The forge's pulse had steadied by morning, casting layered shadows across Blackridge's silent courtyards. AshEdge Sovereigns—rank fifteen. The global message had whispered it across the horizon that dawn. No commentary, no fanfare. Just numbers.
Riku stood on the forge rampart when the message ended. Kael approached without a word. He offered a single nod.
"Keep it quiet," Riku said. "Let them guess where we are."
The camp settled into rhythm. Walls repaired, traps recalibrated, scouts rotated. No celebration followed the ranking—just the sharpening of tools and the quiet hum of readiness.
Midday brought the first outside approach.
A solitary envoy, clad in soot-grey forge leathers, appeared beyond the western trench, walking slowly with a folded banner of ceasefire. Her face was veiled, her steps unhurried. No guards, no beasts—just her and the heat shimmer of the volcanic plain.
Kael met her first, glaive sheathed but hand ready. Riku joined a moment later.
She spoke without preamble.
"Rivalries cost more than the Blood Moon grants. My forge proposes neutral ground. Trade designs, avoid needless loss."
She unrolled a scroll in the open air—intricate forge schematics: resonance nodes, reinforced vent-pipes, and flow stabilizers far beyond their current build. Even at a glance, Riku saw possibilities—dangerous, unfinished, but efficient.
Publicly, he refused.
"We stand alone."
The envoy paused, then rolled the parchment back up with the calm of one expecting refusal. "Then we'll meet again in smoke."
She turned and walked away across the basin, steps vanishing into the midday haze.
That night, alone beneath the forge lights, Riku traced every line he could recall from the envoy's design onto his workshop slate. His pulse quiet, his mind sharp.
By the second dawn, the system whispered to him alone.
[Craft Blueprint Validated: Glaive Frame Reinforcement | Quantity +2]
On the workbench, where there had been a single prototype glaive in testing, there were now three.
He stared, still for a long time. He hadn't crafted them again. They had simply… become.
He ran his hand over the hilts. Each balanced, weight perfect, the resonance core humming faintly in sync with the forge's pulse.
Kael arrived during morning drills. "Are those…?"
"Test them this afternoon. Full sparring drills. Don't ask."
Kael didn't press. He knew better.
While drills ran along the eastern trench, a distant tremor shook the far ridge. Smoke columns rose—scouts spotted hostile movements, likely another monarch's raiding units probing through the volcanic plain.
But they did not approach the camp directly.
Instead, AshEdge's early warning traps—thermal-triggered glass shards and redirecting flame conduits—lit the night from afar. Fire geysers burst in measured intervals, and the raiders, sensing organized resistance, turned back without a fight.
No alerts in the global system. No combat broadcasts. Just quiet victories.
Riku adjusted the glaive schematics again that night, combining his recalled forge-tech notes with his own designs. No system prompt followed—just the quiet sense that the weapon was enough for now.
He stood atop the forge rampart by moonrise, watching ash drift in slow spirals over the fields.
Blackridge remained hidden. No rival had found them. No alliances revealed locations.
But they had gained ground in the shadows.
And in three days, they had gone from weapons of theory to weapons of practice.
Beneath the Blood Moon's silent ascent, AshEdge's pulse beat on—unseen, waiting, ready.