The ride back up the steam-powered elevator felt twice as long as the descent, but the air slowly grew cooler, and the suffocating stench of sulfur faded into the familiar, metallic tang of the Iron Capital.

  Wanhan stood in the corner of the iron cage, the heavy lockbox of gold resting at his feet. His left hand was hovering over the air in front of him, tracing the glowing blue lines of his system interface.

  He had nine unallocated stat points. To a low-level mercenary, that was a king's ransom of raw potential.

  He needed to be careful. The Piercing Step was his greatest weapon, but it was also a massive liability. Every time he used it, the kinetic shockwave tore at his own muscles and bones. If the Master Smiths folded that Alchemical Ember into Fenrir, the sword would become even heavier and infinitely more volatile.

  He didn't hesitate. He mentally dragged four points into [Strength].

  The reaction was violent. A searing heat flooded his left arm, his chest, and his core. He had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out as his muscle fibers physically thickened, anchoring themselves deeper into his bones. His left bicep strained against the leather of his new tunic.

  Next, he dumped three points into [Endurance].

  A rush of icy, stabilizing relief washed over the burning muscles. The torn stitches in his side, which had been threatening to rip open again since the boss fight, finally closed tight, the flesh knitting together with unnatural speed. His lungs expanded, drawing in the smoky air with effortless ease.

  He looked at the final two points. He was strong, and he was tough. But against the Goliath, he had barely been fast enough to slide under that slag-mace. He dropped the last two points into [Agility].

  A strange, weightless sensation settled into his boots. His balance, heavily skewed since the loss of his right arm, suddenly felt perfectly calibrated.

  [Stats Updated.]

  [Strength: +4]

  [Endurance: +3]

  [Agility: +2]

  [Current Unallocated Points: 0]

  "You look different, human," Mata murmured from the opposite corner of the cage. Her covered eyes were fixed on him. "Your breathing is deeper. The scent of blood on your skin is fading, replaced by the smell of hot iron."

  "I feel different," Wanhan admitted, flexing his left hand. The crushing exhaustion of the boss fight was gone, replaced by a coiled, dangerous energy.

  The elevator ground to a halt with a heavy clank, and the iron grate slid open.

  Commander Vane led them out of the industrial lift and directly into the heart of the Iron Forge's private armory.

  It was a cavernous hall of polished black stone, lit by roaring, magically stabilized hearths. The walls were lined with racks of masterwork weapons—glowing runeblades, beautifully weighted battleaxes, and rows of pristine blue siege-plate.

  "Master Borin," Vane called out, walking toward a massive anvil in the center of the room.

  A man who looked more like a mountain than a blacksmith turned around. He was bald, heavily scarred, and missing his left eye, but his arms were as thick as tree trunks. He wore a heavy leather apron over a bare, soot-stained chest.

  "Vane," Borin rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "You look like you've been chewed up by a slag-hound." The smith's single eye shifted to the trio behind the Commander. He squinted at Tiny. "And you brought a dirt-grubber into my pristine forge. Fantastic."

  "Watch your mouth, anvil-tapper," Tiny shot back, puffing out his chest. "We just saved your entire lower containment sector. And we brought you a present."

  Vane gestured to Wanhan. "Show him."

  Wanhan stepped forward. He reached into his satchel, his newly enhanced strength allowing him to easily grip the heavy, cooling piece of iron plating he had used as a makeshift glove. He unwrapped the metal, exposing the Flawless Alchemical Ember.

  The violent red light immediately cast long, dancing shadows across the armory walls. The ambient heat in the room spiked.

  Master Borin stopped wiping his hands. He dropped his rag. He walked slowly toward Wanhan, his single eye wide with a reverence bordering on religious awe.

  "The Goliath's heart," Borin whispered, reaching out with a massive pair of iron tongs to gently lift the pulsing crystal. "Stabilized. Perfect. It holds enough kinetic energy to level a city block. What do you want me to do with it, boy?"

  Wanhan didn't hesitate. He drew Fenrir with his left hand and laid the heavy, lopsided iron blade flat on the Master's anvil.

  "I want you to put it in here," Wanhan said, tapping the massive iron counterweight of the pommel. "I want to be able to channel the heat into the blade when I strike."

  Borin stared at the crude iron sword, his thick brow furrowing in disgust. "You want me to socket a flawless, priceless alchemical crystal... into a piece of unrefined, lopsided pig-iron? The crystal will shatter the blade on the first swing!"

  "Not if you re-forge it," Wanhan countered, his voice perfectly level. "Keep the weight. Keep the lopsided balance. I need it to anchor my stance because of my arm. Just make the steel strong enough to hold the fire."

  Borin looked at Wanhan's empty right sleeve, then at the sword, and finally at the pulsing Ember. A slow, terrifying grin spread across the Master Smith's scarred face.

  "Oh, this is going to be a beautifully stupid weapon," Borin laughed, grabbing his heaviest forging hammer. "Give me two hours, boy. I'm going to make you a monster."

  The two hours passed in a suffocating haze of heat, ringing hammers, and the sharp scent of alchemical flux.

  Wanhan sat on a low stone bench near the armory's entrance, his newly enhanced muscles buzzing with restless energy. Tiny had already wandered off to inspect the Forge's collection of repeating crossbows, muttering under his breath about the price of runic ammunition. Mata stood perfectly still near the cooling troughs, listening to the rhythmic, deafening crashes of Master Borin's hammer.

  "He is not just beating the iron," the blind elf observed quietly. "He is folding the crystal's essence into the carbon. The blade is singing a different song now. It sounds... angry."

  Wanhan watched the Master Smith work. Borin was a force of nature, his massive arms swinging a hammer that looked heavy enough to crush a horse. Sparks the color of fresh blood showered across the black stone floor with every strike.

  Finally, with a loud, hissing plunge into a vat of alchemical oil, the ringing stopped.

  A thick cloud of white smoke billowed up to the vaulted ceiling. Master Borin lifted the sword from the trough with his heavy iron tongs, inspecting the dark metal through the smoke with his single, critical eye.

  "Boy," Borin rumbled, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Get over here."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Wanhan stood up, crossing the stone floor. He stopped in front of the anvil.

  Fenrir didn't look like a crude slab of pig-iron anymore. The lopsided, asymmetrical shape was still there—the heavy, sweeping blade designed strictly for chopping and thrusting, and the massive counterweight at the pommel to anchor a one-handed grip. But the steel itself had changed.

  It was no longer a dull, rust-flecked gray. The blade was forged from deep, gunmetal-blue Mark IV alloy, rippling with a folded pattern that looked like petrified wood.

  But the real change was in the hilt.

  Master Borin had hollowed out the heavy iron pommel and encased the Flawless Alchemical Ember inside a cage of thick, heat-resistant tungsten lattice. Deep, glowing red veins ran from the caged crystal at the base of the hilt, spider-webbing up the center of the dark steel blade all the way to the tip.

  "Pick it up," Borin ordered, crossing his massive arms.

  Wanhan reached out with his left hand. The moment his calloused fingers closed around the fresh, tightly wound leather grip, a shockwave of thermal energy shot up his arm. It wasn't burning him, but the metal was undeniably, aggressively alive.

  The balance was immaculate. The heavy tungsten cage at the pommel perfectly counteracted the dense Mark IV alloy of the blade. When Wanhan lowered the sword to his side, his center of mass locked into place flawlessly.

  A golden system screen—a rarity—exploded into his vision.

  [Masterwork Weapon Forged!]

  [Item: Volatile Fenrir (Unique)]

  [Type: Asymmetrical Kinetic Broadsword]

  [Damage: 145 Slashing / 210 Piercing]

  [Passive Effect: Thermal Conductivity. The blade naturally retains heat, cauterizing wounds upon impact.]

  [Active Skill Unlocked: Kinetic Discharge. Channels the stored energy of the Alchemical Ember into the blade. Upon the next physical impact, releases a localized, superheated concussive blast. Cooldown: 10 minutes.]

  "The crystal is inherently unstable," Borin explained, grabbing a heavy towel to wipe the sweat and soot from his face. "It generates raw, thermal-kinetic pressure. The veins in the steel act as exhaust vents. If you strike a target with enough force, the sudden deceleration triggers a release from the pommel. The energy travels up the blade and detonates at the point of impact."

  Wanhan looked up at the Master Smith. "It explodes when I hit something?"

  "In a focused, forward-facing cone, yes," Borin grinned a terrifying, gap-toothed smile. "The Mark IV alloy is dense enough to withstand the recoil, but I make no promises about your shoulder socket."

  "Let's test it," Commander Vane said, stepping out from the shadows. He pointed to the far end of the armory, where a massive, solid block of raw granite sat in a testing alcove. "Show me what twenty gold pieces bought us."

  Wanhan didn't need to be told twice. He walked toward the alcove, feeling the satisfying, dense weight of Volatile Fenrir hanging from his left hand. With his newly upgraded [Agility] and [Strength], the sword felt like a natural extension of his arm rather than a burden he was forced to drag.

  He stopped ten feet from the granite block.

  He didn't use Piercing Step. He wanted to test the raw chopping power. He widened his stance, anchoring his boots into the stone floor. He brought the heavy blade back, letting the tungsten pommel dictate the arc.

  As he tightened his grip, he mentally triggered the new weapon skill.

  [Active Skill: Kinetic Discharge Activated]

  The change was instantaneous. The caged Ember at the base of the hilt flared from a dull red to a blinding, furious white. A high-pitched, mechanical whine built up inside the metal. The spider-web veins running up the blade ignited, venting thin streams of superheated plasma.

  Wanhan swung.

  He poured all of his physical strength into a horizontal, Level 100 Tree Cutter strike. The lopsided blade cut through the air with a terrifying, heavy hum.

  The dark steel bit into the side of the solid granite block.

  The moment the blade decelerated against the stone, the Alchemical Ember released its payload. The kinetic energy rushed up the glowing veins and detonated exactly at the point of impact.

  KRACK-THOOM!

  A localized, superheated shockwave blew outward. The top half of the two-ton granite block didn't just cleave in half—it violently shattered into a thousand jagged, smoking fragments, peppering the far wall of the armory like shrapnel.

  The recoil kicked Wanhan's arm back, but his newly reinforced muscles absorbed the shock beautifully. He stood his ground, the blade of Volatile Fenrir smoking, the veins slowly dimming back to a dull, angry red.

  The armory was dead silent, save for the patter of falling pebbles.

  Tiny slowly lowered his goggles, his jaw hanging open. "By the Founder's beard... kid, you're a walking siege cannon."

  Mata tilted her head, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. "The human has claws now."

  Wanhan looked at the smoking crater where the granite block used to be, then down at the masterpiece of metallurgy in his hand. The grin that spread across his face was pure, dangerous adrenaline.

  "Yeah," Wanhan breathed, sheathing the heavy blade with a satisfying, metallic snick. "I think I'm ready to take on some real debt."

  The heavy iron doors of the Forge’s restricted sector closed behind them with a resounding, final clank.

  Wanhan, Tiny, and Mata stepped back out into the smog-filtered daylight of the Middle Ring. The air here was far from pure, but after the suffocating, sulfurous depths of the Crucible, it tasted like a mountain spring.

  Wanhan adjusted the heavy leather strap across his left shoulder. Volatile Fenrir hung comfortably at his hip, the dark Mark IV alloy securely sheathed in a custom, heat-resistant scabbard Master Borin had thrown in for an extra silver piece. It felt less like a sword and more like a caged beast waiting to be let off its leash.

  Tiny was practically skipping down the cobblestone street, his soot-stained hands lovingly clutching the heavy iron lockbox.

  "Twenty gold pieces," the dwarf sang under his breath, completely oblivious to the terrified stares of the passing merchants. "We can buy a pristine wagon. We can rent a suite at the Golden Griffon. We could buy a plot of land and retire!"

  "You cannot retire, dirt-grubber," Mata said smoothly, falling into step beside Wanhan. Her blindfolded face tilted slightly, catching the faint breeze. "You lack the temperament for peace. Within a week, you would try to swindle a farmer out of his chickens and end up with a pitchfork in your back."

  Tiny scowled, clutching the box tighter. "I am a visionary, elf. Visionaries are rarely appreciated in their own time."

  "Hold up a minute," a voice called out from the shadows of the Forge’s towering archway.

  Commander Vane stepped into the pale daylight. He had removed his scorched helmet, revealing his scarred face and exhausted, sunken gray eyes. He didn't look like a victorious Inquisitor. He looked like a man who had just realized he was standing on thin ice.

  Wanhan paused, resting his left hand on the heavy tungsten pommel of his new sword. "Did we forget to sign something, Commander?"

  "The contract is settled, One-Hand," Vane said, closing the distance between them. He lowered his voice, glancing around the busy street to ensure no one was lingering too close. "But I owe you more than coin for what you did down there. I owe you the truth."

  Tiny stopped smiling. He quickly slid the lockbox into his oversized canvas pack. "The truth usually costs extra, Vane. What aren't you telling us?"

  Vane looked at the dwarf, then locked eyes with Wanhan.

  "The Corrupted Furnace Goliath wasn't a mistake," Vane said softly. The words carried a heavy, terrifying weight. "Borin built the chassis, yes. It was supposed to be a heavy lifter for the deep-core mining shafts. But the Alchemical Ember you pulled from its chest? That wasn't forged in our fires."

  Wanhan frowned. "Borin said it was an unstable crystal."

  "It was a core, boy," Vane corrected, his voice dropping to a grim whisper. "A shattered piece of a Dungeon Core. Someone smuggled it into the Crucible and physically hardwired it into the Goliath's chest cavity. It wasn't an accident. It was an assassination attempt disguised as a system failure."

  Mata’s pointed ears twitched violently. She stepped closer, her hand drifting toward her bone-white bow. "An assassination attempt on who? The Forge?"

  "On the entire Middle Ring," Vane said grimly. "If you hadn't broken its knee and shattered the casing... if that thing had reached the elevator shaft and breached the surface, it would have leveled half the district before the Guild Masters could even mobilize. Someone is trying to start a war inside the Capital."

  Wanhan felt a cold knot form in his stomach, contrasting sharply with the residual heat radiating from his sword.

  "Why are you telling us this?" Wanhan asked.

  "Because whoever orchestrated this is going to be looking for the loose ends," Vane stated bluntly. "They expected the Goliath to wipe out the lower containment sector, destroying all evidence of the Dungeon Core. Instead, a scrawny, one-handed mercenary and his dysfunctional party walked in, killed their multi-million-gold weapon, and walked out with the evidence."

  Vane pointed a gauntleted finger at the scabbard resting on Wanhan’s hip.

  "You're carrying the murder weapon, kid," Vane warned. "You have twenty gold pieces, a legendary blade, and a massive target on your back. The Syndicate, the Rust Barons, maybe even a corrupt faction within the Royal Guard... whoever did this knows you exist now. If I were you, I’d take that gold and get out of the Iron Capital before the sun sets."

  With that, the Inquisitor turned on his heel, his dark blue armor clanking as he walked back into the shadows of the Forge.

  The trio stood in silence on the cobblestone street. The bustling noise of the Middle Ring suddenly felt distinctly hostile. Every passing merchant, every heavily armored city guard, and every shadowed alleyway looked like a potential threat.

  Tiny swallowed hard, the weight of the gold in his pack suddenly feeling more like an anchor than a blessing.

  "Well," the dwarf muttered, nervously adjusting his goggles. "I suppose retiring to a farm isn't the worst idea."

  Wanhan looked down at Volatile Fenrir. He felt the dense, powerful hum of the [Strength] running through his arm. He thought about the five years he had spent wiping down tables in Oakhaven, hiding his pinned-up sleeve from pitying eyes.

  "No," Wanhan said. His voice was quiet, but it held the dense, heavy certainty of solid iron. "We aren't running."

  Mata tilted her head toward him. "A bold statement for a human with half the proper number of limbs. The Commander said a war is coming."

  Wanhan looked up at the smog-choked sky, a dangerous, adrenaline-fueled smile spreading across his face.

  "If a war is coming," Wanhan said, "then mercenaries are about to be in very high demand. Tiny, find us a map. We need to officially register our party with the Guild."