The forge lit just before sunrise.
It wasn't dramatic—no roar of flame or burst of fire—but a slow, steady glow that filled the half-enclosed chamber with a dull red light. The heat felt different this time. Not wild, not volcanic. Controlled. Riku stepped inside with ash still clinging to his boots and watched the Fireborn work like they'd done it their whole lives.
Tharn had taken lead without being asked. He stood at the central anvil, directing two younger Draganoids to feed crushed ore into the side slots of the fuelbed. Kael manned the bellows. Sira sharpened blade blanks with curved stones dipped in oil.
It had taken them six full days to reach this point—clearing the debris, resetting the vent lines, aligning the smelter stones. And it showed. The forge had a shape now. A purpose.
Riku stepped closer, passing a rack where six identical shortblades hung in neat alignment. Bronze-tier, Kael had called them—crude but better than raw iron, cast from mixed alloy scrounged from deep cracks in the crater wall.
"You approve?" Tharn asked, half-smirking as he pressed another blade to the anvil.
"It'll do," Riku said, and meant it.
He moved toward the back bench where his own tools lay. The pickaxe—his original, cracked and worn—rested against a stone block, untouched since the wall build. The grip was fraying. The head had dulled. But the haft still felt balanced in his hand.
Time to test a theory.
He brought it forward and laid it across the forge slab. Kael raised an eyebrow.
"You reforging that?"
Riku nodded. "I want the balance fixed. And the edge cleaner."
"We've got better iron now."
"I know," Riku said.
He slid the blade into the heating chamber, adjusted the slot, and waited. Flames danced inside, turning the metal from black to deep orange. He didn't look away. Not even when the handle began to smolder slightly.
Once the glow reached the haft line, he pulled it out and set it onto the anvil.
"Ready," he said.
Kael offered him a hammer. He didn't take it.
He picked up the one he'd used first. The heavy, unbalanced thing with the chipped side and heat-bloated grip. It was his.
The ringing began—slow, methodical strikes. He didn't try to shape it like a craftsman. He just hit it until it stopped looking tired. Until the vibrations traveled properly through the shaft and no longer made his wrist ache.
It took longer than it should have.
But when it was done, it didn't look like the same tool.
It felt lighter. The grain of the shaft had reset. The head was cleaner—not sharp, not flashy, just clean. Clean in the way a new breath feels.
He turned it in his hand.
And the message came.
[Tool Folded – Pickaxe | Original Quality: Worn Iron | Multiplier: x2.8 | Final: Reinforced Alloy Pickaxe (Balanced, Durable)]
He didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
Kael didn't see anything unusual. He just nodded at the finished result.
"Looks better."
Riku nodded and placed it beside the wall, away from the others.
He'd log it later. For now, the blade blanks needed organizing.
The day stretched long.
Sira scouted the ridgeline for new tracks and spotted distant ashstorms—no movement, no signals. The red glow to the south still blinked at intervals, which meant whoever was there hadn't moved. Or had, and wanted to be seen.
The Draganoids rotated in shifts at the forge. By nightfall, they had ten functional shortblades, three spearpoints, and a handful of crude throwing spikes.
No one celebrated. Not yet.
But Riku watched the way they held the weapons. The way they turned them in their hands, examining the edges, checking the weight.
They weren't mercenaries.
They weren't villagers.
They were warriors who had been waiting for purpose.
That night, Tharn approached while Riku was reviewing the supply scroll by torchlight.
"You could've let someone else reforge that tool."
"I had to do it myself," Riku said, not looking up.
"Why?"
"Because it only listens to me."
Tharn frowned. "The tool?"
Riku met his eyes for a second. Long enough. Then went back to the scroll.
Tharn didn't press.
Just turned and walked away.
Riku flipped to the back of the scroll, where he kept his personal record—fold tracking, names, strange patterns.
He added a new entry.
#6 – Pickaxe | Quality Fold x2.8 | Upgraded to Reinforced Alloy (Balanced, Durable)
Self-reforged; responded to direct ownership and use
Then he sat back and watched the forge from afar, its steady light flickering against the stone.
It was the first time this place had felt alive. Not just inhabited. Alive.
The forge didn't just work.
It breathed.