Inside the blacksmith shop, the suffocating heat—hot enough to dry a man where he stood—seemed to sharpen into something cleaner, almost crisp, with the birth of the new blade.
Moments ago, Berg had been a storm of motion, his hammer crashing down like thunder. Now, he moved with reverence.
He took a piece of soft deerskin from the wall and began to wipe the saber in his hands.
Carefully. Gently.
The contrast was striking—his broad, calloused hands handling the weapon as though it were something fragile, something alive. Not a tool of death, but a newborn.
Starting from the tip, he wiped slowly along the blade. Past the edge that gleamed with impossible sharpness. Past the flowing, water-like patterns etched into the steel. Past the thick spine that promised strength.
Until the entire blade shone like a mirror.
In it, his soot-streaked face reflected back—yet his eyes burned bright, flushed with pride and something deeper.
Relief.
A long breath escaped him, as though he had finally set down the weight of half a lifetime.
Colin entered then, drawn by the ringing of steel.
Behind him came Hask, Barton, and a growing crowd of residents, all pressing into the cramped shop. Every eye was fixed on the weapon in Berg's hands.
When Berg saw Colin, his composure broke.
Excitement surged into his eyes as he stepped forward, holding the saber in both hands like an offering.
"Leader… look at it!"
His voice trembled, hoarse with emotion.
"This—this is a real weapon!"
He raised it higher, almost shouting now.
"Made from our own ore! In our own furnace! Forged by our own hands!"
Each word struck like a hammer.
"From today on—" his voice cracked, then rose again, fierce and proud, "—we're no longer beggars patching together scraps from others! We have our own steel!"
Silence followed.
Then realization.
For so long, they had lived off ruins—wearing cast-off armor, wielding broken blades, surviving on what others discarded. Everything they had carried the mark of defeat.
But this—
This blade was new.
It belonged to them.
And with it, something had changed.
Colin stepped forward and took the saber.
It settled into his hand with perfect balance. The weight was precise, the center of gravity placed just ahead of the guard, allowing effortless control.
The grip was firm, comfortable.
The blade shimmered, cold and alive, its surface catching the dim light and reflecting it back in sharp, fluid lines.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he walked to the side of the shop, where a thick hardwood log stood for testing.
No stance. No preparation.
Just a flick of the wrist.
A flash.
So fast it barely registered.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the upper half of the log slid free and dropped with a dull thud.
The cut was flawless—smooth as polished glass.
Not cleaved.
Not broken.
Sliced.
A breath later, the shop erupted.
Cheers thundered through the cramped space. Voices rose. Fists pounded against chests. Hope, raw and electric, spread like wildfire.
But Colin did not linger in it.
He turned back.
His gaze moved from Berg—to the apprentices—to the gathered people, their faces lit with something he had not seen in a long time.
Hope.
He raised the blade.
"This is not just a weapon," he said.
The steel caught the light, gleaming like a promise.
"It is the cornerstone of Blackwood Fortress."
His voice rose, steady and commanding.
"It proves that we—those cast aside as mongrels and slaves—can do more than survive."
A pause.
Then, stronger:
"We can build. We can create. We can become stronger—with our own hands."
A howl broke from the crowd.
Then another.
Soon the entire fortress echoed with it—wild, fierce, alive.
Colin lifted a hand, and silence returned.
There was no time to lose in celebration.
He turned to Berg.
"From today on, the forge runs without rest. Day and night. All iron goes to you first. Within a month, every warrior in the Wolf Fang Squadron and the Bedrock Squad is to be fully re-equipped."
Berg straightened instantly, his voice booming with renewed strength. "Yes, Leader!"
Colin nodded, then looked to Barton.
"Maintain control of the mine. Increase output steadily. Feed the slaves enough to work—but keep discipline strict. I want a constant flow of ore."
Barton thumped his chest. "Understood!"
Orders given.
The machine began to move.
From that day on, the forge never slept.
Hammer blows rang through the night, replacing the distant cries of beasts. The glow of the furnace burned like a second sun within the fortress walls.
And along the road to the mine, goblin slaves hauled carts of ore day after day, their chains rattling with every step.
Fire and iron.
Labor and discipline.
Together, they became the foundation of something new.
Something stronger.
With every strike of the hammer, Blackwood Fortress was no longer surviving—
It was rising.