The three entered slowly. Every step echoed through the underworld city, swallowed by the hum of life that thrived below the stone. The smell of metal and burning resin thickened in the air, and strange instruments—half hammer, half pipe—rang out in rhythmic patterns. The sound wasn't random; it was music. Orcish smiths worked their forges like conductors, their glowing furnaces pulsing to a steady beat.
Himmel, Texan, and Recon drew stares as soon as they stepped off the cliff path.
The orcs here were unlike any Himmel had ever seen. Their skin wasn't the dull grey-green he remembered from the mountain tribes—it shimmered faintly with copper and obsidian undertones. Their tusks were polished, symmetrical, and their armor shone with an artistry that bordered on divine. Some wore silk veils and gold circlets. Others bore glowing tattoos that flowed like molten rivers across their skin.
Himmel, realizing how crude his uneven canines looked among them, felt a twinge in his gut. Orc beauty had never mattered to him before—but here, it did. Here, among these refined descendants, he felt… less. He ran his tongue across one sharp canine and clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze slightly.
Texan whispered out the side of his mouth, "Holy shit, did we just walk into a noble's ballroom?"
Recon elbowed him, "Shut up before one of them hears you."
They were already being murmured about. Voices rippled through the market square like waves. Words too low to understand but heavy with tone—confusion, curiosity, suspicion.
"Surface dwellers…""Dark orc… and a merfolk?" "Why would they come here?"
One child tugged at her mother's sleeve and pointed at Gumbo, who trotted close to Texan's leg, tail fin wagging. The mother hissed, pulling the child back, but her eyes lingered with awe.
Then, the murmurs ceased.
A figure approached from between two forges—an older orc with silver hair braided down his back, his posture straight despite the years carved into his features. His robes were layered in black and gold, and his tusks gleamed like carved ivory. When he walked, the crowd parted.
He carried no weapon, yet everyone bowed as he passed.
The elder stopped before the group and offered a small bow of his own. "Travelers," he said, voice like rolling thunder softened by age. "You walk the path few remember. I am Angar, Elder of the Soul Smiths' City. Tell me—how did you find this place?"
Himmel straightened. "We followed the map," he said. "A map given to us by the Captain of the Border Guard."
At that, Angar's eyes flickered with something—surprise, perhaps nostalgia. "The border… So the surface still knows the name of our captain." He nodded slowly. "Come. You will have shelter and food. No one will harm you while you are under my word."
He turned and began walking toward the upper terraces. The three followed in silence, feeling dozens of eyes at their backs.
Angar's home stood apart from the rest of the city—a massive structure carved into the stone wall itself. The entrance was flanked by molten crystal streams that flowed upward instead of down, frozen mid-motion by enchantment. Inside, the air shimmered with heat and incense.
They sat at a round table of black glass, and an orc woman served them tea brewed from glowing fungus. It smelled faintly of mint and metal.
Angar sat across from them, folding his hands. "Now," he said, his voice calm but firm. "The map."
Himmel reached into his satchel and handed it over. Angar's fingers brushed the parchment with reverence, as though touching a sacred relic.
"This," he said quietly, "was made before the exile. There are only a handful left who still remember the symbols upon it. You carry something ancient—and dangerous."
Texan leaned back. "We didn't even know this place existed until a few weeks ago."
Angar smiled faintly. "Most who know of us prefer to forget. But since you hold this map, you are under our protection. You will have food, lodging, and—if you wish—training. The forges of the Soul Smiths still burn, and their secrets are not yet lost."
Himmel straightened. "You said our protection. Does that mean others have come here before?"
Angar's eyes grew distant. "Not in centuries. You are the first in five hundred years to walk through that gate."
Texan's brow furrowed. "Wait—five hundred?"
"Yes." Angar looked at him kindly, though his expression carried deep weariness. "I have been here for long. The last survivor of the first generation born after the slaughter."
The room seemed to grow colder.
Angar rose from his seat and walked to the wall, lighting a small torch. Before them, carved murals emerged—ancient depictions of battle. Orcs in radiant armor, wielding blades that glowed with trapped souls. Enemies—humans, elves, even other orcs—burned in their path.
He traced a finger along one carving: an orc holding a blade that screamed light. "Soul Smithing," he began, "is the act of extracting a soul—from foe or ally—and binding it into a weapon or vessel. To use it is to borrow life itself. To wield it well is to command death."
Himmel leaned forward, mesmerized. "So you can… forge souls?"
"In a sense," Angar said. "When one falls in battle, their essence lingers. We capture that essence, shape it, and give it new purpose. A blade with a thousand voices becomes a living weapon. A shield infused with loyalty can block fear itself."
Texan tilted his head. "That sounds like a cheat code."
Angar chuckled softly. "Perhaps. But the world above did not see it so. The kings feared us. The priests called us cursed. When we refused to share our methods, the Orc King himself declared us abominations."
He paused, eyes darkening. "We had twenty thousand warriors then. By the time the war ended, only fifty remained—and of those, twenty made it here."
The room was silent. Even Gumbo bowed his head, sensing the heaviness of the moment.
Himmel spoke carefully. "And you've been here ever since?"
"Yes," Angar said, returning to his seat. "Five centuries of waiting, of guarding what remains. I am the last soul smith. The last to remember how it began, for I cannot teach any. Not because of tradition but because they lack the capabilities."
He poured himself more tea, the cup trembling slightly in his old hands. "Time has made ghosts of us all."
Texan rubbed his chin. "So… you're saying we can learn this soul-smithing stuff?"
Angar studied him quietly. "Only Orcs may even have the chance of it, even then almost all n . Why do you ask though?"
Texan shrugged. "Because I've seen what power gets you—and what happens when you don't have it. We nearly died getting here. I'd rather not die without something cool to show for it."
Angar smiled, faint but knowing. "A simple answer. But an honest one."
Himmel leaned forward. "You said we can train here, could we also be granted a soul weapon?"
The elder hesitated, his expression unreadable. "Normally, such gifts are forbidden. But the map…" He glanced toward it again. "Those who carry the map are bound to fate. And the map always chooses. So yes, I will allow it. You will each have a chance to earn a soul weapon."
Himmel bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Elder."
Recon, who had been silent for too long, finally spoke. "Have a lot of people come by here before us?"
Angar shook his head. "No. None."
"Why not?" Recon pressed. "How come it's so hard to find this place?"
"I cannot tell you that," Angar said simply.
Recon frowned. "Okay. Then how does soul smithing actually work? Like—how do you extract a soul?"
"I will not tell you that either."
"Then how many soul smiths are left?"
Angar looked at him calmly. "One. Me."
Recon crossed his arms. "So if you die, that's it? Game over?"
"Yes," Angar said without hesitation.
"Okay but like—"
"Recon," Himmel cut him off sharply. "Shut your mouth."
Recon froze, then slumped slightly. Texan snorted into his cup, barely hiding a laugh.
Angar only smiled faintly. "Curiosity is not a sin, young beastman. But impatience is often a fool's teacher."
Angar rose once more and walked to the back of the chamber, where an ancient sword rested within glass. It was unlike the others—slim, elegant, and carved from crystal rather than metal. Inside its blade swirled faint traces of violet mist.
"This belonged," Angar said softly, "to the last outsider who came here before you. A swordswoman from the surface. She carried no banner, no tribe, no god. Her blade was her voice, and her silence spoke louder than any cry of war."
Texan tilted his head. "What happened to her?"
Angar's gaze lingered on the blade. "She stayed for a time. Learned our ways. Fought beside us in the final war. When the gates closed, she was with the ones who sealed them—so that no trespassers would ever find us again."
He turned, eyes shadowed with memory. "Some say she was human. Others might say something older. Whatever she was, she carried the last original soul forged by our kind. All there is now are the weapons I've forged. The weapons I bled for, the weapons that hold our last soldiers."
He looked directly at Himmel. "And now you stand alone, your first friends gone, family to the dust."
Himmel felt the weight of that look—the pressure of history itself pressing down on his shoulders. He didn't know what to say, so he simply bowed his head.
Angar smiled faintly, then turned toward the doorway. "Rest, all of you. There are chambers prepared below. Tomorrow, we will see if fate truly favors you."
As they stood to leave, the cavern lights dimmed, the molten rivers pulsing slower, as if the city itself were breathing in its sleep.
Texan clapped Himmel's shoulder. "Guess we're staying in a five-star cave tonight."
Himmel didn't answer. His eyes lingered on the lone sword sealed behind glass. The violet mist inside it pulsed once—as if alive.
That night, the trio slept in quarters carved from black stone, listening to the sound of distant hammers echoing through the underworld.
Above them, unseen, the ancient blade flickered again—its glow faint but constant.
And far in the depths, beyond where even Angar dared to tread, something stirred.
Something that remembered the swordswoman…and the promise she had made before she vanished into legend.