prominent scar slicing across his stern face. He hammered the glowing, incandescent metal with absolute, unyielding focus—shaping and reshaping it without a single trace of fatigue. This was Vulkan, the legendary artisan whom every village elder desperately sought to poach and claim for their own territory.
A short distance away, two figures observed him in absolute silence: a young woman and a young man. She was fierce, sharply defined, and practically vibrating with suppressed fury. He, conversely, was enigmatic, tranquil, and as unreadable as a carven marble mask. Harten and Arshia stood side by side, tracking the renowned blacksmith.
Breaking the prolonged silence, Harten questioned in a slightly disoriented register:
"How much time has elapsed since that day? Two weeks? Or has it been three?"
Arshia snapped her gaze toward him, raising an eyebrow in sheer disbelief. "You are jesting, correct? That was a mere week ago!"
Harten knit his dark brows together. "What?"
Exhaling a sharp, irritated sigh, Arshia replied with a mocking sneer: "What exactly do you occupy yourself with during your leisure hours? It seems this recent absence has genuinely begun to compromise your cognitive faculties!"
He countered with absolute, freezing detachment: "That is entirely none of your concern... and my mind remains perfectly intact compared to yours."
Arshia let out a weary sigh, her countenance shifting instantly into a serious, somber frown as she redirected her attention toward the table. "Time is swiftly abandoning us... Tax Day is rapidly encroaching."
Intuitively, driven by an unthinking reflex, Harten placed a heavy hand upon Arshia's shoulder. He spoke in a tone that vibrated with supreme majesty and innate condescension:
"I am here. Who, then, would possess the sheer audacity to defile a village that harbors one of my stature?"
Arshia froze dead in her tracks for a fraction of a second. Then, she erupted into a booming cascade of laughter, laughing so violently that tears began to well in the corners of her eyes. Clapping her hands together, she managed to wheeze out:
"Haha! Harten, what is truly wrong with you? I was well aware that you are arrogant and thoroughly unnatural, but I never imagined your conceit reached such legendary, mythical proportions!"
He stared down at her with a completely hollow, expressionless gaze, his inner thoughts turning: "Ah? What? Did I utter something peculiar? Was my statement truly that comical?" Yet, he opted for silence. He meticulously analyzed the words that had slipped from his mouth entirely against his volition. What perturbed him most was that the phrasing did not feel alien or bizarre to him; rather, he felt a profound, intrinsic belonging to that arrogant mode of speech—as if it were his true, fundamental nature.
Striving to reclaim her composure, Arshia cleared her throat. "No... pay it no mind. Let us go and extend our greetings to this artisan."
"Very well."
The duo approached the boundaries of the blacksmith's workshop. The deafening, rhythmic clashing of iron was nearly blinding, and bright sparks erupted into the air with every violent collision between the massive hammer and the glowing metal. The blacksmith hoisted his head, squinting as he evaluated Harten's entirely reconstructed, flawless face for a prolonged moment. A sly, knowing grin curved his lips as he boomed:
"Oh... welcome, Harten... and the other girl."
Harten stepped forward, his voice level. "Greetings, Master...?"
The blacksmith burst into a booming laugh, tossing his heavy hammer onto the anvil with a clatter. "Have you gone and forgotten my name once more?! Hahaha! Do not let it slip your mind this time... my name is Vulkan."
Harten replied with cool composure: "Forgive me, but I am currently navigating some temporary afflictions regarding my memory."
Vulkan waved a massive, calloused hand with an attitude of deliberate, provocative indifference. "Fine, fine, Harten... and you, the other girl, what is it that you require of me at this hour?"
In that exact instant, Arshia's face contorted into a mask of pure rage. The veins in her forehead and neck bulged violently against her skin from absolute exasperation. She bellowed:
"You... you wretched, ancient bastard!"
Vulkan turned his head toward her, his expression entirely vacant, deliberately playing the fool. "Yes? Are you addressing me? Did I not explicitly inform you that my name is Vulkan... other girl?"
That was the absolute breaking point for Arshia. She unleashed a screech that vibrated through the very foundations of the timber workshop:
"I have had quite enough of you, you lecherous, ancient dwarf! I am going to tear you limb from limb! I have spent an entire agonizing week attempting to master my temper while you continuously marginalize me and address me in such an utterly disrespectful manner!"
Like a bolt of lightning, Arshia lunged toward the nearest thick tree. With a solitary, terrifying display of raw power fueled by her boiling wrath, she shattered a massive branch with a single strike and swung the jagged timber in a swift, lethal arc directly toward Vulkan's skull!
The wood fractured violently under the immense kinetic force, sending a cloud of splinters and dust into the air. Arshia retreated a step, panting heavily as a vindictive, triumphant smirk spread across her face. "That is precisely what you deserve, you old fiend!"
However, Vulkan's mocking, raspy laughter echoed from behind the settling dust. "Hahaha! A formidable strike... yet it failed to even graze me!"
Arshia's eyes distended in absolute shock. "What?!"
As the air cleared, she blinked in disbelief. Harten stood directly between the two of them. He had intercepted and halted the massive, crushing branch using nothing but the palm of a solitary hand, moving with such supernatural, blinding speed that Arshia's eyes had failed to track the motion entirely.
Vulkan continued his relentless provocation, chuckling deeply: "Harten intercepted it with a truly terrifying velocity, you foolish girl! Hahaha, parsing your wrath is endlessly entertaining!"
"I will slaughter you this day, old man!" she screamed, scanning the terrain frantically for a massive boulder to hurl.
Harten maintained his unyielding, monolithic stance between them, directing a cold, warning glare toward Arshia to suppress her. She stomped her feet violently against the dirt, shrieking: "Get out of my way, Harten! I am carving him to pieces today, without fail!" Meanwhile, Vulkan gleefully poured oil onto the raging fire: "You truly look like a hideous, withered crone when you rage like that, you banshee! Look at the girl Nora... she practically overflows with pure femininity compared to you!"
During this chaotic exchange, Harten's mind was operating on an entirely different wavelength. He suddenly recollected the core objective behind his presence here instead of pursuing his bloody vengeance, and he searched for the swiftest catalyst to terminate this insufferable racket. A solitary, gruesome concept briefly crystallized in his mind: "What if I simply slaughter one of them right now to permanently erase this headache?"
However, he swiftly discarded the suicidal thought. He pondered deeply, and a secondary tactic illuminated his consciousness.
Harten leaned down slightly, closing the distance to Arshia's ear, and whispered a sequence of highly confidential words... words that possessed the immediate potency to transform her enraged expression into a deep, crimson flush of profound embarrassment.
Arshia recoiled a step, her voice turning stammering and profoundly bewildered: "Today?! Are you entirely certain?!"
Harten offered nothing but a brief, authoritative nod of his head.
Vulkan monitored the sudden shift with immense intrigue, scratching his dense red beard with a massive hand. A sly, perceptive smile illuminated his features as he chuckled: "Oh... I comprehend now! Hahaha, this promises to be exceptionally entertaining. Very well, Harten... what is the catalyst for your visit at this hour?"
Reclaiming his standard, glacial register, Harten spoke: "Ah, yes... we came to evaluate the current state of affairs and ascertain if there are any specific deficiencies regarding our weaponry and armaments. I am scheduled to depart from the village boundaries for a duration of a few days; I may very well stumble upon whatever resource you lack during my travels."
Vulkan's grin widened, and he struck his anvil with a light tap of his hammer. "It is fortunate that you inquired, boy... What we lack here is..." He paused for a tense second, his voice dropping into a heavy, ominous register. "Indeed... everything is lacking!"
Harten narrowed his dark eyes, his voice flat. "What exactly do you mean by everything?"
Vulkan stroked his dense crimson beard downward, deep in contemplation, before responding with absolute gravity: "Well... the metal we possess, if we can even dignify it with such a title, is ancient and severely degraded. Utilizing it will demand an excessive amount of my time simply to forge basic armaments. Secondly, I am entirely destitute of any competent assistant or apprentice. And thirdly, the spatial dimensions of this forge are far too restrictive for a craftsman of my caliber... I can adapt to it, certainly, but it will severely compromise any grand-scale projects. That is, assuming you harbor any massive undertakings in your minds to begin with."
Arshia inquired with newfound curiosity, her irritation momentarily forgotten: "Grand-scale projects? Like what?"
Vulkan turned to her with absolute, unwavering confidence. "A genuine wall to fortify and shield this entire settlement, rather than this pathetic, rotting wooden fence. As it stands, your current perimeter resembles a foolish decorative ornament rather than a defensive structure."
Arshia scratched her forehead skeptically. "Fine, even if we concede to the premise of constructing a wall... from what source are we supposed to unearth the colossal, astronomical quantities of refined metal required to forge such a structure?"
A mocking, patronizing smile touched Vulkan's lips. "And who exactly stated that the wall would be forged entirely of metal?"
Arshia's wrath reignited instantly. "Are you playing the fool with me again, old man?!"
Vulkan countered with absolute, stern gravity: "No... the wall will be constructed of timber. However, it will not utilize standard wood; we shall harvest massive, ancient, unyielding tree trunks. If we manage to transport those colossal timbers, I shall forge gargantuan, heavy iron bands and rings to bind them together with absolute precision, leaving zero structural vulnerabilities. It is a monumental, staggering project that demands immense time and grueling labor... but it will entirely alter how the surrounding villages perceive us. And the entirety of the credit belongs solely to the architect of this genius strategy—which is, in truth, the primary catalyst that compelled me to join your village."
Arshia's eyes widened with profound astonishment. "Who? Who is the architect of this strategy?"
Vulkan extended a thick, soot-stained index finger toward the silent young man standing adjacent to her, stating simply:
"He stands directly before you."
Arshia stared at Harten in absolute, paralyzed shock, before turning her completely incredulous gaze back to Vulkan. "You are jesting with me, without a doubt," she breathed.
"I am not," Vulkan stated flatly.
She shrieked, gesturing wildly: "Are you attempting to convince me that this frozen, unfeeling brute is the one who formulated this entire grand strategic blueprint?!"
Vulkan unleashed a deep, booming laugh that caused the tools in the workshop to rattle. "Hahaha! A brute? This 'brute' you describe is an absolute genius! He drafted the entirety of the architectural blueprints and engineering designs for the complete fortification and development of this village upon a sheet of cured buffalo hide, and dispatched it to me via my courier! When I unrolled that hide and analyzed the schematic, I was utterly stunned. I nearly lost consciousness from the sheer brilliance and tactical intellect displayed within it!"
Clap!.. Clap!.. Clap!..
Suddenly, the sharp, resounding echo of slow applause vibrated through the clearing. The trio turned instantly to locate the source, only to observe the cunning old man, Morgos, approaching them, accompanied by Nora's calm, measured footsteps.
Morgos smiled his trademark, sly grin, his voice carrying clearly: "Excellent, truly excellent... the hour for concrete labor has arrived. You must all state your specific requirements to Harten swiftly, as he shall be departing the village boundaries shortly, and our window of opportunity is incredibly narrow. First, you, Vulkan... state your need with brevity."
Vulkan answered with a sharp, definitive nod: "Iron."
Morgos turned smoothly. "Superb. Secondly... you, Arshia."
Arshia shot a sideways glance toward Harten, her expression slightly sullen as she muttered: "I shall communicate my specific request to him later... in absolute privacy."
Morgos erupted into a boisterous laugh, hoisting his hands toward the heavens with an almost childlike, exuberant enthusiasm: "Thirdly, myself! Well... I require... I require meat! Yes, meat and absolutely nothing else! Hahaha!"
Harten entirely ignored the old man's eccentric shouting. He fixed his steady, chilling gaze onto Nora with his habitual, unfeeling composure, waiting to see if she would voice a request for his upcoming journey. Sensing the immense weight of Harten's piercing, analytical eyes boring into her, Nora became visibly flustered, her fingers twitching nervously. "W-What?" she stammered.
Harten questioned with stark brevity: "Will you not request something, as the rest have?"
Nora's face flushed entirely crimson, her awkwardness intensifying as she laced her fingers together tightly. "What? Me? Request something?"
Harten evaluated her with a hollow, expressionless gaze, speaking with blunt apathy: "Very well. If you harbor no desires, that is perfectly fine."
"No! Wait!" Nora interjected rapidly, hoisting her head as her eyes shone with sudden, fierce determination. "I want you to tell me about her... about that girl."
Harten paused for a solitary second, before offering a cold, compliant nod. "Oh. Very well... upon my return from the journey, I shall disclose everything to you."
As this brief, quiet dialogue transpired between the two, another individual was monitoring the exchange from a close proximity—and she found the sight entirely abhorrent. A strange, burning sensation of bitter jealousy was actively corroding her chest.
Arshia stood nearby, tracking the uncharacteristic harmony and quiet understanding passing between Harten and Nora. A sudden wave of profound bitterness washed over her; she felt utterly excluded, as if she were standing isolated in a vacuum, entirely devoid of a role or a place between them at that moment. However, the harsh, unforgiving reality of her past abruptly flashed through her consciousness. She remembered how much she had lost, how she had spent the vast majority of her existence surrendered to defeat and capitulation. She would damn well not permit herself to lose again now.
Summoning every single ounce of dormant confidence and raw audacity remaining within her being, Arshia took decisive, commanding strides toward Harten. In a maneuver that sent a shockwave of surprise through every onlooker, she seized his massive hand with both of her own, locking her gaze directly into his sharp, dangerous eyes.
In that exact microsecond, her striking bronze skin seemed to radiate an ethereal, captivating beauty entirely uncharacteristic of the usually feral, savage Arshia. Her luminous hazel eyes mirrored the golden hue of the setting sun, and for the first time since they had met her, she had completely unbonded her dark hair. It cascaded freely and with supreme, silk-like softness down the entirety of her back, exuding an undeniable aura of overwhelming femininity.
She spoke in a powerful, absolute, and unshakeable tone:
"Let us depart... We are going on our walk now."
The grins upon the faces of the two old men, Morgos and Vulkan, widened exponentially as they thoroughly savored the dramatic, volatile tension unfolding before them. Conversely, in the immediate periphery, something was fracturing entirely.
Nora watched Arshia's shocking, fearless audacity in seizing Harten's hand in front of the entire assembly. A sudden wave of vulnerability and a profound lack of courage washed over her by comparison. She succumbed to the unfolding reality with bitter resignation, marveling at how rapidly and intensely Arshia's focus and emotions had shifted toward Harten.
As for our protagonist, Harten, he stood as rigid as a stone monument. His inner consciousness was practically screaming in absolute, unadulterated disgust and internal exasperation:
"Damn it! What earthly connection do I have with these repulsive, trivial human idiocies?! Curse it all... I desire nothing more than to abandon this wretched village instantly, so I may unleash my suppressed, boiling wrath by carving every single member of that filthy bandit gang into microscopic pieces! To hell with every last one of you... Ah, how I profoundly yearn for the serene, peaceful days of my quiet forest!"