Chapter 9

  Two days later, Harren and Elias stood before the gates of the Riverfell Artisan’s Guild.

  It was an impressive building — three stories of sturdy stone and polished timber, with a hammer-and-quill insignia carved deep into the arch above the door.

  Wide windows glinted in the morning light, and a steady stream of artisans, merchants, and officials flowed in and out.

  Harren adjusted his coat nervously.

  “You ready?” he muttered.

  Elias nodded, silent as ever.

  Inside, the guild hall smelled of wood polish, ink, and faintly of molten metal.

  A sharply dressed receptionist ushered them toward a side hall without much ceremony, clearly used to overwhelmed applicants.

  “You’re here for evaluation?” the man asked, flipping through a ledger.

  “Blackforge Smithy,” Harren confirmed.

  “Right. First, a standard forge test for the smithy itself — proof you can meet guild standards. Then, a personal trial for the designated head craftsman.”

  The receptionist’s eyes flicked to Elias briefly, a note of curiosity passing through them, before he waved them forward.

  “Follow me.”

  The testing chamber wasn’t fancy:

  A large, open forge space, half a dozen workstations already prepped with raw materials — common iron, basic tools, nothing too exotic.

  A gray-haired guild examiner stood waiting, arms crossed.

  “You have three hours,” the examiner said crisply. “Forge a basic blade to guild standards — strength, balance, finish. Nothing fancy. Fail to meet the minimum, and the application ends here.”

  Harren swallowed once, nodded.

  Elias simply stepped forward.

  The world narrowed.

  Hammering. Heating. Shaping.

  Time blurred.

  Elias didn’t rush — but he didn’t dawdle either. His strikes were sure, precise. Each blow bent the iron closer to the form he saw in his mind.

  It wasn’t the finest piece he’d ever make.

  But it was honest work. Clean lines. Balanced weight.

  When the three hours ended, Elias quenched the blade carefully — no abilities, no shortcuts. Just pure, practiced craftsmanship.

  The examiner inspected it with sharp eyes, flexing the blade, tapping it lightly, checking the grain structure near the spine.

  Finally, he gave a short nod.

  “Passable,” he said. “The smithy advances to Phase Two.”

  Harren exhaled hard, shoulders sagging slightly.

  The examiner turned to Elias now.

  “You, lad — you’re listed as the designated Head Crafter?”

  Elias dipped his head slightly.

  “Good. You’ll have a personal trial next.”

  The examiner’s voice sharpened.

  “You have six hours to design and craft an item of your choice — but it must show your signature. Something that proves you are more than just another hammer-swinger.”

  He gestured toward a fresh workstation, this one stocked with slightly higher quality materials — better iron, some bronze, even a few small bits of low-grade magical ore.

  “Surprise me,” the examiner said simply.

  Elias stood there for a moment, staring at the table of materials.

  His mind whirred quietly.

  What could he forge that would be simple enough to finish in six hours…

  …but distinctive enough to carry his touch?

  Slowly, a plan began to take shape.

  Not a sword. Not another blade. Too obvious.

  A tool, maybe. Something elegant. Precise.

  His fingers brushed the edge of the table thoughtfully.

  A blade would be easy. A hammer would be practical.

  But neither felt right.

  Not for this.

  Instead, his hand moved to the small bars of iron and copper — humble, plain metals.

  Common, yet honest. Like him.

  A medallion.

  Something simple, but personal. A reminder.

  Not just of this forge, or this town — but of everything he carried inside. The countless hours spent in forgotten workshops. His family lineage. His own failures, and stubborn persistence.

  He set to work.

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  The iron melted, mixed with the copper, forming a low-grade but resilient alloy.

  Nothing fancy — just steady hands and careful timing.

  He shaped the disc carefully, hammering it thin, smoothing the edges by hand, giving the surface a subtle brushed finish.

  On the face, he engraved a simple mark: a hammer over an anvil, surrounded by a broken chain.

  Freedom through craft.

  It wasn’t a guild insignia, or a noble’s crest. It was his.

  The forge hummed around him, the heat breathing with every strike.

  And without thinking — without knowing how — Elias reached.

  A pulse, small but real, traveled from his chest to his hands.

  The medallion shivered, just once.

  The barest hint of a blessing sank into the metal — not through spellwork or conscious will, but through soul.

  A tiny echo of his resolve: Work shapes the world.

  When he quenched the medallion, the air around him seemed to hold its breath for a moment.

  A faint shimmer ran across the surface of the metal — easy to miss if you weren’t looking.

  Elias stared at it, feeling… lighter.

  More anchored.

  The examiner stepped forward, picked up the medallion carefully, studying it under the lamplight.

  There were no gemstones. No intricate filigree.

  But the craftsmanship was clean. Every strike deliberate. Every line carried weight.

  And something deeper, harder to name.

  The old man turned it over once, twice, then finally gave a slow, approving nod.

  “Rare to see someone make something like this under pressure,” he said gruffly. “Most just try to impress.”

  He set the medallion back down.

  “You pass.”

  ?

  [System Notification]

  Your deep connection to craft has shaped your spirit.

  [Level Up!]

  [Level 11 Achieved!]

  [+9 Free Stat Points Granted.]

  ?

  Elias blinked hard.

  Nine points?

  That wasn’t normal.

  Harren had told him that first evolutions usually maybe three or four.

  Five if you were exceptionally lucky.

  Ten was considered the edge of “inhuman,” often bringing severe limitations or even physical disadvantages.

  But here he was. Nine.

  And no disadvantages or limitations whatsoever.

  He flexed his hand quietly, feeling the calm strength there.

  The system is definitely in love with me,he thought, not without a touch of dry humor.

  And whatever road he was walking — it wasn’t one the average smith ever saw.

  _____________

  Elias stood alone for a moment, the world muted around him.

  Nine free points. A small fortune in growth.

  He considered carefully.

  No rushing. No greed.

  Strength—he needed to keep up with tougher materials.

  Dexterity—fine motor skills were already crucial, and would only grow more important.

  Constitution—the forge was no gentle place; endurance mattered.

  Wisdom—decision-making. Awareness. The small things that added up.

  Intelligence—Learning about new things, understanding complex new materials and alloys.

  Charisma - A waste in his opinion but might be useful for certain things

  It all mattered.

  In the end, he distributed the points with care:

  ?

  [+3 Strength]

  [+2 Constitution]

  [+1 Dexterity]

  [+1 Wisdom]

  [+2 Intelligence]

  He felt the changes settle into him—not in some grand, cinematic surge, but like invisible threads pulling tighter, cleaner, stronger.

  His breathing eased. His stance steadied.

  He hadn’t grown taller, or bulkier. But there was a new kind of density to him.

  Like a blade forged tighter along the grain.

  When he stepped back into the main hall, Harren glanced up from where he was talking with the guild examiner.

  The older smith’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Not suspicious—just… puzzled.

  There was something different about Elias now.

  An air of quiet weight. Like standing next to a slowly heating forge—you might not see the change immediately, but you felt it.

  Harren didn’t comment.

  Not yet.

  He just filed it away under the growing list of oddities surrounding the boy.

  The guild examiner cleared his throat.

  “First phase complete,” he said briskly. “Now onto the second.”

  He gestured toward a wide door at the side of the hall.

  It swung open with a creak, revealing a workshop twice the size of Harren’s forge.

  Benches. Furnaces. Racks of raw materials.

  And a long table at the center, stacked with orders. Real ones. Some half-complete, some just notes and diagrams.

  The examiner gave a thin smile.

  “You want to be certified as a head crafter of on our members?”

  Elias gave a small, silent nod.

  “Then prove you can work.”

  He pointed to the scattered projects.

  “Choose three commissions. Complete them under time limit. Quality will be inspected. Any shortcutting or obvious corner-cutting will result in failure.”

  The rules were simple. Brutal, even.

  Real work, under real pressure.

  Exactly the kind of test Elias preferred.

  Without a word, he stepped forward into the workshop, eyes already scanning the projects.

  Elias disappeared into the sea of half-formed commissions, silent as a blade drawn in fog.

  Harren watched him go, then exhaled slowly.

  No use hovering.

  He turned on his heel and headed toward the main floor of the guild’s forge complex.

  This was his own test: managing the chaos.

  Already, the workhouse was alive with the thunder of hammers, the roar of furnaces, the hiss of steam. Apprentices bustled between stations, journeymen barked orders, and senior smiths labored over complex projects.

  It would’ve been easy for things to spiral.

  Too many bodies, too much heat, too many egos.

  But Harren wasn’t a rookie.

  He strode through the rows, a heavy clipboard tucked under his arm, sharp eyes flickering over each workstation.

  First priority: Safety.

  One apprentice’s grip was too loose; Harren corrected him with a barked word and a hand gesture. Another had let their forge burn too hot; he yanked the bellows himself, restoring balance.

  Second priority: Materials.

  Copper sheets meant for decorative plates were being mistakenly taken for wiring. Harren rerouted the runners, mentally rebalancing material loads on the fly.

  Third priority: Efficiency.

  No wasted time. No wasted heat.

  Every forge cycle mattered.

  He reorganized three work orders with brutal speed, shifting two smiths onto shared tasks that better matched their skills.

  In less than a minute, the room’s rhythm shifted.

  Smoother. Faster.

  He wasn’t just managing a forge.

  He was conducting a bloody orchestra of iron and fire.

  Two hours passed like that—every second full.

  Every second vital.

  When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the second phase, Harren felt a bead of sweat roll down his back.

  He ignored it.

  Instead, he glanced toward the commission hall, where Elias was emerging, his tray carefully balanced between both hands.

  Three finished works gleamed on the velvet.

  And even from a distance, Harren could tell:

  They were good.

  Really good.

  He allowed himself a tight, private smile.

  Maybe he really had found something rare.

  _____

  The inspectors moved down the line, evaluating each candidate’s output with ruthless efficiency.

  When they reached Elias’s table, a brief pause rippled through the group.

  Not hesitation — interest.

  The lead inspector, an older man with a bristly grey beard and sharp, ink-stained hands, leaned over Elias’s tray. His gaze flicked from the mundane hammer to the reinforced chisel to the alloyed horseshoe—each piece simple in purpose, but visibly… better.

  He picked up the chisel first, turning it over in the light. Ran a thumb over the blade.

  Frowned thoughtfully.

  Then the horseshoe.

  Then the hammer.

  Minutes ticked by.

  Finally, he set them down with a soft clink and looked Elias dead in the eye.

  “You work mundane materials,” the man said, voice low and measured, “better than some of the registered master smiths I’ve inspected in the capital.”

  A ripple of murmured surprise moved through the apprentices standing nearby.

  Elias simply blinked, silent.

  “But—” the inspector continued, tone sharpening slightly, “your handling of enchanted alloys and magical reagents is lacking. Surface integration is uneven. Mana pathways aren’t properly harmonized. You treated the metals like common steel.”

  A severe criticism.

  But a fair one.

  Elias nodded once, accepting it without flinching.

  The inspector leaned closer, narrowing his eyes.

  “Tell me, how are you able to refine basic metals this cleanly? These grains—” he tapped the horseshoe lightly with a fingernail, producing a clear, pure ring, “—aren’t just lucky. You engineered them.”

  Elias hesitated for half a breath, then answered.

  “Alloys,” he said simply. “Proper mixtures. Precise ratios. Minor impurities removed before the first heat, not after. Controlled cooling to guide crystal growth instead of letting it happen randomly.”

  The inspector’s eyebrows rose.

  “You speak as if you’ve studied under a master metallurgist.”

  “In a way,” Elias said quietly, thinking back to long nights in his old life, hunched over textbooks and battered forges.

  The inspector made a soft grunt of approval.

  Not warm — but not dismissive, either.

  “You have an eye for materials, boy,” he said. “That can’t be taught easily. It’ll serve you well if you learn to handle the magical ones with the same respect.”

  He turned crisply, making a few swift notes in his ledger.

  Then, without looking back:

  “Pass. With commendation and if you’re looking for some education on magical materials… come find me when you pass.”

  “when” Elias smiled.

  Harren, standing off to the side, felt a grin tugging at his face despite himself.

  Strange lad.

  Silent, awkward as a jammed bolt.

  But the kind of raw, ferocious talent that came along maybe once in a lifetime.