In the grand war engine of Blackwood Fortress, every part had its purpose—blood, flesh, armor, and soul. Yet in the southwest corner, where smoke choked the sky and fire never slept, lay something far more primal.
The heart.
Not one that beat with warmth—but one that thundered with steel.
This was Gerber's domain.
The forge.
And it did not merely create tools—it birthed power.
The transformation began with a demand that shook the fortress.
"I want iron! Every scrap of it!" Gerber bellowed, his voice crashing like thunder. "I'll melt it, break it, remake it—into steel worthy of war!"
His scarred hands trembled—not from weakness, but from hunger.
"I want men!" he roared. "Strong ones! Ones who don't fear fire or pain! I'll teach them to make iron scream!"
"And space!" he added, eyes blazing. "Ten times this! I'll build a forge so great its fire will mock the kingdoms of men!"
Silence followed.
Then Colin answered—calm, unshaken.
"You'll have double."
Gerber froze.
"But everyone works," Colin added. "No exceptions."
For a heartbeat, the world stood still.
Then the dwarf grinned—a savage, feral grin.
"Deal."
What followed was not construction.
It was conquest.
The land itself was forced to yield. Forests were torn down. Earth was flattened under brute strength. The forge expanded like a living beast, devouring space, growing larger—hungrier.
New furnaces rose like iron giants.
Bellows the size of war drums.
Skylights to release the breath of fire.
The old forge became a mere shadow of what was coming.
Then came the trials.
Gerber stood before the masses with a hammer that looked more like a weapon of execution.
"Strike the anvil one hundred times," he growled. "Fail—and leave."
Most did.
They couldn't even lift the hammer.
But a few remained.
A werewolf—Steel Tooth—fought through sheer will, collapsing only after surpassing the limit.
"Good," Gerber grunted.
Then came the human.
Thin. Weak-looking.
Yet he moved differently.
Efficient. Controlled. Precise.
A hundred strikes—clean and steady.
Gerber's eyes gleamed.
"A smith," he muttered.
Ben.
From that moment, he wasn't a prisoner—he was an asset.
"No—more than that," Gerber laughed. "You'll help me teach these beasts."
Training was hell.
Fire burned their skin.
Smoke choked their lungs.
Gerber's voice shattered their sanity.
"Pull harder! That fire should roar, not whisper!"
"That's not iron—it's trash! Learn the color!"
"Hit it like you mean it! Steel doesn't respect cowards!"
Yet beneath the fury was something undeniable.
Mastery.
They learned to read flame like a language.
To hear impurities in the sound of steel.
To control heat, pressure, timing—like warriors controlling breath before a strike.
The werewolves became living engines—endless strength, relentless rhythm.
Ben became the edge—precision, refinement, control.
Together, they formed something new.
A system.
A weapon.
Then, the day came.
All furnaces ignited.
The sky turned red.
Smoke rose like dragons clawing the heavens.
And the forge… awakened.
The bellows roared.
Like the lungs of a giant.
The flames answered.
Like beasts unleashed.
Molten iron churned—glowing, alive.
"Open the gates!" Gerber commanded.
Liquid fire poured forth—like the blood of the earth itself.
It hissed, screamed, filled the air with heat and fury.
Then—
The hammers fell.
Clang.
Clang.
CLANG.
Over a hundred workers moved as one.
Heavy blows like war drums.
Medium strikes like marching soldiers.
Light taps like whispers of death.
Sparks exploded into the air—like battlefield fireworks.
Steel bent.
Steel screamed.
Steel obeyed.
This was no longer crafting.
This was war—fought on anvils.
And then—
The final moment.
Red-hot steel plunged into water.
SIZZLE—
A scream that cut through bone.
Steam erupted—blinding, suffocating.
Fire met water.
Chaos became form.
Weakness became strength.
Steel was born.
Day and night, the forge never stopped.
Men rested.
Fire did not.
Weapons were reborn.
Tools reshaped the land.
Even nails—small, forgotten—became vital to the rising fortress.
Everything depended on this place.
This… heart.
When the first finished tools were presented, even hardened warriors fell silent.
Hask exhaled slowly.
"You're a monster, Gerber."
The dwarf grinned, soot covering his face like war paint.
"This?"
He laughed.
"This is just the beginning."
Night fell.
Silence returned.
But not completely.
The forge still breathed.
Gerber walked alone through his kingdom.
He touched the steel—still warm, still alive.
His creations.
His legacy.
In the dim glow of dying embers, his shadow stretched long—like a king over a battlefield.
No songs were sung.
No glory proclaimed.
Yet if one listened closely—
Beneath the crackling fire…
Beneath the cooling steel…
You could hear it.
A song.
Not of music—
But of war.
The Song of Steel.