*Transitioning into Hector's POV
*CLANG... *CLANG... *CLANG...
The rhythmic hammering of metal echoed like war drums in the distance, growing louder with every step Hector took.
The sharp, acrid scent of hot iron clung to the air, burning his nostrils with every breath he inhaled.
It was thick—so thick it almost felt like it was dragging against his skin, coating the back of his throat with soot and ash.
Each breath tasted like smoke and rust.
Sparks danced like wild insects all around him, bursting out with each strike of the hammer deeper inside.
Clouds of dark smoke billowed upward from the roaring furnace, curling and twisting in slow, lazy spirals like mist over a battlefield.
He coughed, the heat biting into his lungs, forcing him to raise an arm and shield his face.
His eyes burned from the haze, stinging with every blink, but he pressed on anyway—step by determined step—
until he finally reached the heart of the forge.
*CLANG! *CLANG! *CLANG!
The sound grew louder now, deafening and primal.
The hammer rose and fell like clockwork, each blow a thundering statement.
And in the center of it all stood a towering man—grey-haired, broad-shouldered, and still powerful in his old age.
His bare arms were thick with muscle, his skin scorched with soot, veins bulging as he slammed a heavy smithing hammer onto a glowing slab of metal.
Again.
*CLANG!
And again.
*CLANG!
And again.
*CLANG! *CLANG! *CLANG!
Each strike sent an eruption of sparks that painted the room in wild light, casting deep shadows that danced along the blackened walls.
Hector stood just outside the blast radius, his clothes already clinging to his sweat-drenched skin.
He coughed again, harder this time, nearly stumbling from the pressure in the air.
But he caught himself, straightened, and stepped forward.
"I was…" he started, voice ragged as he fought down another cough, "…told I'd be mentored by you, sir."
The man didn't even look at him. His arm rose again.
*CLANG!
"I mentor no one," the old man said flatly, his voice deep and unmoved by Hector's presence.
*CLANG! *CLANG!
"I'm not here to train charity cases."
*CLANG!
But Hector didn't flinch.
He didn't turn away.
He squared his shoulders and raised his hands, allowing the power to unfurl across his arms.
The green light appeared at once—glowing faintly beneath his skin, crawling through his veins like the flow of sap within an ancient tree.
It shimmered like emerald silk, subtle and elegant, and with every second, it intensified—until it radiated softly from his entire form.
It wasn't a violent power.
It wasn't loud.
But it was...
alive.
The old man finally paused, mid-swing.
The hammer hovered in the air for a breath of a moment before he lowered it slowly.
He turned just enough to glimpse the light from the corner of his eye, his brows narrowing with recognition.
"I was told to show you this," Hector said quietly, forcing back a cough.
"Lady Merilyn sent me."
The old man didn't say a word.
He hummed—a low, gruff sound—and then, without warning, hurled the hammer in his hand straight at Hector.
Hector's eyes widened.
He caught it out of reflex, both arms clenching, but immediately staggered under its weight.
The sheer density nearly knocked him flat.
His arms shook.
His grip faltered.
It was like trying to catch a collapsing tree.
He grunted, looked up in confusion, only to meet the old man's unblinking stare.
"Hit it," the man said, nodding toward the still-glowing slab of steel on the anvil.
"Let's see if that pretty light of yours means anything."
Without another word, Hector tightened his grip on the hammer.
The heat still radiating off the metal in front of him was intense—close to unbearable.
But he stepped forward, straightened his back, and raised the hammer with a sharp breath.
HUP!
He brought it down.
*BANG!!!
The sound echoed, deep and loud—but the metal didn't shift.
Not a dent.
Not even a scratch.
It stood untouched, laughing at him in silence.
The old man sighed and dragged his fingers down his soot-covered face.
"Use your eidra, boy," he said, firmer now.
"The hammer's just a tool. The strength has to come from you."
Hector's arms trembled as he lowered the hammer.
He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes.
The green light returned—richer now, pulsing with intention.
It wrapped itself around him like living armor, his veins becoming vines, his muscles tense with power drawn from some ancient forest.
The scent in the forge changed.
It no longer smelled of smoke and iron.
Now, the room was filled with the scent of moss and wet leaves, like a deep grove after rain.
He lifted the hammer again, slow and steady, until it hovered above his head—and with a roar—
*CLANG!!!
It struck true.
The impact rang out like a bell.
The metal responded instantly.
From the center of the anvil, thick roots began to sprout and twist, slithering over the steel like living vines.
Leaves bloomed where none had been before.
Bark wrapped around the blade, transforming its form—until it resembled more a weapon grown than forged.
Hector stared.
It was his eidra.
Living, breathing—and undeniable.
HAHAHAHAHA!
The old man burst into laughter, slapping his thigh so hard it sent embers flying from the nearby forge.
"No point hiding it now!" he bellowed, pointing the stem of his pipe toward Hector.
"You're the son of Bercilak—the Green Knight himself!"
Hector's expression darkened like a stormcloud.
His jaw tightened. "That bastard," he muttered, voice low and bitter, "will never be my father."
The old man smirked but didn't press.
He lit his pipe, taking a deep inhale before exhaling a long stream of smoke into the air.
"You know," he said between puffs, "he and I had our share of spats… back in the day."
He leaned against his anvil, eyes distant, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
"He was always trying to test me. Brought me every weird beast bone, magical core, and cursed chunk of metal he could find—just to see if I could forge something stronger out of it."
He tapped ash from his pipe into a metal tray.
"Damn bastard pushed me harder than anyone ever had. I hated him for it… but it made me better."
"You knew him?" Hector asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.
"Knew him? Hah!" the old man laughed. "Boy, I made most of his swords!"
He paused—then his smile faded, as if a shadow passed through his thoughts.
"…Until he fell into the wrong hands."
Hector took a step forward, the old hatred rising in his throat.
"I know exactly what happened," he said, eyes burning.
"He abandoned me. Abandoned my mother. Left us to rot while he chased strength or power or whatever pathetic excuse he told himself. Even on her deathbed… she believed he'd return. She held onto hope that he still cared."
His voice cracked.
"But he didn't."
The forge went silent again, save for the gentle roar of fire and the occasional creak of old wood shifting under heat.
.
.
.
The old man didn't interrupt.
He just stared at the fire, quiet, the flame reflected in his eyes.
"…Such is the pain of a child left behind," he finally said. "By the one who was supposed to protect them."
He turned slowly and met Hector's eyes, raising the pipe and pointing its glowing tip at him.
"Maybe it's your fate to spit on your father's name. Or maybe… it's to become someone even he couldn't dream of being."
He stepped closer, his tone now hard as hammered steel.
"But before you think about revenge… before you chase ghosts—you need to learn how to protect yourself first. Only then can the rest follow."
Without waiting for an answer, the old man walked to the back of the forge.
He knelt beside an ancient chest bound in rusted iron and sealed with root-wrapped chains.
With a grunt, he opened it, and from within, drew a weapon unlike any Hector had ever seen.
The sword was alive.
It glowed with a soft green shimmer, its blade etched with veins like leaves. Its form was elegant and dangerous—more grown than crafted.
The hilt was wrapped in bark.
Tiny flowers bloomed along its length. Grass clung to the sheath like it had never left the forest floor.
It didn't belong here.
Not in the fire.
Not in the smoke.
It belonged beneath a sky, among trees and winds and songbirds.
The old man carried it like it was sacred.
"This blade is not a gift," he said softly. "It is a burden. A truth."
He held it forward with both hands, reverent.
"It will not forgive weakness. It will not suffer indecision. But if you're ready…"
He stepped closer.
"I will teach you how to wield it."
Then he turned, walking toward the exit, stopping just at the edge of the doorway where the heat met the cool breeze.
With one hand on the frame, he glanced back over his shoulder, pipe still clutched between his fingers.
"Just like I taught your father," he added, voice quiet but firm, "when he stood where you stand now."