Three days later, Blackwood Fortress.
Morning light swept across the edge of the Blackwood Forest, dissolving the last strands of mist and bathing the fortress in a hard, golden glow. The air carried a scent unique to this place—earth, sawdust, and the faint metallic tang of dried blood.
Life had already begun.
Women stretched fresh hides across wooden frames. Children darted through the open spaces in bursts of laughter. Patrols moved along the walls, steady and disciplined, spears resting against their shoulders.
Order. Rhythm. Growth.
Then—
A low, dragging creak broke the calm.
Heads turned.
Through the gates came a crude cart, its frame lashed together from thick logs, groaning under immense weight.
It was pulled by goblins.
Chains bit into their ankles. Their backs were raw with whip marks, flesh torn and layered with mud, sweat, and dried blood. Bent nearly double, they dragged the cart forward with trembling limbs, breath rasping like broken bellows.
Behind them—
Stone.
Dark. Angular. Heavy.
But not ordinary stone.
Rust-red veins ran through its surface. Fractured edges caught the sunlight, revealing faint metallic glints.
Iron ore.
The first true harvest of Blackwood Fortress.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"That's it… the ore?"
"So much…"
"How many weapons could that make?"
For the warriors, it meant blades. Strength. Survival.
For the others—it meant something deeper.
Stability.
A future not carved from desperation, but built on something solid.
The cart hadn't even stopped when a figure burst from the smoke-filled workshop.
Berg.
The dwarf's soot-covered face was split by blazing eyes. He ignored everyone—the guards, the slaves, the crowd.
There was only one thing in his world.
The ore.
"Three days…" he muttered hoarsely. "Finally…"
"My… precious…"
He lunged forward, hands reaching out—not with force, but with reverence.
His rough, scarred fingers traced the surface of the stone. He leaned in, inhaling deeply, as if drawing its very essence into his lungs.
Then—
He laughed.
A deep, thunderous laugh, filled with relief, hunger, and something dangerously close to madness.
For too long, he had worked with scraps—war leftovers, broken metal, refuse.
A master reduced to cooking with scraps.
Now—
He had real material.
Pure.
Untouched.
Alive with possibility.
"Don't just stand there!" he barked, snapping instantly back to command. "Move! Best pieces to the furnace! Now!"
The apprentices jolted into motion.
Berg was already gone—vanishing back into the workshop like a man possessed.
At the center of the blacksmith shop stood the blast furnace.
Tall. Massive. Complex.
Built from Colin's designs—far beyond anything this era should possess.
"Bellows!" Berg roared. "Harder!"
The apprentices heaved.
Whoosh—hiss. Whoosh—hiss.
The furnace breathed.
Air surged inward.
The charcoal ignited.
Flames exploded upward—shifting from dull orange to blazing gold… then to a blinding, searing white.
Heat flooded the room.
The air warped. Every breath burned.
Berg didn't move.
He stood before the furnace, eyes locked onto the flames.
Watching.
Reading.
Waiting.
When the fire stabilized—pure white—
"Now," he growled.
"Feed it."
The chosen ore was lifted—half a man's size—and hurled into the furnace.
Boom!
Sparks erupted.
The flames dimmed—then surged back, fiercer than before, devouring the stone.
Time slowed.
Only fire remained.
And breath.
And waiting.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Sizzling.
Berg's eyes sharpened.
"It's ready."
Without hesitation, he seized massive iron tongs and thrust them deep into the furnace.
Muscles strained.
Veins bulged.
"Haah—!"
He pulled.
And dragged out the sun.
Molten iron—white-hot, dripping fire—emerged from the furnace.
The workshop lit up like daylight.
He turned in one smooth motion—
Thud!
The glowing mass hit the anvil.
Silence.
One breath.
Berg raised his hammer.
And brought it down.
CLANG—!!!
The sound rang out like a struck bell—clear, sharp, and resonant.
It carried.
Through the workshop.
Through the fortress.
Into every chest that heard it.
Something had begun.
The hammer fell again.
And again.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks erupted like fireworks.
Each strike was precise. Intentional.
Impurities were driven out.
The metal stretched—flattened—folded.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The rhythm built into a storm.
The iron transformed—tightening, strengthening, becoming something greater.
When the mass had become a blade—
Berg slowed.
He lifted it.
Turned.
And plunged it into water.
SSSSSS—!!!
Steam exploded upward.
The forge vanished in white.
When the vapor cleared—
The blade emerged.
Dark.
Deep.
Alive.
Silver patterns rippled across its surface like flowing water—proof of countless folds, countless strikes.
The edge gleamed cold and sharp.
Perfect.
Berg tapped it lightly.
Hum—
The sound lingered.
Clean. Pure.
Alive.
This was no longer iron.
This was steel.
The first true steel blade forged by Blackwood Fortress.
Not scavenged.
Not stolen.
Created.
A weapon—
And a declaration.
The heart of the fortress had begun to beat.