The clang of metal rang like thunder across the midnight forge. Sparks danced in the air, lighting the darkness in bursts of red and gold. Eryan's body moved on instinct now—hammer rising and falling, sweat dripping from his brow, his breath a steady rhythm of fire and steel.
This was not forging as a mere craft. It was war.
Every strike poured the chaos of the labyrinth, the screams of the dying, and the faces of those who had fallen into the blade's growing form. The greatsword in progress shimmered with an unnatural glow, drinking in his intent.
But it wasn't only rage and grief that fueled him.
It was also doubt. Doubt that festered ever since the revelation of the old experiments. Doubt about the path he walked. Was he becoming the very thing he swore to destroy?
Kael sat against the wall, bruised and still recovering from the duel that nearly ended both of them. His gaze followed the sparks, his jaw clenched. He had already admitted defeat, already reconciled with Eryan, but watching him now—obsessed, driven to the brink—made him uneasy.
"Eryan," Kael said at last, his voice hoarse.
No response. Only the hammer striking.
"Eryan!"
The blacksmith froze mid-swing, the unfinished greatsword radiating heat so intense the stone floor cracked beneath it. Slowly, Eryan turned his head, eyes bloodshot, lips curled into something between a snarl and a grimace.
"…What is it?"
"You're pushing yourself into madness. This sword… it doesn't just shine with steel. It's swallowing you."
For a long moment, silence. Then Eryan smirked, a shadow dancing across his face.
"Then maybe I should let it. If madness makes me strong enough to stop what's coming—"
The forge doors burst open. A cloaked figure stepped in, followed by two armored knights. The sigil on their breastplates gleamed: the crest of the Iron Dominion, a faction of blacksmiths so powerful their name was whispered like a curse.
"Eryan of the fallen forge," the cloaked one said, voice sharp, commanding. "By decree of the Dominion, you are to surrender your weapon and your skills. The Dominion claims all rare-class forging."
Kael rose instantly, drawing his battered blade. "Over my dead body."
The cloaked man laughed. "That can be arranged."
He pulled back his hood, revealing scarred features and molten eyes—the unmistakable signs of a rival blacksmith who had fused his soul with his own creations. The air shimmered with heat as he drew a hammer wreathed in crimson fire.
Eryan tightened his grip on his own. His forge, his sword, his path—none of it would be stolen.
"You want my steel?" he growled, stepping forward, aura rising like a storm. "Then prove you're worthy to touch it."
The rival blacksmith smirked.
"Gladly."
And with that, steel clashed against steel, sending shockwaves that rattled the forge and split the night sky.
The duel for dominance had begun.
The forge was no longer a sanctuary. It had become a battlefield.
The duel between Eryan and the Dominion blacksmith tore through stone and steel alike. Sparks turned into firestorms as every clash of their hammers sent out shockwaves. The unfinished greatsword on Eryan's anvil pulsed with light, as though it too hungered for the outcome of this fight.
Kael staggered back, shielding his eyes from the storm. He had seen Eryan fight before, but this was different—feral, desperate, almost monstrous. The rival blacksmith matched him blow for blow, his own weapon a blazing hammer forged from enchanted obsidian, each strike dripping molten embers.
"Impressive," the Dominion blacksmith spat, his lips curled into a grin. "But you're no master. You're just a child playing with flames you don't understand."
Eryan's eyes narrowed. He struck, hammer meeting hammer, the sound deafening. "Maybe. But even a child can burn a tyrant to ash!"