Ch 471: Steel in the Shadows, Fear in the Spine

They came at night, as all cowards do.

Six men, cloaked and shrouded, blades blackened to avoid gleam, faces hidden behind veils soaked in whisper-oil. Not common thugs—no, these were professionals. Trained in the Silent Isles, schooled in the arts of shadow and joint-crippling. Their target was not to be killed. That would make him a martyr. No, their task was crueler: break the hands that built the world anew.

The alley behind Kalem's forge-lodge was chosen for the strike. He often stepped out there for air during the deep hours, when most slept and only embers stirred.

They waited. Blades drawn. Poisons laced. A net of iron wire rigged across the cobbles, meant to catch his limbs as he stepped out.

And then, the door creaked.

Out stepped a figure—shirtless, pale-skinned, arms long as a giant's reach, scars crisscrossing like a map of old battles. His hair glowed faint under moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes burned like iron in a furnace.

Kalem.

The leader of the blades hesitated.

"Now," one whispered.

"No," said another. "Wait—he's not armed."

But they were wrong. Kalem was always armed.

The moment the wire snapped up, Kalem moved—not with panic, but with precision. One step forward, weight shifted, foot pressed to the wall. He vaulted straight upward, dodging the whip-snap trap by instinct alone.

Steel rang.

A dagger flew at his chest.

Kalem's hand whipped forward. Warhawk appeared, called from the void—a blade as tall as a man, curved like a falcon's claw. It cleaved the dagger in two mid-air. Sparks danced.

The alley exploded into motion. But not for long.

One lunged—Kalem sidestepped and rammed the hilt of Warhawk into his knee. Bone crunched like dry bread.

Another tried to slip behind him. Kalem back-kicked, elbowed, and seized the man by the belt and collar, slamming him into the wall with enough force to bend brick.

The remaining three backed away.

"Fall back!" the leader hissed. "He's—he's the one!"

Kalem didn't chase. He simply stood, bare-chested, half-lit by forge-glow. "You're not Red Oath," he said plainly. "You're not even third-rate mercenaries."

One tried to throw down a smoke orb. Kalem raised his hand. Sol came crashing from the forge roof like a comet, striking the ground behind the retreating men and igniting the powder before it could spread. A burst of light swallowed the alley. When it faded, the attackers were on their knees, groaning, clutching blind eyes.

Garrick stood in the doorway now, holding a lantern.

"I was writing," he said mildly. "You interrupted a fine paragraph."

Kalem walked over, grabbed a bucket, and upended it over the would-be assassins. Water splashed. One choked.

"Who sent you?" Kalem asked the groaning leader.

The man spat blood. "You'll find out soon enough."

Kalem crouched, expression unreadable. "No," he said. "I'll forget you by morning."

And with that, he stood and walked back into the forge, leaving them for the guard.

Hours later, word reached the high merchant spires.

It was delivered by a shaking apprentice who could barely speak for terror.

The archon of the merchant lords—Lady Virelle the Binder—read the report in silence. Her jaw clenched tighter with each word. By the end, she dropped the parchment as though it stung her.

"He folded Red Oath," she said aloud, eyes blank. "He felled Ardra the Mad in a single stroke."

One of her advisors swallowed. "It seems the stories were not... embellished."

Virelle turned slowly to him. "You sent six cutthroats to break the hands of the Lord of Armaments?"

"They were trained—"

"So was Red Oath."

Silence.

Then she whispered, "We must rethink this."

Garrick, for his part, was already drafting the account.

They came for his hands—the hands that built carts and gears, lifts and locks, the hands that gave bread to the hungry and work to the forgotten. But those hands were born of fire and war, and even unarmed, they remembered.

He closed the folio and looked to Kalem, who sat now at his bench, as calm as if he hadn't just torn a trained strike team to shreds.

"You knew they'd come," Garrick said.

"I was hoping they'd wait until I finished the folding pump," Kalem replied.

"Should I write this down?"

"If you must. Just don't make it sound dramatic. I didn't even sweat."

"You summoned Sol through a roof."

Kalem shrugged. "Roof wasn't bolted properly."

Elsewhere, whispers spread.

In taverns, in mines, in trader-halls, the story moved faster than horses.

They tried to cripple him.

He didn't run.

He didn't draw blood.

He only sent them back broken.

And in the dark corners of ruined guildhalls, the fear took root.

It was not the fear of a man.

It was the fear of a change they could not stop, could not kill, and most terrifying of all—

Could not control.