Kael didn't know if he should cry out in joy or shit himself in raw, unfiltered terror.
The Primordial Forge—the Primordial Forge—wasn't just some dusty relic or forgotten artifact. It was a myth wrapped in power, dipped in potential catastrophe, and garnished with apocalypse. An artifact capable of forging weapons so potent, so reality-shattering, that it could make a nuclear bomb look like a kid playing with sparklers on New Year's Eve.
The only other forge of its kind had been discovered by the ARC Division, and that one was about as useful as a broken vending machine in a desert. Defunct. Inert. Glorified furniture.
Not that Kael wanted theirs to work. Gods, no.
The ARC Division liked to parade around as humanity's last hope, the shining guardians of civilization, the saviors who pulled mankind from the brink after the world face-planted into the Calamity. But Kael? Kael wasn't buying it. He never had.
Beneath their gleaming white armor and rehearsed speeches about unity and protection, the ARC Division was a well-oiled machine of control and quiet oppression. Their reach extended into everything, economics, politics, science, religion, even the damn weather forecasts. If there was a pie, they not only had their fingers in it, but also owned the oven, the recipe, and probably the chef.
There was an old saying: Power corrupts. And the ARC Division was practically fermenting in it.
You didn't need a philosophy degree to see through their "benevolence." Just look at Ashgarde Reach, an urban hellhole clinging to the armpit of the continent that used to be called America. The city was a relic of survival, teetering on the edge of forgotten ruins and broken promises. What was left after the Calamity and the nuclear tantrums that followed was a landscape of death, fire, and fallout.
Ashgarde Reach was more swamp than a city now, surrounded by marshlands that swallowed people whole—like the land itself was hungry. The place was a dumping ground, a quarantine zone for the expendable. The weak, the poor, the inconveniently noncompliant, all "relocated" there by the ARC Division to rot in peace. Or not. Usually not.
If you were powerful, if you had wealth or connections or a surname that came with a coat of arms, then congratulations, you were human enough to be saved. The ARC Division would roll out the red carpet and offer you champagne. But if you weren't? If you were just another nobody, trying to survive?
They'd toss you out like expired meat. No hesitation. No remorse. Just another body in the swamp.
Kael stared into the flickering blue flames, his expression unreadable but his thoughts loud and bitter. Funny how the past never stayed buried, it always clawed its way out like a corpse too stubborn to rot.
It was the ARC Division's help that made it so damn easy for his father to dump him like a defective product in the slums of Ashgarde Reach. One moment, Kael was standing in the polished halls of his father's universe, still reeling from being disowned like some stray mutt, and the next, he'd stepped through a Rift Gate and straight into a tactical welcoming party. ARC Division guards swarmed him like flies on rot, slapped cuffs on his wrists, and didn't even bother to explain.
His grandfather, the ever-charming Lord Tensworth, had been there too. Because of course he had. The bastard stood beside a smug ARC general, lips curled into a sneer, and declared, loud enough for the guards and gods alike to hear, that Kael was a disgrace. A disappointment to both bloodlines. An irrelevance.
"Your existence doesn't matter anymore."
The words still echoed sometimes, especially when things got too quiet.
They'd tossed him into an armored hovercraft like a piece of trash that somehow needed to be transported in style. He remembered the hum of the engine, the cold metal against his back, the weight of 300 credits shoved into his coat pocket. And his mother's daggers—those, at least, they hadn't taken. Lord Tensworth had wanted to, of course, probably hoping to erase every trace of Sylvia from Kael's life, but her voice, her fury, crackling through a long-distance comm had been enough to make the old man reconsider.
It was the last concession Kael would ever get.
Two days later, the hovercraft dumped him in Ashgarde Reach. No ceremony. No warning. Just an open hatch, a boot to the spine, and sulphuric rain soaking his clothes before the metal beast disappeared into the choking sky.
He never saw his family again.
Kael's jaw clenched as his eyes refocused on the forge. The flames danced like they knew something he didn't. He didn't believe in fate—fate was for optimists and fools—but this? This wasn't random. This wasn't some divine accident where the universe farted, and Kael just fell into a long-lost chamber of forbidden god-tech.
No. This felt deliberate.
"Why am I here?" he asked the room, voice low and taut. "There's no way I could've gotten here by accident."
The woman, if that's what she even was, tilted her head slightly. The glow from the forge caught in her ethereal hair, making her look more ghost than projection.
"It wasn't," she said simply.
Kael's HUD flared to life before he could press her further. His vision flickered as the cracked crescent moon that had been haunting his display was replaced by a full moon, complete and glowing gold. A howling wolf symbol burned at its center, pulsing with unfamiliar authority.
[Primordial Forge Interface Detected... Synchronization complete.]
[Commencing download of ancestral DNA memory... 5%... 10%...]
"What the actual—" Pain stabbed him right between the eyes like someone drove a branding iron into his skull. He hissed, dropping his dagger with a clatter that echoed too loud in the chamber. His knees buckled. He hit the ground, palms scraping against cold stone as he clutched his head.
"What's happening?!" he snarled through gritted teeth, shooting a furious glance at the woman who hadn't moved an inch. Her eyes now flickered between glacial blue and molten gold, unnervingly serene as she watched him squirm.
The download took hours. Every second stretched with white-hot agony, until Kael was curled on the ground, forehead pressed against the floor, breath coming in shallow pants.
Then—ding. Just like that, the pressure vanished. No warning. No apology.
Kael lifted his head, sweat clinging to his brow, and blinked the blurriness from his vision.
[Download complete. Ancestral DNA memory integrated.]
[Welcome, Kael Bloodfang. Keeper of the Primordial Forge.]
"The Keeper?" Kael whispered, staring at the flickering HUD in disbelief. The golden light shimmered faintly in the air before him, casting eerie reflections on the jagged walls of the forge. He glanced up at the woman with narrowed eyes, lips curled into a bitter half-smile. "What's this supposed to mean? Some kind of cosmic joke?"
The woman stepped forward, calm and unbothered. "It means you're the guardian of this forge. To protect it from falling into the wrong hands."
Kael couldn't help it—he laughed. A dry, humorless sound, the kind that carried years of disappointments in every rasp. "Protect it?" he repeated, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, because I'm definitely the poster boy for divine responsibility. Look at me! I'm still an E-Rank after seven years of crawling through Rift-scorched dumpsters."
She didn't respond. Of course she didn't. Just stood there with that serene expression he wanted to slap off her face.
Kael staggered to his feet, brushing dust off his pants that had seen better centuries. "And how am I supposed to protect it?" He motioned around the cavern, sarcasm thick in his voice. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly the strongest entity floating around the four universes."
"Not yet," she said with a smile that made his eye twitch. "But you will be one day."
He stared at her. "Will be." Like she hadn't just told a cosmic underdog he was destined to guard an ancient forge. "Sure. I've got zero powers, no gear, and my last meal was a half-rotten protein bar from a vending machine with teeth. Real chosen-one material right here."
The woman giggled—actually giggled—and placed a hand over her mouth like she hadn't just triggered another existential crisis. "Think again, Kael Bloodfang. Open your system and find out."
His brow furrowed. "You're enjoying this way too much." Still, he complied. "Status."
His HUD flared to life once again. But this time, the moment Kael saw the data scrolling across the screen, his heart skipped a beat. Then another. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, his legs felt like wet noodles.
---
"PRIMORDIAN SYSTEM HUD"
📛 Name: Kael Bloodfang [20]
Health: 1010/1010
Mana: 860/860
Spiritual Energy: 710/710
🧬 Species: Hybrid (Human/Lycan)
💢 Class: Warbrand Summoner [Novice] / Primal Artificer [Novice]
📉 Rank: Omega Lycan [Novice]
📈 Level: 8 (400/800 XP)
🔰 Hunter Tier: E-Rank
📍 Location: Unknown—Chamber of Echoes
Attribute | Value | Buffs/Effects
🦾 Strength | 98 [+6/3] | +6 — Lycan Strength — Omega
🤸 Dexterity | 74 [+3/3] | +3 — Lycan Speed — Omega
🧠 Intelligence | 62 [+3/3] | +3 — Class Bonus — Warbrand S.
🧘 Spirit | 71 [+6/3] | +6 — Class Bonus — Warbrand S.
💠 Mana | 86 [+6/3] | +6 — Class Bonus — Warbrand S.
❤️ Vitality | 101 [+3/3] | +3 — Lycan Vitality — Omega
🧗 Cultivation | 140 [+6/3] | +6 — Primal Artificer
Attribute Point Available: 16
Skill Points Available: 10
---
Kael blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again. He even slapped his cheek, lightly. "What fresh fever dream is this?" he muttered, jaw slack. For someone who'd stopped believing in miracles when puberty hit like a truck full of rejections, this felt suspiciously close to hope. And hope, in Kael's experience, was just the appetizer to soul-crushing disappointment.
"Is this a dream?" he whispered, voice cracking. If it was, he didn't want to wake up. Or maybe he did. Dreams never ended well for him.
"No. It isn't, Kael," the magical AI replied softly.
A grin cracked across his face. Actual warmth flickered in his chest, foreign and uncomfortable, like emotion was some vestigial organ that hadn't been used in years.
"So," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Can you tell me how I'm supposed to use the forge?"
"The Primordial Forge can create anything," she said, her voice suddenly more serious. "Within reason, of course. Since you're a Warbrand Summoner, your summons is bound to the forge. You don't raise the dead or open gates to other planes like traditional mages. You construct them, handcrafted murder buddies, if you will, using crystal cores, metal, and your own spiritual energy."
Kael nodded slowly. "Handcrafted murder buddies. Got it."
She ignored the sarcasm. "But power comes at a price. To forge a magical construct, you'll need three things: one, the soul shard or magical core of a slain creature. That holds its essence. Two, a sample of metal to shape the body—higher quality equals stronger construct. Three, the physical remains of the creature you want to emulate."
"Wait, why the body?" Kael sighed, already regretting the question.
"The forge consumes it and remakes it using your magic and chosen materials. Yes, it's preparation-heavy. But your constructs will be unmatched."
Kael rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So not only do I have to fight the thing, I have to drag its corpse back like some morbid Food delivery guy?"
She walked over to a nearby workbench and pointed to a lone artifact resting atop it. A sleek, rune-etched chest pulsed with latent energy. "This contains a dimensional storage device. It'll let you store remains and items in stasis, untouched by time."
His eyes widened. Without hesitation, he bolted toward the bench and flipped the chest open. Nestled inside was a black bracelet, minimalist, beautiful, and humming with arcane power. Ancient runes danced faintly across its surface like fireflies.
Kael whistled low. "Damn... This isn't just rare. This is 'a councilor's mistress went missing for it' rare."
Magical storage devices like this were artifacts of a lost age. Most Hunters never even saw one. He'd only heard stories, hushed bar tales told by drunk veterans with more scars than luck. Now he held one.
Maybe—just maybe—this wasn't a cosmic joke, after all.