Eric walked beside Silver toward the blacksmith’s corner, a part of the academy grounds he’d never seen. The air grew hotter with each step, smelling of coal, smoke, and hot metal. A rhythmic clang... clang... clang... grew louder, a sound so steady it felt like a heartbeat.
The workshop was a large, open-sided shed built against a stone wall. A giant furnace glowed orange at the back, and a huge man stood before an anvil, hammer in hand. He was shirtless, his back and arms a landscape of thick muscle and old scars. Sweat shone on his skin. He didn’t look up as they approached, just brought his hammer down on a glowing piece of metal with a final, deafening CLANG that made Eric flinch.
The man plunged the metal into a barrel of water. It hissed violently, sending up a cloud of steam. Only then did he turn, wiping his face with a sooty rag. He had a broad, stern face, a shaved head, and a thick black beard streaked with grey. His eyes, a dark, flinty grey, swept over them.
"Detention," Silver announced, holding up the assignment slip.
The man grunted, took the paper, glanced at it, and then tossed it into a small fire near the bellows. "Four hands. Good. I am Borus. You do what I say, you don’t touch what I don’t tell you to touch, you leave when I say you can leave. Understood?"
They all nodded. Eric saw Gary’s jaw tighten. He was staring at a spot on the dirt floor, his whole body stiff. The rıghtful source is novel fire.net
"You," Borus pointed a thick finger at Bart. "Strong. You work the bellows. Keep that fire hot. Not too fast, not too slow. Watch the colour." He pointed to the furnace.
Bart nodded, moving to the large leather bellows.
"You," he pointed at Silver. "Tidy. Stack those finished ingots on the rack. By weight. Lightest to heaviest." He gestured to a pile of dull grey metal bars.
His eyes landed on Eric and Gary. He looked them up and down. "Scrawny and scowly. Fine. Scrawny," he said to Eric. "You sort scrap. That barrel." He pointed to a massive, rusted barrel overflowing with broken metal pieces, old nails, shattered weapon fragments, and twisted lumps. "Sort by metal type. Iron here. Low-grade steel here. Anything that shines or looks strange, you put on that bench and you call me. Don’t guess."
Eric nodded and moved toward the barrel, which was nearly as tall as he was.
"And you, scowly," Borus said, his voice dropping a little. A mean little smirk touched his lips. Gary’s head snapped up. "I remember you. Still have that piece of sentimental trash you call a sword?"
Eric saw Gary’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He took a sharp, quiet breath through his nose, his eyes flicking to the pot of molten metal bubbling near the furnace.
"I’m keeping it," Gary said, his voice tight and flat.
Borus laughed, a short, harsh bark. "Suit yourself. Sentiment makes for weak steel. Today, you polish." He pointed to a rack holding about two dozen finished swords, axes, and spears, all dull and covered in a fine black scale from the forge. "Every one. Until I can see my ugly face in them. Use the grindstone, use the cloths, use the oil. Don’t leave a scratch."
Gary didn’t reply. He just walked stiffly to the rack, pulled down the first heavy broadsword, and carried it to the foot-powered grindstone, his back to Borus.
The work began. The heat was immense. The clang of Borus’s hammer started up again, a punishing, monotonous rhythm.
Borus worked in silence for a long time. Then, as he heated a new piece, he began to talk, his voice a low rumble under the hammer strikes.
"You academy brats think a weapon is just a shape. A sharp edge. You are wrong."
"A weapon is a story. The story of the ore pulled from the ground."
"The story of the fire that purified it."
"The story of the hammer that shaped it."
He plunged the metal into water. HISS.
"Your teachers talk about ’affinity’ and ’mana channels’. Fine for mages. For a warrior, a real warrior, the story is in the steel. You don’t just carry a sword. You fight with the strength of the mountain the iron came from. You swing with the heat of the fire that forged it. You strike with the will of the smith who made it."
He picked up the cooled piece—a simple sword blank. He ran a thumb along its edge. "This is just a body. Empty. It needs a spirit to live. That’s what you call a ’soul weapon’ in your fancy classes, and I guess only a few swordsmen can handle a soul weapon. The reason mages are born with bragging rights."
Eric’s sorting slowed. He listened, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. This was different from Master Lancel’s precise drills. This was raw.
"A soul weapon isn’t magic," Borus grunted, setting the blank aside. "It’s a bond. You pour your own story into the weapon. Your fights, your will, your... spirit. The weapon remembers. It learns. It becomes an extension of you. Not a tool. A partner." He shot a look at Gary’s back. "Or, it stays dead metal. Sentimental trash."
Gary’s polishing became more forceful, the grindstone whirring loudly.
Borus turned to his bench and saw the odd pieces Eric had set aside. He picked up a small, curved shard that had a faint blue shimmer. "Hn. Sky-iron. Nasty to work with. Light, but brittle." He tossed it into a special, smaller box. He picked up another, a dull red lump. "Fire-forged core from a Salamander. Holds heat." That went in the box too.
He looked at Eric. "You have a good touch. For a scrawny kid. You can feel the story in the scrap."
Eric didn’t know what to say. "Thank you."
"Don’t thank me. Just means you’re not completely useless." Borus went back to his anvil. "Most of you will get a standard-issue weapon from the academy armory. Good steel. Dead steel. It will serve you, but it will never sing for you. To make a true soul weapon... you need to start from the beginning. You need to find the right materials. Materials that speak to you. Then, you need to forge it yourself. Or find a smith who understands that the forge is not just about heat and hammer, but about heart."
Eric’s mind was racing. The story of the material. A bond. Pouring your own story into it. His system didn’t talk about stories. It talked about stats. Endurance, Strength, Dexterity. It gave points for repetitive tasks. But what was his story? Survival in the wild. Mastering the katana to protect the colony. The strange, prickling power of Silk’s boots. The uncontrollable pull he felt toward weapons, like with Silk’s daggers and with Winter’s sickles.
Was that his spirit? Not magic, but... connection? Control over the physical?
Borus’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Scowly! You’re polishing a hole into that blade! If you hate the work so much, you can leave and take double detention tomorrow!"
Gary stopped, his shoulders slumping. He took a slow breath, then resumed polishing, his movements careful and controlled. But Eric saw the rage still simmering in the tight line of his mouth.
Borus watched him for a moment, then chuckled, a low, knowing sound. He nodded toward the pot of molten metal. "Careful, boy. That anger is hotter than this crucible. And just as likely to burn you."
Gary didn’t reply. He just kept polishing, the reflection of the furnace flames dancing in the steel he was cleaning.
The hours dragged on. Eric’s arms ached from sorting heavy metal. His head throbbed from the heat and noise. But his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. Borus’s words had connected broken pieces in his head.
One question echoed so loud in his mind. ’Why am I able to control other people’s soul weapons? Also, why didn’t the system ever mention that I have such an ability?’
’Was it just a natural part of being fused with the system? The same way I heal fast naturally. None of those were listed in my Ability or Skill screen.’
As the sun began to set, painting the steam in the shed orange and purple, Borus finally grunted, "Enough. Get out. You," he pointed at Eric. "You come back tomorrow. Your touch is decent. The rest of you, your detention is done."
Silver and Bart looked relieved. Gary put down his polishing cloth and walked out without a word, not looking back.
Eric lingered for a second, looking at the strange materials box, then at Borus’s broad back as the smith banked the furnace fire. "Master Borus," he said quietly. "How... how do you know if a material ’speaks’ to you?"
Borus didn’t turn around. "You just know, kid. It calls. Like a whisper in your bones. Or," he finally glanced over his shoulder, his flinty eyes catching the last of the light, "it fights you. And you know you have to master it." He turned back to the fire. "Now get out. I’m tired of talking."
Eric left the hot, darkening shed for the cool evening air. The clang of the hammer was silent, but its echo was now inside his head, mixing with the silent chime of his system. For the first time, he had a direction. Strength wasn’t just a number. It was a story waiting to be forged. And he needed to find his first Chapter.