17th Rotation of the Cyrandros Cycle, 3448 A.E.
The pre-dawn cold gnawed at Kael’s bones as he pushed through Brinewatch’s salt-etched streets, sea brine and volcanic grit swirling on the wind. Stars still clung to the sky, faint and cold, the sun just a whisper on the horizon. His muscles ached from yesterday’s brutal drills with Vara, but anticipation hummed in his veins—today was his second lesson with Garrick.
The squat forge loomed ahead, squat and black-stoned, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Through the cracked shutters, firelight pulsed like a heartbeat.
The steel door creaked open at his touch, and the familiar smell of carbon, ash, and hot metal washed over him like home.
Garrick was already awake, already at the forge, already working.
A half-finished greathammer hovered midair, suspended by some unseen force while lines of molten gold pulsed through the head in precise veins.
Kael stepped inside and waited.
The smith's eyes flicked to Kael. He grunted. “Late again.”
Kael peeled off his cloak, letting the heat chase the chill from his skin. “Mornin’, Master,” he said, voice still tinged with the rough slang of the Grays.
“Six cycles of grunt work,” Garrick said. “And you still walk in like a boy with soft lungs.”
Kael just stared back, silent.
Garrick studied him, then gestured toward the hearth. “Stoke the flame. No bellows.”
Kael frowned but obeyed. He knelt, reached inside, and adjusted the coals manually. A trickle of ki leaked from his fingers—not intentional, just a reflex. The flame stirred, then flared.
Garrick nodded. “Better. Still weak, though.”
Kael stood, wiping soot from his palms. “You going to teach me how to forge now?”
Garrick set the hammer down and folded his arms. “Today ain’t about steel. It’s about you—strengthenin’ your existence by evolvin’ your talent.”
Kael blinked. “Evolving… my talent? How does that work?”
Garrick stepped closer, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. “Your talent isn’t just a skill, boy. It’s your vault—your well. Talent acts as a lifeforce crucible, syncing with your mind, body, and soul. That vault fills with lifeforce. The more you can hold, the stronger you become. That’s what we call your life level.”
Kael’s brows drew together. “Life level?”
“Aye. It’s what separates a tradesman from a master. A fighter from a legend. The higher your life level, the more power you can pour into your work. You want to forge tools that can hold mana? That amplify divine power? You need more than technique. You need a vault that can handle the current.”
Kael nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of it. “So how do I evolve it?”
Garrick’s eyes glinted. “Slowly. Painfully. But there are ways. Divine beings—S-ranks and higher—they’ve figured out methods. I’ll show you one of ‘em.”
He gestured toward a quieter corner of the forge, away from the clamor of fire and steel. “Sit.”
Kael obeyed, settling cross-legged on the soot-blackened stone. Heat pulsed at his back as he closed his eyes.
“Your talent is a well,” Garrick said. “Deep and quiet. Find it. Feel it.”
Kael focused on his breath, letting the clatter of the forge fade. At first, there was only darkness. Then—something. A flicker in his chest. A second heartbeat, warm and quiet.
“There,” Garrick said, as if he could see it. “That’s your vault. Now you learn to draw from it. Carefully. You increase your lifeforce either by expanding the vault or by compressin’ what’s already there—makin’ it denser. Some do both.”
Kael’s eyes cracked open. “Which do you do?”
“Concentration. Lifeforce tempering.”
“Tempering?” Kael echoed.
Garrick nodded. “Same principle as tempering muscle. You stress it. Microfractures. Push it just beyond its limits—then rest, recover, rebuild. It adapts. Grows stronger.”
“Like bones toughening under strain,” Kael said slowly.
“Exactly. Kickboxers start splinterin’ their bones at age three. By the time they awaken, their skeleton’s already steel. That’s the difference between awakening bone... or awakening iron.”
He leaned in slightly. “But get it wrong, and you break yourself. A misstep and your lifeforce cracks instead of strengthens. That’s the risk. That’s why precision matters. You don’t hit it with a hammer—you prick it with a needle.”
Kael swallowed. “And you do this while forging?”
“Aye. Draw on your lifeforce just enough to strain the vault. Not too much. Never too much. That stress forces it to grow—if you replenish it properly. You’ll learn to use elixirs to refill what you burn. Your rich ass. You've got the money now.”
Kael let the words sink in. “How do I actually… channel it?”
Garrick reached into the fire, pulling free a glowing ingot with tongs. “Through intent. Not just thought—will. You forge with your whole self. Your talent flows through the strike.”
He set the ingot on the anvil, raised his hammer, and struck. Each blow rang like a bell. A faint shimmer gathered around his arms—silver light. The metal pulsed with a subtle glow, alive and resonant.
Kael stared, breath caught. “That’s your talent?”
“Infused,” Garrick said. “It holds the shape better, cuts deeper, lasts longer. And that’s only possible ‘cause my life level can support it.”
He paused, expression tightening.
“Your talent’s strange. Feels like a C-rank, maybe stronger. But if you probe deeper, it’s still E-rank. That doesn’t make sense. I thought you were evolvin’ it... but now I think it’s stalled. Your lifeforce fluctuates too much. Like it’s being drained or capped by somethin’. Could be your lineage—your father’s gift was wild too. But I’ve never seen one locked like this.”
Kael didn’t know what to say.
“All I can do,” Garrick went on, handing him a fresh ingot, “is teach you what I know. And hope it works.”
Kael took the ingot, its weight grounding him. He placed it in the fire, watched it begin to glow, then moved it to the anvil. He closed his eyes, felt for the warmth in his chest, and raised the hammer.
Flow, he thought, willing that pulse through his arm.
He struck.
A faint hum stirred, something barely there. But the metal remained cold. Lifeless.
“Again,” Garrick said.
Kael struck again. Then again. Sweat beaded on his brow. His limbs burned. The ingot held—dull, inert—but Kael could feel it: the faintest thread connecting him to it. A whisper of potential.
Garrick nodded once, satisfied. “You’ve started.”
Kael wiped his forehead, breath coming hard. But a grin tugged at his lips.
“I’ll keep at it, Master.”
“Good,” Garrick said, turning back to the forge. “Then get to work.”
Kael tightened his grip on the hammer, heart pounding with something fierce and steady. Theron Vex, Ironclad, the war for the slums—all of that could wait.
Right now, he had a forge.
And a future to shape.
