The mountain loomed like a blade thrust into the heavens, its peak shrouded in clouds that crackled with static. Kaminari-no-take—Thunder Peak. The path upward was a serpentine gauntlet of jagged rocks and winds sharp enough to flay skin. Aselia cursed as her boot slipped on moss-slick stone. “Who carves a forge into a death trap?!”


    “Dwarves,” Rage said, grinning. “Probably compensating for something.”


    The village materialized from the mist: squat stone huts clinging to the mountainside, their roofs weighted against gales. The air rang with the dissonant symphony of hammers—clangs, thrums, and the occasional thunk of a blade quenched in oil. Blacksmiths moved like ants, their faces soot-streaked and arms corded with muscle. Most stood no taller than Rage’s chest.


    One dwarf, beard braided with iron rings, glared up at them. “Ye lost, surface-rat?”


    Rage crouched, eye-level with the smith. “Nope. Just here to critique your workplace safety protocols. Ever heard of OSHA?”


    The dwarf squinted. “O… sha?”


    “Never mind.”


    Kazehana stepped forward, her presence slicing through the smog. “This is Ryuu, the Sovereign Sage. He seeks the Skyforge.”


    “Ryuu? Sovereign Sage? Really? Cringe!”, Rage muttered unintelligible.


    The smith’s scowl melted into awe. “The one who slew Malware Prime? Aye, come then. But mind yer fingers—the forges bite.”


    <hr>


    The Skyforge wasn’t a forge. It was a cathedral.


    A cavernous chamber stretched into the mountain’s heart, its walls studded with luminescent crystals that bathed the space in cold blue light. At its center roared a pit of white flames—dragonfire, stolen from the peaks centuries ago. Anvils the size of wagons dotted the floor, each manned by dwarves chanting in a guttural tongue. Above them, suspended on chains thicker than tree trunks, hung half-forged relics: a spear crackling with lightning, a shield etched with runes, a sword that wept black smoke.


    “Home sweet home,” Rage muttered.


    Aselia elbowed him. “Try not to drool.”


    “Too late. I’m drafting a five-star review.”


    Kazehana led them to a training yard carved into the cavern’s edge. Wooden dummies lined the walls, their bodies pockmarked from countless strikes. She unsheathed Kazekiri—the blade Rage had upgraded—and tossed him a practice bokken. “Your fighting style is… adequate. For a tavern brawler.”


    Rage caught the wooden sword, Balmung’s gauntlet shimmering on his right hand. “Adequate? I soloed Malware Prime, you filthy casual”


    “With your magic,” Kazehana said, her tone sharper than her edge. “A weapon demands respect, not shortcuts. I’ll teach you the way of swords”


    He rolled his eyes. “Sure, let’s all cosplay as samurai LARPers like a casual weeb.”


    Her bokken struck faster than he could blink. He barely parried, the impact rattling his teeth.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    “First lesson: Kamae.” She adjusted his stance, her hands calloused but precise. “Feet rooted. Spine aligned. Grip firm but supple.”


    “Supple,” Rage repeated, smirking.


    Her bokken jabbed his ribs. “Focus.”


    <hr>


    Hours bled into days. Kazehana drilled him relentlessly: stances, strikes, the razor’s balance between aggression and control. Balmung, reshaped into a katana of obsidian steel, grew heavier with each swing.


    “Your form is sloppy,” Kazehana chided as he botched a diagonal slash. “Like a child swatting flies.”


    Rage wiped sweat from his brow. “Maybe I need a training montage. Cue the inspirational flute music.”


    “What’s a… montage?”


    “Magic that turns scrubs into champions in three minutes.” He flourished Balmung, adopting a reverse-grip stance reminiscent of a certain crimson-haired wanderer, blade held low and angled like a dragon’s fang. “Hissatsu: Ryutsuisen—”


    Kazehana’s bokken cracked against his skull. “Lower your guard like that, and your skull becomes a goblet.”


    “It’s called style,” he grumbled, rubbing the welt.


    “Style gets you killed.” She sheathed her blade. “Again.”


    <hr>


    The dwarf elder found them at dusk, his beard singed and eyes gleaming like coal. “Ryuu-sama. A word.”


    The forge’s underbelly was a labyrinth of tunnels, their walls shimmering with veins of star-iron. The elder stopped before a massive door sealed with a lock shaped like a serpent eating its tail. “Yer sorcery… can ye break this?”


    Rage touched the lock. Code flared:


    if lock == "sealed": lock.status = "unsealed" # F*ck locks I played Skyrim


    The door groaned open, revealing a vault choked with relics—swords rusted to husks, armor eaten by time, and at its center, a massive hammer etched with dwarf runes.


    “The Thunder-Caller,” the elder said, voice reverent. “Forged by our first king to bind the mountain’s heart. But decades past, quakes sealed the deep forges. Our kin there… gone. Silent.”


    Rage raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: you want me to play hero.”


    The dwarf’s grip tightened on his hammer. “Save them, and the Skyforge is yours to command. Weapons, armor—enough to arm yer queens’ armies.”


    Rage sighed. “Fine. But if I see a glowing altar demanding tribute, I’m billing you for overtime.”


    <hr>


    That night, as Rage cleaned Balmung, Kazehana found him on the forge’s outer ledge. The wind howled, carrying the scent of distant storms.


    “You’ll go,” she said, not a question.


    “Got a kingdom to save. Or whatever.”


    She stood beside him, her silhouette a blade against the horizon. “The dwarves’ tale is incomplete. The quakes began after they mined too deep. What they awoke… it was not natural.”


    “Demons? Angels?”


    “Worse.”


    Rage grinned. “So, it’s a raid boss. Please don’t let it be some tragic waifu with a giant sword and daddy issues from a certain game with ‘Ring’ in the title or dragon named ‘Smaug’.”


    Kazehana’s eyes narrowed. “Your jests mask fear. Why?”


    He stared into the abyss below. “Because if I stop laughing, I’ll be the other John Constantine.”


    The silence between them hung heavier than the mountain.


    <hr>


    At dawn, Kazehana intercepted Rage as he shouldered his pack. Without ceremony, she tossed him a weathered scabbard. The blade within hissed as he drew it—a katana of pale alloy, its edge shimmering like moonlight trapped in steel.


    “My father’s true wife,” she said. “The Storm Stranger’s weapon. It has gathered dust for decades. Let Balmung… consume it.”


    Rage pressed the katana to his gauntlet. Balmung’s obsidian metal rippled, swallowing the relic whole. New runes ignited along its length, humming with storm-forged power.


    “Damn, Balmung can do some Venom kind of sh*t,” he said, flexing his reforged weapon. “But next time, maybe a gift basket? I hear dwarves make great cheese.”


    Kazehana’s lip twitched—the ghost of a smirk. “Return alive. My mother’s bow needs that blade.”


    <SYSTEM> [Balmung Evolution: “Moonlit Severance” Unlocked!][+50% Attack Speed]


    <SYSTEM> [Quest Accepted: “Delving the Deep Forges”]


    <SYSTEM> [New Ally: Dwarven Skyforge]


    <System> Corruption Level: 49%


    <System> Hint: “Bring a healer.”


    <hr>


    As the tunnel’s shadows swallowed them, the interface flickered and Rage’s final words echoed off the stone:


    <System>[Loading: Dwarf Fortress 20%]


    “Really? Not SSD? Bastards! It’s cheap on Temu”.