Chapter 16: Forging Forward

*Date: 33,480 First Quarter - Iron Confederacy*

Cold water splashed across Demir's face, dragging him out of restless dreams. His shoulders still ached from yesterday's trial, but his eyes snapped open when Brovick Ironspine's gravelly voice thundered:

"Wake up, my idiot apprentice and his sidekicks!"

Demir sat up from the workshop floor, stiff and sore, but with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He was inside. He belonged. Timmy and Sin were already awake, sitting cross-legged and whispering plans to each other. Marco groaned, still curled under a ragged cloth.

"Do we really have to wake up too?" Marco muttered.

Brovick answered by dumping the rest of the bucket over Marco's head.

"Aye, ye do. First task. Make yerselves a shed. Ye can't be clutterin' up my forge. Beds too. There's axes leanin' by the wall. We felled a few trees last season. Chop, drag, cut. Figure it out. We don't keep builders here dwarves forge steel, not homes."

The twins exchanged glances, then jogged off with the axes, determination clear in their movements. Marco followed, dripping and shivering, mumbling curses under his breath.

Brovick turned to Demir, grinning. "And ye... ye're with me. First lesson in armorsmithing. Come here, boy. Watch close."

The forge roared as Brovick stoked it, his every motion confident and deliberate. He placed a sheet of iron on the anvil. "Armor ain't like swords. Ye don't need a razor edge. Ye need curve, strength, flex. Protection. Each strike shapes not just the metal but the man who'll wear it."

His hammer fell with a rhythm that sent sparks dancing.

[Bzzzt!]

Demir blinked. For a split second, the edges of his vision flickered, almost like a ghostly menu trying to open. He felt... something familiar. The same shiver he had felt while mining months ago, or hunting last year. The sensation of performing a "skill" in a game. Except here, there was no interface, no status window. It lurked unseen, hidden beneath the world itself.

Demir steadied himself.

Brovick's hammer rang again. "Grip the haft firm. Don't smack straight down like ye're crushin' bugs. Roll yer wrist, guide the curve. Armor wants to bend, not break."

When Demir took the hammer, his palms screamed in protest. Still, he struck. The iron shuddered, the shape crude but recognizable. Brovick chuckled. "Hah! Ugly. But not hopeless. We'll sand the boy's rough edges yet."

Other dwarves wandered by, tankards in hand, commenting and laughing as they were drunk. "Look at the human trying to be a dwarf!" one called out. "Bet he breaks the anvil before he makes anything useful!"

Brovick snapped at them. "Shut yer gobs, ye drunken fools! The boy's got more fire in his little finger than ye've got in yer whole bellies!"

Outside, Timmy and Sin worked the axes with surprising vigor, felling logs into smaller lengths. Marco lagged behind, struggling to drag wood across the slope. The twins rolled their eyes but helped him, humming a tune to keep pace.

By the end of the first day, they had a rough frame staked into the ground. Nothing more than a skeleton of logs lashed with rope, but it stood. They collapsed nearby, hands blistered but proud.

The second day brought walls uneven, crooked, but solid. Timmy and Sin teased Marco for hammering his thumb more than the nails. By the third day, they had fashioned four crude beds inside, hay for stuffing and bark for support. It was no dwarf-stone hall, but it was theirs.

Meanwhile, Demir spent every waking hour beside Brovick's anvil. He learned to heat the plates until they glowed the right shade of red, to listen for the music in the strike. His first attempts at greaves were clumsy edges sharp, curves uneven but Brovick only snorted and told him to "hit it again."

Demir's body hurt in ways he hadn't thought possible. His shoulder throbbed. His hands bled through fresh rags. Yet every twenty-fifth swing, his hand filled with power almost. Something he felt with lucky shots to take down hunts, or striking metal in mining. A whisper, almost, that the world itself was keeping score.

"Is the game giving rewards for grinding?" he thought. It was a pattern it took him four years to realize he cursed himself.

On the evening of the third day, Brovick slapped a dented breastplate on the table. "There. A child's toy, aye. But it's armor. Ye've learned the base. Tomorrow, ye'll make it again and better. That's the way of smithing. Repetition. Endeavor. Till the steel bends the way ye want it to."

"Endeavor..." Demir remembered it being one of the stats of crafting.

Demir stared at the crude piece, sweat dripping from his brow. His hands trembled, but pride filled his chest. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was building something.

Demir called Marco. "Hey Marco, can you look at that piece I made with the glasses?"

"Demir, please. It's been three days. There is no way you can create anything other than F grade." But Marco was intrigued. He pulled out his glasses.

"I realized something different. Every twenty-fifth swing was filled with power to hammer. So I kept those swings for this piece."

Marco was amazed looking at the piece.

"Oh my Lord! How?"

"What is it?"

"It is still F grade, but you hammered a stat point. Take a look." Demir took the retro glasses that could look at the fabric of this world.

Demir was looking at the chest piece:

[Chest Piece F grade]

[Durability 100/100] repairable

Rune slot: none

5% physical damage reduction (Tier 10)

+1 to Vitality (Tier 10)

Demir couldn't believe it himself - even his mythic armor from the shop didn't have stat bonuses.

Outside, laughter rose from the shed as Timmy, Sin, and Marco argued over whose bed was sturdier. For the first time since the outpost fell, Demir felt a fragile warmth of hope.

He flexed his bandaged hands and whispered to himself:

"One step closer."

But as he looked at the crude armor piece that somehow held magic within its imperfect form, Demir couldn't help but wonder: if he could create something this powerful after only three days, what could he forge given months? Years?

And would it be enough to face the army of goblins that held his friends?