The flames roared in Eirik Valen's forge, casting long shadows that danced on the stone walls. His hammer struck the red-hot metal with a rhythm that was both methodical and relentless. The clanging echoed through his small workshop, the sounds of his craft a familiar comfort in the chaos that now consumed the kingdom of Ormath. Outside, the city burned.

His once-thriving town, famous for its craftsmanship and trade, had become a war zone in mere days. The rebellion—brewing for months—had finally exploded into open violence. Kings, nobles, soldiers, and rebels alike were locked in a battle for control. But Eirik was no soldier. He was a blacksmith, nothing more.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a soot-covered arm and surveyed the sword taking shape beneath his hammer. A fine blade. His best work in years. Not that it mattered now. The kingdom had fallen, and with it, the value of his craft.

A loud crash interrupted his thoughts as the door to the forge swung open. A group of soldiers, their armor dented and their swords bloodied, burst into the room. The man at the front—a tall figure with a scar running down the side of his face—shoved his way toward Eirik.

"Valen!" the man barked. "You will craft for us."

Eirik set his hammer down slowly, his eyes narrowing. "I'm no war-monger, Harker. I craft for the people, not for slaughter."

Harker sneered. "The people are dead. You're a smith, not a philosopher. You'll make us weapons, or you'll join them in the grave."

Eirik's jaw tightened. He'd heard rumors of this. The rebels were forcing blacksmiths into their service, stripping them of their tools and their dignity. He glanced at the sword on his anvil, its surface still glowing faintly from the heat.

"I'll die before I forge weapons for murderers," Eirik said, his voice low but steady.

"So be it."

Harker drew his blade, quick as a flash, and before Eirik could react, the point of the sword plunged into his chest. A searing pain shot through his body, and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor, gasping for breath, his vision already starting to blur. The world around him seemed to slow, the roar of the forge fading as the darkness crept in.

This is how it ends, Eirik thought. His fingers twitched toward the hammer beside him. It was a tool that had brought him pride, a tool that had built him a life. But now it was useless. As the last of his strength left him, he closed his eyes.

For a moment, there was nothing but darkness. No pain, no noise, no light. Just an endless void.

Then, a voice—a distant whisper, like the crackling of embers—cut through the blackness.

"Would you like a second chance?"

Eirik's eyes snapped open, though he couldn't tell if he was still alive. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel his body. Yet, he was aware of the voice. It spoke again, closer now.

"You failed in your world, Eirik Valen. But another awaits you."

Confusion gripped him, but before he could question it, the voice continued.

"In this new world, you will not fight. You will create. But know this, blacksmith—creation is its own kind of power."

Suddenly, a blinding light flooded his vision. Eirik tried to shield his eyes, but realized he had no hands, no body. He was floating in a sea of energy, weightless and powerless.

The light intensified until it was unbearable, and then, as quickly as it had come, everything faded once more.