Chapter 5 – Foundations of Fire
Flint's laughter boomed through the forge, shaking the air like thunder. His broad shoulders trembled, and his eyes crinkled with amusement as he looked down at Ryden. The sound was infectious, a deep, rumbling cadence that seemed to vibrate in the boy's bones.
"Hah! That's the spirit, boy!" Flint clapped a massive hand on Ryden's shoulder, nearly knocking him off the stool. "You've got a fire in your eyes now—I like it! None of that whining about 'adventures' or running off to chase sea tales. Blacksmithing's a man's craft. Requires grit, sweat, and a spine tougher than steel!"
Ryden steadied himself, offering a small but determined smile. The force of Flint's enthusiasm was overwhelming, but it stirred something in him—a flicker of the relentless drive he'd carried from his past life.
"Thank you, Uncle Flint," he said, voice steady. "I won't waste this opportunity."
Flint's grin widened. "Opportunity? Hah! You'll be cursing my name by sunrise tomorrow when your legs turn to jelly! But mark my words—you'll thank me when you're swinging a hammer like it's feather." He straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Meet me at the eastern field at dawn. And don't you dare be late, or I'll drag you there by your ear!"
Dante, who had been quietly reheating a strip of steel in the forge's heart, glanced over. His expression was unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitched—a ghost of approval. The rhythmic *clang* of his hammer resumed, each strike precise, deliberate. The orange glow of the coals painted his face in stark contrasts, shadows dancing across his stern features.
"Listen to him, Ryden," Dante said without looking up. "Flint may be loud, but he knows strength. A blacksmith's body is his first tool. Let it rust, and nothing you forge will hold an edge."
Ryden nodded, filing away the advice. His father's words were sparse, but each carried weight. In his past life, he'd mastered skills through intellect alone. Here, it was different. Here, muscle and endurance mattered as much as knowledge.
Flint lingered a moment longer, exchanging a few gruff jabs with Dante about the delayed sword, before lumbering out of the forge. The door creaked shut behind him, leaving the shop bathed in the quiet crackle of flames and the steady clang-clang-clang of Dante's work.
Three hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky in hues of violet and amber. Ryden's stomach growled—a loud, guttural sound that echoed in the sudden lull between hammer strikes.
Dante paused mid-swing, the hammer hovering above the anvil. He turned, his sharp eyes narrowing at Ryden. The boy froze, cheeks flushing.
"Go," Dante said, nodding toward the door. "Eat. Your mother will be waiting."
"But your work—"
"The steel needs to cool. I'll reheat it later. Go."
Ryden hesitated, then stood. His legs ached from hours of sitting, and his throat was parched. He turned toward the door but stopped, his gaze snagging on the walls of the shop.
The forge wasn't just a workspace—it was an archive of craftsmanship. Tools and half-finished projects lined the walls: tongs of varying sizes, chisels with handles worn smooth by decades of use, and rows of hammers hung like soldiers ready for battle. But it was the weapons that caught Ryden's eye.
A katana rested on a wooden rack, its blade unpolished but straight as a sunbeam. Beside it hung a sickle, its edge gleaming with a recent sharpen. Farming tools—hoes, scythes, axes—occupied another corner, their practicality contrasting with the lethal elegance of the swords and daggers.
[Auto-Appraisal Activated.]
A translucent blue panel flickered before Ryden's eyes:
[Item: Rustic Katana
Grade: Common
Quality:Average
Status: Unfinished (Tempering Incomplete)
Potential: Low.
Creator:*Dante Vulcan]
Ryden's fingers hovered over the blade. The system's analysis was clinical, but he could sense the care in its creation—the even folds in the metal, the balance of the tang.
"Admiring the failures?" Dante's voice cut through his thoughts.
Ryden jerked his hand back. "Failures?"
Dante set down his hammer and walked over, wiping soot from his hands. "Every blade on that wall is a lesson. That katana—" he pointed, "—was my first attempt at a curved blade. The tang is too thick. The balance is off by three fingers' width. It'll never sing in battle."
"But it's… beautiful," Ryden murmured.
"Beauty doesn't cut down enemies," Dante said flatly. "Function does. Remember that."
Ryden nodded, committing the words to memory. Function over form. A principle that applied as much to blacksmithing as it had to his tech designs in his past life.
The night air was cool, a relief after the forge's stifling heat. Vulcan Island's streets were quiet, lit by lanterns dangling from wooden eaves. The scent of pine and saltwater mingled, carried inland by a gentle breeze.
Ryden followed the cobblestone path toward the village outskirts, his mind replaying the day's events. Flint's offer, Dante's tacit approval, the system's steady notifications—each piece slotting into place.
As he walked, he activated his status panel:
[Host Status Panel]
Name: Ryden Vulcan
Crafting Progress: 2%
Skills:
- Basic Forging (Lv. 1)
- Auto-Appraisal (Lv. 3)
The numbers were meager, but progress nonetheless. His eyes lingered on the **Point Mall** option, its grayed-out icon teasing him. *10,000 points to unlock Haki…* A distant goal, but not impossible.
The Vulcan family home came into view—a modest wooden house with a sloped roof and a chimney puffing thin smoke. Golden light spilled from the windows, painting the garden in warm streaks.
Ryden stepped inside, greeted by the aroma of simmering stew. Elena stood at the hearth, her auburn hair tied in a loose bun. She turned, her green eyes softening.
"There you are," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I was about to send a search party."
"Sorry, Mother. I lost track of time."
Elena waved off the apology, ushering him to the table. A loaf of crusty bread and a bowl of hearty vegetable stew waited. "Your father's still at the forge?"
"Yes. He said he'd stay late."
She sighed, but there was no resentment in it. "Always married to his work, that man. Eat, before it cools."
Ryden obeyed, the first spoonful of stew warming him to his core. Elena sat across from him, her gaze thoughtful.
"Flint came by earlier," she said casually. "Said he's training you starting tomorrow."
Ryden nearly choked. "He… told you?"
"He tells everyone everything," Elena laughed. "Burst in here bragging about 'shaping the boy into a proper man.' I assume you agreed?"
"I did. I need to get stronger."
Elena studied him, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she reached across the table, her calloused hand covering his. "Just remember, Ryden—strength isn't just muscles. It's here." She tapped his chest. "And here." Her finger brushed his temple.
He nodded, throat tight. The gesture reminded him of his own mother from his past life—a woman who'd died too young, her face now blurred by time.
Later, in his cramped bedroom, Ryden lay awake. Moonlight filtered through the shutters, casting silver stripes on the floor.
[Ding! New Objective Available.]
He sat up, heart racing. The system's panel glowed faintly:
[Objective: Complete 1 Hour of Physical Training
Reward:+500 System Points, +1% Crafting Progress ]
A soft smile tugged at his lips. The system was aligning with his goals.
Somewhere in the distance, the sea crashed against Vulcan Island's cliffs. Ryden closed his eyes, imagining the clang of hammers, the roar of furnaces, and the whisper of blades yet to be born.
Tomorrow, the grind would begin.
But tonight, he dreamed of steel.