One afternoon, smoke rose lazily above Korvan's blacksmith quarter as the final hammer strikes echoed against the anvils. The scent of hot iron filled the air — sharp, earthy, alive. The local blacksmiths stepped back from their workbench, their faces streaked with soot but proud nonetheless.
"Done!" one of them said, wiping his forehead. Before them stood a new kind of armor — not for battle, but for endurance. A full training suit, dark steel with thickened joints and reinforced plates.
"The Chief's mad," another blacksmith muttered. "This thing weighs a hundred kilos in total — forty on each arm and leg, twenty on the chest. Who in their right mind's gonna wear it?"
Maerin's voice came from behind them, calm and sharp. "Someone who intends to stop breaking swords."
The blacksmiths turned and smiled tiredly. "It's finished, Chief. We call it the 'Steel Suit.' Though… might as well call it a coffin."
Maerin smirked. "He'll make it walk."
She thanked them, had the armor loaded onto a cart, and sent it straight toward the training grounds.
---
By morning, half the village had gathered. The training field buzzed with chatter, whispers, and laughter. The Steel Suit sat gleaming in the sunlight — a dark, hulking set of weights waiting for its next victim.
Children pointed and gawked. "That's him! The big guy who trains every day!"
Another whispered, "You think he can even move in that thing? Looks heavier than a boar cart."
A few women nearby giggled, eyes glancing toward Rogan. "I've seen him carrying the old one around the village. Not bad for someone who's still standing."
Rogan's ears turned red. He wasn't used to this kind of attention.
Lyssara noticed the looks and raised an eyebrow. "Did you… do something to the women here?"
Rogan blinked rapidly. "No! I didn't do anything!" He looked to Seren for backup. "Right?"
Seren shrugged, unimpressed. "I didn't ask. And I don't care if you did."
Rogan nearly choked. "But I didn't!"
Kael sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Seren, how dense are you…"
Lyssara folded her arms. "I was the one who asked."
Kael muttered, "And yet he still looked at Seren. Unbelievable."
---
When they reached Maerin, she stood beside the new weights, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"Took you long enough," she said.
Kael eyed the armor warily. "What's all this?"
"The hundred-kilogram suit," Maerin replied. "Finished last night. The people came for the gossip. Apparently, they've all decided it's impossible."
"It's done?" Seren asked, stepping closer, eyes wide.
"Done," Maerin confirmed.
Rogan swallowed. "And… it's for me, right?"
Maerin gave a short nod. "Remove the fifty. Let's see how you handle this one."
---
The crowd watched silently as Rogan began unstrapping the old steel suit. Each piece hit the ground with a heavy thud. Dust scattered with every drop. The villagers murmured among themselves.
"He really wore that every day?"
"No wonder the ground cracked wherever he walked."
"How's he still alive?"
When the last piece fell, Rogan's body looked almost weightless by comparison. His shoulders rose, his breath came easy. But then Maerin motioned to the blacksmiths. "Help him put it on."
The bracers went first — thick, matte black, nearly as long as his forearm. The moment they clamped shut, Rogan's hands dipped toward the ground. Then came the leg pieces — massive, jointed plates that made even walking a test.
Finally, they locked the chest plate into place.
Rogan exhaled sharply, chest constricted beneath the weight. His knees buckled. Every breath felt like pushing against stone.
"How's it feel?" Seren asked.
Rogan took a shaky breath, forcing a grin. "Like drowning… but heavier."
Kael smirked. "That means it fits."
Maerin stepped forward, her tone commanding. "Same drills as before. Push-ups, squats, and running. Once you can move — and lift a hammer — get back to the forge and continue your control training."
The villagers murmured in disbelief. One old hunter whispered, "The Chief's going to kill him."
Maerin turned, raising her voice. "Enough staring! Go back to your work! He doesn't need an audience — he needs air!"
The crowd scattered, though a few curious souls lingered at the edges. Maerin nodded to Rogan once more. "Begin."
---
The first push-up sent Rogan face-first into the dirt. His arms trembled violently, the steel dragging him down. He gritted his teeth, gasping, and pushed back up. Dust clung to his sweat.
"One," Maerin counted calmly.
He didn't stop. His arms screamed in protest, his breath grew uneven, but he pressed on.
By the time he reached fifty, his muscles quivered uncontrollably. By the hundredth, he collapsed flat, chest heaving, arms burning.
"Squats," Maerin said evenly.
Rogan groaned. "You're… merciless."
"Get used to it."
He obeyed. Lowering his body and pushing back up felt like lifting the village itself. Sweat poured down his face, falling in streaks onto the dirt.
When the last squat ended, he was barely standing.
"Now run," Maerin said.
"Of course," Rogan muttered weakly. "Can't let the dirt miss me too much."
---
He started slow — dragging one leg, then another. Each step rattled his bones. The blacksmiths who had built the armor watched from a distance, astonished.
"By the forge… he's moving."
"Barely."
"But he's moving."
Seren crossed her arms, a faint smile forming. "He's tougher than he looks."
Kael nodded. "That's the scary part."
Lyssara, however, couldn't tear her gaze away. "How can he even stand, let alone run?"
Seren answered, "Because he has to. He's got too much strength and nowhere to put it. This is how he learns where it goes."
When Rogan finally stumbled to a stop, his chest heaving and armor clanking, Maerin gave a short nod of approval. "You're done for now. Rest. You'll repeat it tomorrow."
Rogan laughed breathlessly, collapsing onto the dirt. "You're kidding, right?"
Maerin smirked. "Was I smiling?"
Kael shook his head. "You'll live, Rogan. Probably."
Seren looked at Lyssara. "We should start our own training."
"Yeah," Kael agreed. "Let the iron boy suffer in peace."
They left the field, leaving only Rogan and Lyssara behind.
---
Lyssara crouched beside him, eyes tracing the thick armor plates. "How can you move in that thing?"
Rogan let out a slow breath, his voice low but steady. "Because I have to. I've got too much strength I don't know how to use yet. So I'll keep moving until I learn."
Lyssara blinked. "That's… insane."
He grinned faintly. "You'll get used to insane here."
She looked toward the forge, frowning. "So what am I supposed to do now? The blacksmith training's not till afternoon."
Rogan tilted his head. "Why not start your basic forms? Or…" He paused, smiling mischievously. "You could always wear the fifty-kilo suit."
Lyssara recoiled instantly. "Absolutely not."
Rogan chuckled. "You'll wear it eventually. Kael, Seren, and Alder all trained with those weights. The one I wore earlier was Alder's."
Lyssara's eyes widened. "Wait — they wore them too? No way. I'll stick to speed, thanks."
"Suit yourself," Rogan said, stretching out his arms. "But the weights don't lie. They'll find you sooner or later."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "I'll take my chances."
Rogan smirked. "Then start with push-ups. I'll count."
Lyssara rolled her eyes but dropped to the dirt beside him. "You're impossible."
"And you're wasting time," Rogan said.
She groaned, lowering herself to the ground. "Fine. But if I can't move tomorrow, I'm blaming you."
"Deal."
The two began their drills — one weighed down by iron, the other by pride — as the morning sun rose higher over Korvan, the sound of effort and determination echoing across the training field.