After finishing his Alchemy class, Jack made his way toward the dining hall. The golden afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the stone floor. As he sat down to eat, the warm aroma of freshly baked bread and spiced stew wrapped around him, grounding his thoughts. Every bite restored him, calming the storm of curiosity already brewing in his mind.
Because next… was Blacksmith Class.
The academy grounds stretched vast like a miniature kingdom, each professional path residing in its own specialized domain. The Blacksmithing Section lay in the east wing, bordered by high stone walls not for show, but to contain the roaring heat and relentless clangs of metal upon metal.
As Jack stepped through the arched stone corridor, a shift hit him a wave of warmth, thick and heavy, brushed against his face. The sharp tang of iron danced in the air, accompanied by the subtle hiss of cooling metal and the smoky undertone of coal-fed flames.
Hsssss…
The place breathed fire.
His destination was Room A, the heart of the forge.
Unlike the scholarly quiet of lecture halls, this space thrummed with energy. It wasn't a classroom. It was a forge hall, alive with potential and power. The walls were lined with racks of iron and mithril bars, molds in dozens of shapes, enchanted chisels that shimmered faintly with runic light, and thick barrels filled with water that steamed gently. Above, glowing orange crystals embedded in the stone ceiling pulsed like molten hearts, casting the room in the warm glow of a perpetual sunset.
As Jack entered, his eyes widened.
Each student had their own blacksmithing station: a compact but solid forge with flickering runes carved into its frame, a heavy anvil etched with ancient marks, a rack of tools tongs, hammers, chisels, brushes and a small magical vent system humming softly to draw out smoke.
Hum… hiss… clang…
Even without anyone working yet, the room felt alive.
There were twenty stations in total, aligned in perfect rows. Every surface gleamed with care, yet bore the faint scars of past creations scratches, scorch marks, flecks of old steel. It was a room not of theory, but of creation.
Jack scanned the space. The other students had already settled in, eyes sharp, postures straight, whispers rising like sparks before a fire. Excitement crackled in the air.
He walked to his station in the back corner and placed his hands on the anvil. Cold. Solid. Real.
A slow breath escaped him.
This wasn't just another class.
This was where steel would bend to his will. Where power would be forged not born.
And Jack was ready.
-------
Grrrrroooaaaan…
The heavy iron door at the front of the forge let out a deep, bone-vibrating groan as it swung open. The soft murmur of student voices died instantly, snuffed out like a candle in a gust of wind.
A figure stepped through.
Short, only four feet tall. But the weight of his presence filled the room like a thunderclap in a cave.
Thud. Thud.
His boots struck the stone floor with the steady rhythm of inevitability.
Thud…
As he walked, the faint jingle of metal charms and rune-lock rings clinked like distant war bells.
His hair, thick and grey, flowed down in wild waves to his shoulders, untamed by time or vanity. A magnificent beard braided and bound with flame-shaped charms and gleaming iron rings hung like a proud banner across his chest. His bronzed skin bore the map of a lifetime at the forge burns, scars, and soot-etched lines. His eyes, sharp emerald green, pierced through the haze of forge heat like twin chisels of truth.
He wore a soot-darkened blacksmith's apron, but beneath it, glimmering rune-etched armor hugged his stout frame armor not for show, but for the kind of work that tested both steel and soul. Slung across one shoulder was a colossal war hammer. The runes along its head pulsed with faint red light..
thump…thump…
Like embers waiting to ignite. The dragon-hide leather wrapping its handle was cracked and worn, shaped by decades of use.
He walked to the instructor's podium and placed the hammer down.
THUD!
The entire room seemed to shudder.
A smirk curved his lips.not mocking, but dangerous, like a forge flame that could warm or scorch.
"I am Master Borin Stonebeard," he said, his voice a gravel-drenched rumble laced with fire and iron. "6-Star Grandmaster Blacksmith. Rune Carver. Flame Binder. And from this moment forward… your instructor."
Silence. Then whispers.
"Did he say 6-Star?"
"A Grandmaster… here?"
"Is He Dwarf…"
Jack felt a jolt in his chest. A 6-Star Grandmaster? That was a living legend. A craftsman whose works could empower kings or seal demons. In a world of swords and sorcery, such a figure wasn't just a teacher he was a myth in the flesh.
Jack's fingers twitched with anticipation.
This wasn't just a class anymore.
This was the beginning of something greater: an apprenticeship under fire.
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The Forge's First Lesson
Master Borin's voice rumbled like thunder rolling through a mountain pass.
"Blacksmithing is not just hammering hot metal."
"Blacksmithing is more than hammering hot metal into shape. It's an art… a calling born of flame and will."
Clink… clink… clunk.
His boots echoed softly as he paced the stone floor, each step steady and deliberate, like a metronome of destiny.
"Through the flames, you don't just forge weapons… you forge your will."
The words struck harder than any hammer. They didn't just teach.they challenged. Jack straightened in his seat, eyes locked on the dwarf whose presence seemed to breathe life into the very air.
Borin stopped, his voice sharpening like a honed blade.
"Let me make one thing clear if you think this is just another class where you memorize a few lines and swing a hammer like a brute…"
He turned slowly, his emerald gaze sweeping across the room.
"…You'll be gone by the end of the month."
CRACK!
He snapped his fingers, and the chalkboard behind him flared to life in a flash of golden runes. Complex diagrams ignited in brilliant arcs, circles, angles, material compositions, and enchantment grids spiraled into view like ancient runic blueprints.
"Here, we deal with real fire. Real tools. Real danger."
He jabbed a thick finger toward the forges along the wall. Flames danced within them, humming low with latent power.
"That station over there?" he growled. "It'll become your best friend… or your worst enemy. Respect it, or it will burn the lesson into your bones."
A hush fell. The only sound was the flicker of forge flames and the faint hiss of heat curling through the vents.
Then he turned back, raising his voice to cut through the silence.
"Let's begin with the basics. What is a Blacksmith?"
He didn't wait for answers. He became the answer.
"A Blacksmith manipulates metal with heat and force. But a true Blacksmith?"
He laid a hand gently over his heart.
"A true Blacksmith puts a piece of their soul into every creation. That is what gives a blade its bite. That is what makes armor hold against death. That is what separates craft… from legacy."
Crackle… whoooosh…
The forge flames behind him surged higher for a moment as if moved by his passion.
Jack was scribbling as fast as he could, his eyes wide with wonder. Every word etched into his mind like a rune into steel.
Borin gestured to the glowing board again, outlining the major paths of the smith:
"Weapon Smiths. Armor Smiths. Gadget Smiths. Rune Smiths. Each has its craft. But all share the same spine."
Then he raised his thick fingers and began counting them off with the gravity of a priest reciting scripture.
Step One – Understanding Your Materials.
"Steel, iron, mithril, mana-ore, dragonbone alloys each have a soul. Know their melting points. Their enchantment tolerance. Their rhythm. If you treat all metals the same, your forge will spit them back."
Step Two – Heating and Forging.
"Heat it 'til it sings. Then strike it with purpose."
CLANG!
He slammed a fist against the podium to mimic the ring of a hammer on steel.
"Don't just hit. Listen. Every strike must speak."
Step Three – Quenching and Tempering.
"A blade born in fire must be refined in water. But timing is everything. Too soon? Brittle. Too late? Weak. The edge between perfection and failure… is razor-thin."
Step Four – Assembly and Enchantment.
"Runes, enchantments, mana-conducting parts, gear mechanisms especially for Gadgets and Artificer work. Precision here… is everything."
Step Five – Finishing and Testing.
"Feel the weight. The balance. The mana flow. If a weapon doesn't feel like an extension of the body… it's not ready."
He let the silence return then, letting the enormity of his words settle like iron cooling in oil.
The flames whispered softly behind him.
Jack sat, breath held, heart pounding. He hadn't just walked into a class.
He had stepped into a world of sacred craft and unforgiving beauty where every spark carried meaning, every strike held weight, and every mistake had a consequence.
And deep down, something stirred.
I want to learn this, he thought. I want to earn the right to wield the fire… and shape it into something eternal.
-------
Master Borin grinned, the corners of his beard twitching with amusement. "You'll learn all of this over time. But today… we begin with the basics."
He strode to the nearest workstation with practiced ease. "First, light your forge using the fire crystal switch. Make sure your fuel is loaded charcoal mixed with mana stones. Maintain a balanced flame. Too weak, and you'll waste time. Too strong, and you'll burn your metal."
Jack followed the steps, cautiously flipping the switch.
FWOOSH!
A burst of orange-blue flame leapt to life, flickering gently in the heart of the forge like a spirit awakening.
"Next, let's familiarize ourselves with the tools," Borin said, lifting a tong in one thick hand.
"This is your grip. Your extension. Your third arm. Respect it."
He walked them through the essentials tongs for holding, hammers for shaping, chisels for detail, punches for hole-making, brushes for cleaning glowing metal. Each tool had purpose, precision, and personality.
"Pick up your ingot," he ordered. "Simple iron. Today, we shaped a dagger base. No fancy tricks, just heat, hammer, and focus."
One by one, the students got to work. The room came alive with sound.
CLANG. TINK. CRACKLE.
Sparks danced. Flames roared. Sweat beaded on brows. The forge began to sing its ancient song.
Jack's heart thumped in his chest. The hammer felt heavier than he expected. His first strike was clumsy, glancing off the glowing iron with a hollow clang.
"Relax your wrist," Borin's voice rumbled beside him. "Let the hammer fall. Don't force it. Trust gravity. Forge with rhythm."
Jack nodded, adjusted his stance, and raised the hammer again.
CLANG.
This time, the strike landed true. A shallow dent formed.
Borin nodded. "Better. You've got a long way to go, lad but you'll get there."
Hours blurred. The class was given breaks, but many Jack included chose to keep working. There was something mesmerizing about the process: the glow of hot metal, the rhythm of hammering, the gradual birth of form from formlessness.
By evening, Jack's arms ached, his shirt was soaked, and his hands were blistered. But on his workstation lay a rough dagger base.
Uneven. Crude. Imperfect.
But it was his.
Master Borin gathered the class with a clap of his hands. "You've made your first strike," he said, voice warm with pride. "From here on, the only path is forward. This is a slow art but those who endure will one day forge weapons worthy of legends."
Jack looked at his crude creation and smiled.
The forge burned bright behind him. But the real fire… was inside.
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To Be Continued…!!