He started with the forge itself. Reaching for a large shovel nearby, he scooped glowing coals from a smoldering pile, his orcish strength barely making the task manageable. The heat radiating from the coals was almost unbearable, but he dumped them into the hearth with care, ensuring the forge's belly was filled. The roar of the fire intensified, and the flas licked greedily at the air as he pumped the bellows. Each push sent a rush of oxygen into the fire, feeding it until it burned a vivid orange, hot enough to soften the iron ingots resting on the anvil.
Damian grabbed one of the rough iron ingots from a nearby pile. It was small compared to his massive orcish hands but heavy, requiring a firm grip. Holding the ingot with a long pair of tongs, he thrust it into the forge. The flas crackled hungrily as they enveloped the tal, and Damian counted the seconds in his head, watching as the dull gray iron turned red, then orange, and finally a bright yellow—the perfect temperature for forging.
Sweat poured down his face as he worked, the heat from the forge rging with the natural swelter of the volcanic chamber. His arms ached from holding the tongs steady, but he knew that rushing this step would ruin the blade. The tal had to be malleable but not molten, a perfect balance that demanded patience and focus.
Once the ingot was glowing hot, Damian pulled it from the forge and placed it onto the anvil with a heavy clang. Gripping the hamr with both hands, he raised it high and brought it down with all his might.
CLANG.
The hamr struck the tal, flattening it slightly. Sparks flew in every direction, so landing on Damian's arms and shoulders, but he ignored the sting. Again and again, he raised the hamr and brought it down, shaping the ingot into a rough blade. Each strike was precise, aiming to lengthen the tal while keeping its edges straight.
Around him, the rhythmic hamring of hundreds of other orcs created a deafening symphony. Damian adjusted his stance observing them, finding a rhythm that conserved his strength while keeping up the necessary force. With every blow, the blade began to take form—a long, flat piece with the rough semblance of a sword.
The tal cooled quickly in the cavern's sweltering air, losing its malleability. Damian returned it to the forge, thrusting it into the flas until it glowed yellow again. He repeated this process multiple tis, each cycle allowing him to refine the shape further. Gradually, the blade beca thinner and more defined, with the edges starting to taper.
As he worked, he used the horn of the anvil—a curved projection—to create the blade's fuller, a groove running along its length to lighten it without sacrificing strength. This step required precision, and Damian's orcish body, though powerful, struggled with the finesse needed. His massive hands fumbled slightly, but he pressed on, determined to et the trial's demands.
With the blade roughly shaped, Damian focused on sharpening the edges. He angled the hamr strikes carefully, flattening the tal along the sides to create a sharp bevel. This was exhausting, sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision, but he wiped it away with his forearm and continued.
The overseer's growls and the occasional crack of a whip in the background reminded him of the pain the first whip had left him with, fuck the ascension but that shouldn't happen twice, that thing hurt as hell without his usual stats. The blue banner's tir was ticking down, and Damian couldn't afford to waste even a second. His arms burned from the constant hamring, and blisters ford on his palms, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.
Once the blade's shape and edges were complete, it was ti to harden the tal. Damian grabbed the glowing sword with the tongs and plunged it into a trough of oil with a loud HISS. Steam and smoke billowed up in a thick cloud, stinging his eyes and filling his lungs with a sharp, acrid sll. The blade hissed and crackled as it cooled, hardening into its final form.
The quenching process was crucial. If done incorrectly, the blade could warp or beco brittle, rendering it useless. Damian turned the blade slowly in the oil, ensuring it cooled evenly. The quenched blade was strong but brittle, and it needed tempering to balance its hardness and flexibility. Damian placed it back into the forge, heating it to a lower temperature this ti—just enough to relieve the internal stresses caused by quenching. The blade glowed a dull blue as he worked, and he removed it from the forge carefully, letting it cool slowly. Discover more content at empire
With the blade complete, Damian turned his attention to finishing touches. He used a rough grindstone to smooth the edges, removing any unevenness and sharpening the blade further. Each pass of the grindstone sent a shower of sparks into the air, but Damian remained focused, ensuring the blade was razor-sharp and perfectly balanced.
Finally, he inspected the sword under the overseer's watchful eyes. The weapon had to et specific standards—straight edges, a solid grip, and a sharp, clean finish. Damian placed the completed sword on the rack, his heart pounding as the overseer grunted in approval. One down, twenty-four to go.
With each completed sword, he grew more confident. The pain in his back and the ache in his arms beca a dull throb, replaced by a burning determination. He focused on the banner's tir, counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds with grim resolve.
Damian's body felt like it was on the verge of collapse, but the number of swords steadily climbed. Each completed weapon was inspected by an overseer, their grunts of approval or displeasure adding another layer of stress to the trial.
By the ti the tir reached its final hour, Damian had completed 20 swords—enough to avoid failure but not yet enough to et the target. His hamr strikes grew frantic, his vision blurred by sweat and exhaustion. Every fiber of his being scread for rest, but he pushed through, his mind chanting a single mantra:
'I can do this shit.'
With seconds to spare, Damian completed the 25th sword. His hands trembled as he placed the final blade on the rack, his vision swimming from exhaustion. The overseer barked a final command, and the glowing blue banner disappeared. Replaced with a single line.
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Success : Rank S Forging, Proceeding with the next task..
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Ah, there was more..? Runic part this ti..?
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