James stood alone in the open forge, hammer in hand, sweat clinging to his shirt like a second skin. His eyes were locked on the warped blade in front of him.

The first of many failures.

He'd aimed for a simple one-handed longsword. Instead, he got a crooked piece of steel better suited for decoration—or humiliation.

The blade curved awkwardly near the tip. The edge was uneven. It hadn't even cooled properly before he realized it was useless.

He stared at it a second longer before sighing and tossing it into the scrap pile beside the anvil.

Starting over.

The forge wasn't much yet—just a roof, some stone walls, and equipment Jared had lent him to get started. His proper workshop was still being built near the armory, but Jared didn't want to waste time. Ten swords, Jared said. Standard, usable, clean.

That was the job.

James figured it would be simple. Turns out, nothing was simple here.

His second attempt was better. The shaping was smooth, the spine of the blade straight. He let himself feel a small rush of satisfaction.

Then the hilt came loose during wrapping.

He tried to tighten it—snapped the leather binding.

He almost screamed.

Hours passed.

The third sword cracked while quenching.

The fourth was too light in the grip—unbalanced.

The fifth looked fine, until he tested the swing. Too front-heavy. Might break a wrist if used for more than five minutes.

He kicked over a bucket.

It clanged and rolled, splashing water onto his boots.

He sat down and stared at the half-finished weapon in his lap.

This wasn't the dream. He was supposed to come here, impress them, and prove Ravana had wasted him.

Instead, he was building a monument to mediocrity.

He didn't hear Jared approach.

"You're working late," Jared said from behind him.

James looked up, tired. "It's not working."

Jared didn't respond immediately. He stepped past James and inspected the scattered attempts on the bench. His hand hovered over one blade, then another, before picking up the third.

"Balance is off."

"I know."

"This one too."

"Yeah."

He dropped it back on the bench with a quiet thud. "You told me you were good."

James didn't answer.

Jared crossed his arms. "This isn't Ravana. Nobody here is going to pity you into a paycheck. You get results, or you get out."

That one landed.

James clenched his jaw but nodded.

Jared turned to leave but paused. "You're not here to impress me. You're here because I believed your work could speak for itself. So far, it hasn't said a damn thing."

The sound of his boots faded into the night.

James stared at the dying fire for a long while.

No words.

Just failure.

The next morning, he got up before dawn.

No breakfast. No water.

He ignited the forge himself and began again.

Slower this time.

He tested the steel before shaping it. Checked his angles. Measured the length. Studied the temperature.

Every movement was precise. Every breath controlled.

He wasn't forging anymore.

He was correcting.

By the end of the day, he had three usable blades. They weren't masterpieces, but they were solid, balanced, reliable.

He wrapped them in cloth and took them straight to Jared.

Jared stood near the barracks, watching two soldiers spar. He took one look at James and gestured silently for him to show the weapons.

James unwrapped the blades. Jared inspected the first one carefully, then handed it to a nearby soldier.

"Test it."

The warrior obeyed, performing a few basic movements. The blade responded cleanly. He slashed through a reinforced dummy with little effort.

"It's sturdy. Not too heavy either," the soldier noted, handing it back with a respectful nod.

Another soldier tried the second blade. "Feels good. Better grip than what we had before."

Jared didn't say much. Just a nod.

"You're getting there," he finally muttered.

James let out a quiet breath. Not a celebration—just relief.

Later that evening, he was back in the forge, analyzing the same blades, tweaking the grips.

That's when one of the soldiers came by.

"Hey," the man called out. "That sword earlier—the balance was clean. Didn't jar the elbow once."

James turned. "You're the guy with the red sash, right?"

"Right. I was in Ravana once too. Most smiths there? Show-offs. You're different."

The man tossed him a wrapped loaf of bread and left without waiting for thanks.

James stared at it in silence.

A weird warmth settled in his chest.

The next day, he had five blades finished. By the sixth, he was focused enough to stop checking the fire every five seconds. He knew the heat now. Knew the rhythm.

By evening, he was rotating between two anvils just to keep momentum.

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were close.

"Still awake?"

Kiara.

James glanced up, wiping ash from his hands. "Trying to make up for a bad first impression."

Kiara stepped into the light, arms folded. She glanced at the completed blades stacked neatly nearby.

"These are good," she said, picking one up. She tested the weight with a few practiced swings. "Better than Ravana's work, i assume."

"That's the goal," he muttered.

" Lord Jared will notice."

James snorted. "He doesn't say much."

"He doesn't need to. He showed me your build plans."

"My what?"

She tapped the pommel of the sword. "The forge he's building you. Private storage. Access to enchanted ore. That's more than any blacksmith gets. You think he's doing that because he's bored?"

James paused. "…I didn't know about the materials."

"Well, now you do."

He went quiet, then finally looked up. "Can I ask something?"

She waited.

"Do you think I actually belong here? Like… not just working for the moeny. Here."

Kiara leaned back against the table. "That depends."

"On what?"

"Are you afraid of the work? Or afraid of being good at something that finally matters?"

He flinched slightly.

She hit the mark.

He'd been working all his life, but never like this. Never with pressure. Never with expectations.

Ravana had coddled him. Sikone sharpened him.

And maybe that scared him more than failure ever did.

"I think I'm just afraid of screwing up."

"Everyone is," she said. "But you're still here."

James watched the forge flames flicker. "I think I get why Jared runs things the way he does."

Kiara nodded. "He doesn't coddle anyone. Doesn't give people a chance to slack. But if you meet him halfway, he gives back tenfold. That's probably why everyone here respects him."

"Feels like a gamble."

"It is. But a gamble that pays off if you survive it."

James chuckled. "You ever think of being motivational for a living?"

"I prefer hitting people, hehe~. Don''t tell Lord Jared I said that though.."

"Figured."

She smiled—just a little.

He leaned forward. "You're really pretty, you know that?"

Kiara didn't flinch. "I do."

Then she walked off, calm as always.

James stared after her for a while, then looked back at the blades.

He picked up the seventh.

The weight felt perfect.

…

The scent of fresh stone and cooling iron filled the air as James stepped through the doors of his newly completed forge.

It was more than he expected.

The walls were lined with enchanted insulation panels. Racks of ores and alloys filled one side, organized by material grade. On the far end sat a reinforced workbench with rune markings etched into the metal top—a gift from Jared, apparently imported through Ravana's black market.

There was a private room in the back for resting. A shelf of scrolls, ink, and even a small library nook. It didn't feel like a workspace.

It felt like a reward.

He walked around the room in silence for a while. Then he lit the forge and got to work like he always did.

By the time Lucy arrived with a delivery scroll, he had already finished three short blades and was halfway through a double-edged glaive.

"You don't waste time," she said, handing him the scroll.

He didn't look up. "This place… it's perfect. I don't want to waste any of it."

Lucy glanced around. She was impressed too.

The scroll detailed a weapons demonstration Jared had planned for that afternoon. Dozens of soldiers would be testing the new batch James completed. Real sparring—live steel against steel. If anything failed under pressure, Jared would know immediately.

James barely blinked at the news. "Tell him I'll be ready."

Afternoon.

The training ground had been cleared of bystanders. Jared stood at the center, flanked by Kiara and three of the senior guards. Warriors were lined in two columns, each holding one of the new weapons crafted over the past week.

James stood a few steps behind Jared, arms crossed, forge apron still hanging from his belt.

"This your work?" one of the guards asked, inspecting the double-bladed spear.

James gave a nod.

The man tested its swing and twirl, then squared up with a sparring partner. Jared signaled.

Steel met steel. Sparks flew.

Blade after blade was tested in drills. The air rang with clean strikes and precise footwork.

Not a single weapon cracked.

Not a grip slipped.

One of the officers took a crossbow James had quietly put together and fired a bolt into a target. The string sang with smooth tension. The bolt embedded deep.

"Impressive," Kiara said under her breath.

Jared didn't comment. He turned to James. "They'll keep training with them all week. If nothing fails, I'll authorize mass production."

James kept his expression flat, but his fingers relaxed a little. "Understood."

Jared added, "You've earned your place."

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