Iron Fortress, Forging District.
"Clang! Crash! Rattle-clink—"
Paul stood beside the blast furnace, his bare upper body slicked with beads of sweat that caught the orange glow of the fire. At his feet sat a literal mountain of gold, silver, and copper coins—the discarded, recycled currency of the "Old World."
"Listen up, you bone-racks!" Paul's voice roared over the industrial din. "Today's objective is simple: lt this useless trash into liquid and recast it into the Empire's New Currency!"
He held up a freshly minted sample, its "Chibi-Skull" face mocking the gloom. "If anyone screws up the weight or the stamp, I'm tossing you into the furnace! You can join the junk pile and get recycled yourself!"
Paul finished his shout and watched with a weary eye as his second batch of skeletal apprentices began to work. This new group was, if possible, every bit as thick-skulled as the first.
One skeletal apprentice grabbed a handful of gold coins and tried to shove them into its jaw, apparently attempting to gauge the "flavor" of wealth. It ended up with its mandible jamd, emitting a frantic series of clack-clack-clacks.
Another skeleton had mistaken a pile of semi-molten, viscous silver for dough and was currently trying to roll it into a long, shiny noodle.
Then there was the polisher—a skeleton who had picked up a freshly struck gold coin, caught its own bald reflection in the mirror-finish, and simply stopped moving. It stood like a statue, head tilting left and right, utterly srized by its own skeletal handsoness.
Paul had grown accustod to this level of absurdity. After the first batch tried to use their own skulls as helt molds and branded his backside with iron, this was a "quiet day" at the office.
He didn't even bother to get angry. He simply snatched up a pair of heavy iron tongs and launched them with sniper-like precision, bonking the gold-eating skeleton on the back of its skull.
"SPIT IT OUT! That's currency, not rock candy!"
The coins clattered out of the skeleton's mouth, ringing sharply against the stone. Paul stood with hands on his hips, overseeing the workflow: molten tal channeled from the furnace, poured into molds, cooled, popped, and finally struck with the Imperial stamp. It was a production line that moved with a stuttering, clattering rhythm, but it was moving. This was his kingdom.
Just then, a Skeleton Soldier on guard duty entered the foundry. Behind it trailed a very small, very sturdy figure.
It was a Dwarf child.
The boy appeared to be no more than seven or eight years old, clad in ill-fitting, coarse wool clothes. He was clutching sothing wrapped in cloth tightly against his chest. His eyes were fixed with a singular intensity, cutting through the smoke and sparks to lock onto Paul atop the high platform.
The skeletal apprentices paused their work, staring at the intruder. One skeleton dropped its hamr and approached the boy, looking him over with empty sockets. It reached into a scrap pile, picked up a heavy iron gear, and offered it to the child—seemingly convinced that this was the appropriate way to "feed" a small biological lifeform.
The boy ignored the gesture, sidestepping the "helpful" skeleton with a determined stride until he reached the base of Paul's platform. He looked up at the human, who was caked in muscle and soot.
"Are you Master Paul?" the boy asked, his voice small but steady.
Paul looked down at the tiny speck that barely reached his knee. "This isn't a playground, kid. Beat it." Paul's voice was gruff with fatigue. "Didn't your parents teach you not to wander into a live foundry?"
"I don't have a mother," the boy answered instantly. "And my father... he isn't coming back."
Paul's movents slowed. He leaped down from the platform, the heavy thud of his landing vibrating through the floor. He lood over the child, his massive shadow swallowing the boy whole.
"Then what are you doing here? I don't handle the soup kitchen."
The boy didn't flinch. He stared right back at Paul. "I want to be your apprentice."
Paul barked out a laugh. "My apprentice? GAHAHAHA! Look at , kid—I'm human. You're a Dwarf! Aren't your people born with a hamr in one hand and a chisel in the other? Go find a smith of your own kin. Stop wasting my ti."
The boy's voice hardened with a stubborn edge. "You are the finest smith in Iron Fortress. If even these dead things can learn from you, why can't I?"
Saying this, the boy unwrapped the cloth in his arms. Inside was no weapon or tool. It was a bone pendant—a soldier's identification tag—engraved with a shaky, hand-carved symbol for [PENANCE].
Paul recognized it instantly. The identification cards of the Penance Legion. Every convict-soldier left their tag with their family before marching out—a silent contract backed by the Empire's promise of Citizenship.
"My father was Block Hamr-Hand," the boy said, staring Paul in the eye. "He was a soldier of the Penance Legion. I haven't turned this in for my Citizenship yet. If you agree to take as an apprentice... it's yours."
The grin vanished from Paul's face. In the Evernight Empire, the governnt didn't care how a tag was used, but the law was absolute: if an audit found a tag was taken through coercion or theft, the "new owner" would be "recruited" into the undead ranks permanently.
"My father promised ... he said he'd teach to forge my first axe when he returned," the boy whispered. "But he's gone."
"So, I'm going to learn it myself."
The boy looked up at Paul with a gaze that held the weight of a blood-oath. "Master. Take in!"
The entire foundry seed to fall silent in that heartbeat. Even the chaotic skeletal apprentices felt the shift in the atmosphere. The bone-racks stopped their clattering, their hollow gazes turning toward the scene.
Paul looked at the small Dwarf. He rembered a ti long ago when he, too, had been a stubborn brat, begging his master for a chance.
"Na, kid?"
"Buri."
"Buri, huh?" Paul repeated the na. "You want to learn the forge?"
Buri nodded with a fierce intensity. "Yes!"
"It's hell, kid. It's ten thousand tis harder than you think. You'll breathe ash, you'll be burned by sparks every day, and you'll swing a hamr until your arms feel like lead. Your hands will be nothing but scars and calluses. You still want it?"
Buri didn't hesitate. "I want it!"
Paul scanned the factory. He realized he was actually missing soone who could truly carry on the lineage of his craft—soone with a soul.
"Fine."
He turned to the wall, snatched up the smallest, lightest hamr from the rack, and tossed it at Buri's feet.
"From today, you're an apprentice of the Iron Fortress Foundry." Paul pointed to a mountain-sized pile of coal and slag in the corner. "Your first task: clear that pile. Every last grain."
Buri picked up the hamr—which was still heavy for his small fra—and a wide, gap-toothed grin split his face. "Yes, Master!"
Paul didn't look at him again, turning back to his platform. "WHAT ARE YOU BONE-BAGS LOOKING AT?! GET BACK TO WORK!"
He roared at the skeletons, his voice carrying more vigor than it had in days. He didn't look back, but he could hear it. Behind him, amidst the clinking of gold and the rattling of bones, there was a new sound.
The rhythmic, determined scraping of his student clearing the slag.
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