The sound of bellows pressing life into fire echoed through the night as sparks danced, painting the dimly lit workshop with streaks of crimson light. Eryan stood shirtless, sweat dripping down his toned body, his hands firm around the heavy hammer that had become his only companion in this cursed land.
He struck the glowing ingot again. CLANG! The sound carried weight, not just of metal, but of the rage and pain locked inside him. Each hammer strike was a defiance against the cruel fate that had dragged him into this world.
His breath was harsh, his arms tense.
The veins in his forearms bulged with every motion as though the hammer itself fed on his blood. The fire of the forge was no ordinary flame—he had learned that much. It whispered to him, in tongues older than kingdoms, urging him to pour not just steel but himself into every weapon he made.
Tonight was different.
The metal in his hands glowed unnaturally dark, not gold, not silver, not even red from the fire. It shimmered with black embers, as if absorbing the forge's flame instead of reflecting it. Eryan's jaw tightened. He had seen glimpses of this before. A forging technique beyond mortals, one that demanded not only skill but… sacrifice.
His knuckles whitened. Without hesitation, he sliced his palm across the blade of a broken dagger. Blood dripped, sizzling when it touched the metal, fusing with the heat. The ingot pulsed in response.
"...So this is the secret," Eryan muttered, eyes shadowed.
The Blacksmith job wasn't just about crafting. It was about binding life essence into steel.
Eryan worked relentlessly, sweat and blood mixing into one as the hammer fell again and again. The clangs grew deeper, almost monstrous, echoing through the workshop as if the walls themselves wanted to collapse. His muscles screamed, but he welcomed the pain. Every swing was shaping not just a weapon but himself.
At last, the ingot split open, reshaping under his will. The hammer gave birth to a blade—black, jagged, and alive with crimson veins. Eryan stared at it, his reflection distorted on its surface.
The blade… whispered.
"More… feed me more."
Eryan's breath caught. His heart pounded as if the weapon itself had merged with his pulse. For the first time, he realized the terrifying truth: Blacksmith wasn't just a job. It was a curse, binding creator and creation.
"Eryan…"
A soft voice called from the doorway. He turned sharply.
Standing there was Selene, the innkeeper's daughter. Her nightgown clung to her frame, the faint light of the forge outlining the curves of her body. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, her eyes wide not with fear, but fascination.
"You're still working? At this hour?" she asked, stepping closer, her bare feet silent against the floor.
Eryan tried to avert his gaze, but the sweat dripping down her collarbone caught him. His chest tightened—not just from exhaustion, but from the reminder that despite the darkness swallowing him, he was still a man.
Selene leaned closer, brushing strands of hair behind her ear. "I can hear your hammer from my room… it's so loud, it feels like you're fighting the night itself."
Eryan grunted, lifting the black blade slightly. Its eerie glow reflected in her eyes. She gasped, drawn to it, almost entranced.
"You shouldn't be here," Eryan muttered, voice rough.
"And leave you like this?" she whispered, reaching out. Her fingers almost touched the blade before Eryan seized her wrist, stopping her.
"Don't." His tone was sharper than intended. "This steel… isn't for hands like yours."
For a moment, silence lingered between them. But then Selene smiled faintly, tilting her head. "Then maybe it's for hands like yours. That's why I… I want to see what kind of man you're becoming."
Her words cut deeper than any blade.
The fire roared, the weapon pulsed, and Eryan's body trembled—not from weakness, but from the collision of desire, rage, and destiny.
He released her wrist slowly, realizing the danger wasn't only in the weapon… but in himself.
I'm walking a path where even my touch can corrupt.
Selene's presence was a reminder of the fragile humanity he still clung to. But outside, the world was far from fragile. He could already feel it—the winds shifting, the scent of iron and steel carried through the night. Somewhere, someone else was forging too.
The night deepened. Outside the forge, the moon hung high, its pale light drowning in the smoke that drifted from the chimney. Eryan stepped outside for air, his shirt still off, his body drenched in sweat and soot. The black blade he had forged pulsed faintly in his hand, as though alive.
His eyes scanned the horizon. The village slept, unaware of the storm that was brewing. But Eryan could feel it—the world was shifting, calling him to something greater, something bloodier.
Selene had followed him out, wrapping a shawl around her nightgown, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something. But before she could, the air changed.
Clang.
The sound was faint, carried by the night wind. Another hammer striking metal. Not from his forge… from somewhere beyond the forest.
Eryan froze.
The sound wasn't random. It was deliberate. Precise. Heavy.
Someone else was forging tonight.
And not just forging—challenging.
"Do you hear that?" Selene whispered.
Eryan's jaw clenched. He knew what it meant. Blacksmiths didn't work at this hour unless they were like him—driven by obsession, consumed by the fire.
Another strike echoed. Clang. Clang. Each one sent a chill crawling down his spine.
"Go back inside," he muttered.
Selene hesitated. "Eryan…"
"Now." His tone left no room for argument.
Her lips pressed together, but she obeyed, stepping back into the inn. Alone beneath the moonlight, Eryan tightened his grip on the black blade.
"Who are you…?" he whispered to the night.
Hours later, he followed the sound. The forest was thick, the moonlight struggling to pierce through the canopy. His footsteps were silent, but his heart was a drum in his chest. The hammering grew louder, closer, until the trees opened into a clearing.
There, another forge burned.
But this one was different. The flames were blue, unnaturally cold yet searing to the eyes. Sparks flew upward, twisting into shapes like writhing souls. And at the heart of it stood a man.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with long black hair tied loosely behind him. His arms moved with brutal grace as he brought the hammer down on glowing steel. Unlike Eryan's raw, desperate forging, this man's strikes were… elegant. Controlled. Perfect.
The rival blacksmith.
Eryan's breath caught. He felt it immediately—the weight, the aura. This wasn't some village craftsman. This was a predator.
The man stopped, sensing him. Slowly, he turned, revealing eyes like burning coals—red, sharp, cruel. His lips curled into a smirk.
"So. You heard me." His voice was deep, carrying authority that cut through the night. "Another smith who forges with blood."
Eryan raised his blade instinctively. "Who are you?"
The man wiped his hammer against a cloth, setting it aside as though Eryan posed no threat. "Names are useless in a world like this. But if you must know…" He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his shadow swallowing the clearing. "…they call me Kael."
The name carried weight, like a curse etched into steel.
Eryan's grip tightened. The blade pulsed, eager, as if recognizing a rival flame.
Kael's eyes flicked to the weapon. "Ah. You've already heard the whispers of steel. Impressive, for a novice." He chuckled darkly. "But dangerous. Very dangerous. Do you even know what you're holding?"
Eryan remained silent.
Kael smirked. "Didn't think so. That blade will eat you alive if you let it. But… perhaps that's what you want. To be devoured. To be more than a man."
Their gazes locked, and for a moment the night seemed to stop breathing. The two blacksmiths stood, firelight clashing between them.
Then Kael leaned closer, his voice low, taunting. "If you truly wish to wield the forge, boy… you'll have to prove yourself. Otherwise, you're nothing but a pretender."
Before Eryan could respond, Kael swung the unfinished blade he had been forging. The blue flame steel hissed through the air, and Eryan barely raised his weapon in time to block. The clash sent a shockwave through the clearing, sparks exploding like a storm.
The battle had begun.
Eryan staggered back, the force of the strike rattling his bones. Kael didn't pursue, only watching, smirking.
"You've got spirit," Kael said, his voice almost amused. "But spirit alone won't keep you alive."
Eryan's chest rose and fell, sweat dripping, his muscles screaming from the impact. The black blade in his hand pulsed harder, as if hungering for Kael's blood.
And deep down, Eryan wanted the same.
The forge, the whispers, the blood… it all led to this.