’What exactly is going on?’ Democles thought, almost pulling his hair out.
He would’ve done so if he wasn’t busy at the forge with others around. Anything could attract unwanted attention, and a moment of distraction, could ruin his work.
’Everything points to one truth. At first, I thought I couldn’t sense any dynamis from him because he was at level one or two at best, and talented enough to conceal his aura.’
His hammer struck the metal sheet with the fluid rhythm of a seasoned forger.
None of them knew why they had to produce these unenchanted weapons every day. Enchanted weapons required runic markings and monster materials—those were far superior for channeling the skills bound to the runes. So why waste time on plain steel?
’But to think... he’s completely unawakened? How do you kill someone and still remain unawakened? Unless he rejected absorbing Nestor’s Essence... but why would anyone do that if they couldn’t awaken naturally at nine?’
He hit mental wall after wall, and every attempt at logic only looped him back into frustration.
His face darkened as he glanced at the metal taking shape on his anvil—one side had dented badly from a miscalculated blow.
Another uneven hammer strike echoed through the forge, followed by a loud sigh that actually pierced the rhythmic pounding of the other workers.
"Ahh, it seems I couldn’t get it again today," Kallen mused aloud, voice light with disappointment. "I thought today would be the day I finally produced my first weapon... but it seems someone else failed too. That’s odd."
As his words sank in, a subtle realization spread among the others—two uneven hammer blows. Subconsciously, they’d all assumed it was Kallen failing again. But now, being reminded of a second failure, they turned their heads, curious.
Democles stiffened as he felt their eyes land on him.
Expressions of surprise crossed the other orcs’ faces. It didn’t make sense. If anyone were to fail, it shouldn’t have been Democles. Along with Castor and the late Nestor, he was considered one of the best.
"Ah! It’s you..." Kallen exclaimed, glancing at the hot metal lying crooked on Democles’ anvil.
His expression softened with disappointment. "And I thought I might finally get a chance to appraise a weapon made by your hands. Maybe it would’ve been the inspiration I needed."
He shook his head slowly, almost sympathetically.
Democles’ face twisted in anger. How could he not understand what Kallen had just done?
With a single statement, Kallen had exposed a brutal truth: Kallen had never appraised a weapon forged by Democles, Castor, or any of the older teens in the forge. And more than that, he had failed.
There was no room for argument. Kallen had struck the nail on the head. The so-called prodigy, one of the best, had failed, while those whom he had appraised the weapons forged by their hands, had never failed once.
Of course, that didn’t mean anyone believed they were better than Democles. But in that moment, it made him look like a joke. And perhaps for a fleeting second, some of them might even question whether he truly stood on equal ground with Castor.
And speaking of Castor...
Democles turned to his left and found the young orc staring at him with a blank, unreadable expression.
Democles gritted his teeth in frustration. He had been cornered... undone by a single sentence. Retorting would only worsen it. Kallen had already admitted his inferiority, and anything Democles said now would sound like he was acknowledging the human as his equal.
Teeth clenched in humiliation, he stood up and walked away without a word.
Kallen smiled inwardly. He hadn’t expected Democles to fail. In fact, he hadn’t even considered the possibility. But thinking of it now, if even he could make reckless decisions when his emotions were haywire, then it was only natural for Democles to slip up too—especially given his current unstable state of mind.
"Things just took a giant leap forward," he thought to himself.
One might wonder how a child who had never forged a single proper weapon in his life, who hadn’t even picked up a hammer, before the past two weeks, would be the one appraising the work of intermediate to veteran blacksmiths?
And even more baffling was... why did they believe him?
Kallen lifted the irregular metal from Democles’ anvil, and dipped it into an oil bath to cool.
Despite its imperfection, he held it like a connoisseur, like a seasoned warlord who had judged thousands of weapons on countless bloodied fields. He didn’t even care to temper the metal.
Then, he began to move.
The orcs watched in silence. Kallen swung the metal with understanding of its essence. Every arc of his swing, every calculated shift in stance, whispered of deep-rooted knowledge.
And their blood boiled in response.
They were orcs; Ares’ children of war. Battle wasn’t just a culture... it was their identity. Among all the races on Ares, they held the fiercest military pride, the most battle-hardened traditions.
But here, in this forge, they were trapped—confined. Day after day of shaping steel with no certainty that their craft would ever taste blood.
Most of them had never seen real battle. Only occasionally did Menelaus take one of them out for a field expedition to kill and to level up. And even then, they wielded enchanted weapons or minthrotech gadgets, as was the norm.
But since they couldn’t fight, what they truly longed for, was to see their work, their sweat and effort, brought to life in the hands of someone who understood the weapon.
And that was what Kallen offered. Even an irregularly shaped metal, became like a sword of judgement.
Granted that he had always failed in forging, he turned their weapons into art through motion. With every swing, he brought out the soul of the steel—its intent. His movements honored the craft, exposing both its brilliance and its flaws.
He couldn’t forge steel... At least not yet
But he forged their validation.