Pushing open the door, Ludger stepped inside the forge, and instantly understood where the pile outside had co from.
The interior glowed with the deep orange of a fully awakened furnace, heat rolling through the air thick enough to sting the skin. The place slled of scorched tal, hot oil, and froststeel dust. Sparks hissed quietly inside the anvil pit. Steam curled from cooling troughs. And in the center of it all, Raukor stood like a living statue, broad shoulders illuminated by the firelight, mane swaying with every slow, asured breath.
He was staring down at a curved froststeel knife held between two massive fingers.
A beautiful piece, at first glance. The curvature was elegant, the edge clean, the balance seemingly perfect. Most blacksmiths would’ve polished it and called it a masterpiece. But Raukor didn’t see a masterpiece. His amber eyes were narrowed, the fur around them twitching with displeasure as he examined every milliter with a predator’s intensity. Then, without hesitation, he shoved the knife back into the furnace.
Ludger watched as the tal softened, glowing bright white with heat. Raukor let it lt into a semi-liquid state, expression tightening in dissatisfaction. Whatever he’d found wrong with it, whatever tiny detail he’d deed unacceptable, was enough to condemn the entire piece. Once the blue glow began to fade, just a fraction, just enough, he pulled the molten mass out with tongs, studied it again…
…and threw it into the scrap pile with a force that made the walls vibrate.
Ludger crossed his arms. “You’ve been working early.”
Raukor grunted, already grabbing a new bar of froststeel, as if lting half a dozen weapons before dawn was perfectly normal.
Ludger stepped closer, eyeing the ruined remains on the floor, then the no-nonsense expression on the beastman’s face. “You’re certainly efficient at wasting froststeel,” he said, voice flat. “Did you lose your edge or sothing?”
Raukor froze mid-motion. Slowly, his head turned toward Ludger. Not angry, but with the sa expression one might give a cub who had bitten a lightning rune and asked why it hurt. A mix of disbelief and the faintest hint of pride that soone dared insult him.
“No,” Raukor rumbled, voice low and gravelly. “I did not lose my edge.”
He jabbed a thumb at the molten lump hissing in the cooling trough.
“That did.”
He turned back to the furnace, mane brushing the air like a lion preparing for battle.
“And I do not tolerate weak tal.”
Ludger lingered near the forge, arms crossed, watching Raukor work through several more iterations of the sa frustrating cycle: craft, examine, lt, reforge, discard. He didn’t rush. He didn’t swear. He didn’t even seem annoyed. The beastman simply moved with unwavering focus, correcting microscopic imperfections only he could detect. Every swing of the hamr was steady. Every adjustnt was precise. Every decision was final.
After a few minutes, the pattern clicked in Ludger’s mind. Raukor wasn’t wasting froststeel. He was refusing to create anything less than perfect.
Every failed blade in the pile wasn’t a failure in Raukor’s eyes, just a material that didn’t deserve to beco a weapon under his na. No wonder Torvares had such faith in him. The forearm and shin guards Ludger wore had always felt unnaturally balanced, sturdy without excess weight. They were tools crafted by soone who rejected “good enough” with violent prejudice.
A perfectionist, through and through.Which was fine. Admirable even. But maybe a little less fine when the Lionsguard was funding the mountain of ruined froststeel outside. Part of Ludger wanted to say exactly that, sothing about budgets, resource managent, maybe a gentle reminder that froststeel wasn’t unlimited. But he also knew better.
Raukor wasn’t the type who responded well to “be less good at your job.” So Ludger swallowed the comnt, choosing instead to focus on why he had co here. He waited until Raukor set down his hamr, sparks dying on the anvil, before stepping closer.
“When do the lessons start?” Ludger asked.
Raukor blinked, genuinely surprised. “Lessons?”
“Yeah,” Ludger said. “You said you’d teach a bit.”
Raukor tilted his head. “Can you not learn by watching?”
Ludger resisted the urge to sigh. “I can learn so things by watching. But forging has too many steps that don’t translate through observation alone. Differences in pressure, temperature, mana channeling, you know that.”
The beastman scratched his mane, thoughtful. Ludger pressed a little further.
“A few explanations as to why you’re doing each step would do the trick,” he said. “Just enough so I understand what you’re correcting, not just how you’re correcting it.”
Raukor grunted, half acceptance, half confusion at the request, and finally nodded.
“Very well. I will explain. But only if you keep up.”
He grabbed a new froststeel ingot, the muscles in his arms bunching under the fur.
“This,” Raukor said, “is the start.”
Ludger stepped forward. And the first lesson began.
Raukor selected several of the discarded froststeel fragnts from a nearby tray, small shards, half-ford blades, curled slivers of tal, and brought them to the furnace. Ludger followed closely, watching the beastman’s every move.
“These,” Raukor said, placing the pieces into a shallow tal bowl, “are still usable. Froststeel is stubborn. It clings to its nature even after failure.” His deep voice carried a steady cadence, each word shaped like the hamr strokes he used. “Most tals behave the sa in forging. Heat, fold, shape, cool. Repeat until the desired form holds. But magic ores?” He shook his head. “Magic ores demand respect.”
Ludger leaned in as Raukor slid the bowl into the forge’s mouth. The fla licked the tal, but not enough to lt it into liquid. Instead, the froststeel began to glow with a pale, icy blue light, soft at first, then brightening as the heat coaxed the mana inside into motion.
“Mundane tals,” Raukor continued, “can be broken down completely. lted until they are liquid, stripped of their impurities, and reforged from base form. But magic ores like froststeel change if you do that.”
He reached in with thick, rune-lined tongs and lifted one of the fragnts out. The piece glowed, smooth as wet glass, but cold mist curled off it despite the heat. Raukor held it up for Ludger to see.
“This ore is born from mana. Frost mana specifically. It is the hardening and crystallization of cold itself. If you reduce it to formless liquid, you break apart the mana structure too thoroughly.” He squeezed the tongs, and the tal gave a faint crackle. “It loses its glow. Its cohesion. Its nature.”
Ludger frowned. “But you lted that knife you made earlier.”
Raukor snorted. “lted, yes. Completely broken down? No. I never let the core structure dissolve. I heat it until the tal softens and the faults reveal themselves.” He turned the tongs so Ludger could see faint lines erging on the tal’s surface, tiny fractures, uneven mana channels, imperfections that were invisible when cooled. “This is the mont you correct the shape. When the mana flow is visible.”
He brought the tal back over the anvil and tapped it lightly with the hamr. Not enough to shape it, just enough to show the resonance. The froststeel humd, the glow shifting with each strike.
“See here,” Raukor said, pointing with one clawed finger. “If I had lted it too far, this glow would fade. The temperature must stay below the point where frost mana dissipates. Otherwise, you are no longer forging froststeel, you are forging useless scrap.”
Ludger nodded slowly, absorbing each detail.
“So you can’t start over,” he said. “Once you ruin a piece beyond that threshold, it’s done.”
“Yes,” Raukor said, “but that threshold is wide, for those who know the limits. Most forges in the Empire lt froststeel too aggressively. They treat it like steel infused with magic instead of magic that hardened into steel.”
He lowered the glowing fragnt back into the forge with almost reverent care. “This is why froststeel weapons vary so much in quality. Those who do not understand the ore only shape the body. They never shape the mana.”
Ludger rubbed his chin. “Makes sense why you throw away so many pieces.”
Raukor let out a low, pleased rumble. “Perfection or nothing. A weapon that fails its wielder is a cri.”
The beastman gestured toward a workstation. “Co closer. Watch how the glow shifts as the mana settles. If you are to learn forging, you must learn to see this before you ever strike the tal.”
Ludger stepped forward, eyes narrowing on the shimring froststeel.
The lesson had only just begun, and already he understood why Raukor had demanded so much froststeel. This wasn’t forging tal. This was forging mana itself.
Ludger stayed in the forge for the rest of the day, eyes fixed on Raukor’s every movent. He watched how the beastman heated the tal, how he tapped it to read its resonance, how he froze it montarily to harden the mana inside, then reheated it just enough to correct the flow. He watched Raukor reject piece after piece with chanical ruthlessness. He absorbed the rhythm, the logic, the tiny cues in color and glow and sound that signaled success or failure.
But he never received a single notification.
No Class unlocked.
No Forging Apprentice acquired.
No Skill gained.
Not even a hint.
By the ti the sun had shifted to late afternoon, Ludger realized sothing. Raukor had never finished a weapon all day. He had never allowed any piece to reach the final stage. He corrected, lted, corrected again, and threw away anything with the slightest imperfection. Ludger was learning the theory of perfection, but he hadn’t witnessed a complete forging process, not even once.
Maybe that was why the System didn’t acknowledge anything. No completed foundation, no class.
Or maybe Raukor simply hadn’t explained anything “basic.” He was teaching the way a master taught another master, through observation, through instinct, through nuance. Except Ludger was still standing at the threshold, not stepping through it. Eventually, when Raukor began lting a sixth blade in thirty minutes, Ludger decided to ask.
“Is there anything I can do with my magic,” he said, stepping closer, “to decrease the chances of failure? Sothing that stabilizes the froststeel or guides the mana flow?”
Raukor paused mid-swing. The hamr hovered above the glowing ore. The beastman turned just enough for one amber eye to study Ludger.
“That depends,” Raukor said slowly, “on whether you can wield the four elents.”
Ludger blinked. “I can.”
Raukor’s brows lifted. He took a slow step back, giving Ludger space in the center of the forge. “All four?”
“Yes.”
“Show .”
There wasn’t a hint of disbelief in Raukor’s voice, just a craftsman evaluating a tool before deciding its worth. The beastman crossed his arms and nodded toward the open floor.
“Use the elents,” Raukor said. “One by one. Then use them in combination. Show fire, earth, water, and wind. Show how you control them. And show how fast you can shift from one to the next.”
Ludger exhaled, centering his mana.
If Raukor wanted a demonstration, he would get one.
Wind gathered at Ludger’s fingertips first, sharp, cutting, swirling in controlled rings. Then he shifted instantly to fire, conjuring a precise fla no larger than a candlelight but bright as a forge spark. He followed it with earth, raising a small, perfectly shaped stone disc from the floor. And finally, he drew water from the air itself, condensing it into a thin, floating ribbon that danced around his fingers.
Then, without warning—, cycled through all four again. Faster. Smoother. Elents flowing, fading, and igniting with no visible delay.
Raukor’s eyes narrowed, not in distrust, but interest. Deep interest.
“So,” the beastman rumbled, mane shifting as he leaned forward, “you really do hold all four.”
He nodded once. Slowly.
“This changes everything.”
Ludger straightened.
“Good,” Raukor said. “Now I can teach you properly.”
Thank you for reading!
Don't forget to follow, favorite, and rate. If you want to read 250 chapters ahead, you can check my patreon: /Codian0
User Comments
0 comments from readers