Once Dungeon Boss, N Chapter 53: Doran, The Warriorsmith

Orin's Perspective

When King Arthur ordered that we each have to train one of the Rising Heroes, I thought, "Well, why not?" I've lived through more battles than I can count, swung all kinds of weapons, and seen young adventurers grow and fall. When we t in the dungeon and he introduced himself… and that he called himself the Warriorsmith... well, I'll admit, I laughed.

Not out of mockery, mind you. It was just funny, hearing a youngster give himself such a grand title. Warriorsmith. Like so kind of living forge that fights with fists and fire. But the mont I saw him fight , I saw he ant it. The na wasn't just for show. He carried himself with pride, confidence, and the thick arms of soone who's worked with tal for years. And there was a fire in his eyes. That part… I respected.

I took him to Gravenmire, a town with old roots and strong stone. Not fancy like the capital, but honest. It's where real work gets done. We settled near the edge of the town where the forge roared like a beast day and night. The perfect place for Doran to start his path.

My first lesson was simple. "Make a spear," I told him.

He raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"That's it."

He grinned and got to work. I could see from the start he was skilled. The way he held the tools, the way he heated the tal, shaped it, cooled it—it all showed years of learning. In a few hours, he handed

the finished spear, chest puffed with pride.

I looked at it, nodded… and handed it back. "Try again."

He looked confused but didn't question it. He made another. Then another. And another. Each ti, I said the sa thing: "Try again."

By the tenth spear, he was frustrated. His grip on the hamr grew tighter. Sweat poured from his brow. He kept checking my face for a hint of approval but found none. Finally, after rejecting what might've been the fifteenth spear, he snapped.

"What kind of spear do you really want, old man?! Or are you just wasting my ti?"

I didn't get angry. I've seen enough tempers in my day. Instead, I wiped my hands, took him outside, and we sat on a wooden bench under a tree. I pointed to a bird fluttering up into the branches, carrying twigs in its beak.

"Watch that bird," I said. He gave

a puzzled look. "What about it?"

"Just watch."

And so we did. Day after day, morning and evening, I dragged him out there to sit with . That bird kept coming back, building its nest one twig at a ti. Sotis it would toss a twig away, sotis it would place one carefully, turning it just right.

Doran didn't say much the first few days, but I could feel the tension growing in him. Then, one morning, the nest was done. The bird had laid eggs inside.

Doran stared at it for a mont. Then threw his hands up. "Now what?! Even the bird's laid the eggs! You want

to sit here until they hatch? Feed the chicks too?!"

I couldn't help but laugh. Then I looked him in the eye and asked, "What did you observe these past few days?"

He blinked. "What?"

I repeated myself. "What did you see?" He scratched his head. "I don't know. A bird making a nest?" I smiled and nodded toward the tree.

"That bird wasn't just piling twigs together. It was building a ho, sothing strong enough to hold life, delicate enough not to harm the eggs, and safe enough to survive wind and rain. That nest wasn't made in one go. It was made with care, day by day, because it mattered."

Then I turned back to him.

"The spears you made? They were strong. Beautiful, even. But you made them just because I told you to. Not because they ant anything to you. You're a smith, Doran. And a warrior. That ans your hands are ant to create, not just strike. You need more than just skill, you need heart."

Sothing in his eyes changed.

He didn't say much that day, but I could tell the ssage had landed.

The next day, we changed course. I'd seen enough of his forging for now, it was ti he learned to swing his creations right.

Doran's weapon of choice was a giant hamr, which he has nad Moltenheart. Heavy, thick, and brutal. A tool and a weapon in one. I figured he needed a real opponent to test his strength, so I sent word to an old friend of mine, Marek Stonebreaker. A retired warrior, Marek was once famous for smashing enemy shields like glass with his own hamr.

When Marek arrived, the training began anew.

Every day, Doran sparred with Marek while I supervised. It wasn't easy. Marek didn't hold back. He knocked Doran down more tis than I could count. But the boy always got back up. Bruised, bleeding, but never broken. And after each spar, the three of us would sit by the fire, sharing food, drink, and stories of old battles.

Marek didn't just teach Doran to swing, he taught him to think. "A hamr's no good if you can't move with it," he'd say. So they ran drills through snow-covered fields, uphill with weighted packs, practicing footwork on uneven stone. Marek would throw wooden shields at him from odd angles to test his timing, make him catch flying tools with gloves on, all to build reflex and rhythm. It was brutal work, but Doran never gave up. He started to move not just like a fighter, but like a craftsman in battle, every step asured, every swing full of purpose.

Slowly, Doran's movents grew sharper. He learned to twist his hips with the swing. To use the hamr's weight, not just his strength. To aim not just to hit, but to end a fight. His confidence grew again, but this ti, not from pride. From knowing.

I watched him change. Not just in skill, but in spirit.

He beca quieter, more thoughtful. And his next spear? It was different. Every curve, every edge felt like it belonged. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a part of him. I didn't even have to say anything when he handed it to . I could feel it. He had found the aning behind the na he had given himself.

Before trying again, Doran started doing sothing different. Each morning, before the forge got too hot, he'd walk through Gravenmire's workshops and watch the local smiths work. He didn't just look, he asked questions. Why one used a heavier hamr, why another cooled their blades slower, why a third lined spear shafts with ashwood instead of oak. At first, they saw him as just another curious kid, but over ti, they ca to respect him. He didn't just listen, he helped. He'd hold tongs, pump bellows, or clean tools without being asked. Day after day, he watched, worked, and learned. Not just how to make weapons, but why each choice mattered. And when he finally returned to his own anvil, he wasn't the sa. This ti, the spear wasn't just made with skill, it was made with thought.

He gave

the spear and said that this is thank you gift for training him. How kind of him.

---

Then, the day ca.

The day when we were summoned by Thaldrik Haildaleom before we left for the corrupted dungeon. The lord stood before us, tall and stern, but proud. When he got to Doran, he paused.

He looked at the young warrior's broad shoulders, the hamr on his back.

"You call yourself the Warriorsmith," he said. "A bold na. But from what I see… it suits you. I hope you beco everything that na stands for."

Doran bowed, his voice steady. "I will, my lord."

And I believed him.

In my long life, I've seen many pass through battlefields, so broke, so rose. But Doran… he's different. He's building sothing. Not just weapons, not just strength, but a future. And I, Orin , am proud to have been a part of his path. He truly is what he calls himself...

Doran, The Warriorsmith.