Birth Of A Sect

As the last echoes of Gruxgar's hammer faded into the depths of the Fallen Keep, a heavy stillness settled over the forge chamber. The Emberheart Anvil, its runes now dimmed to a soft, rhythmic glow, had spoken—whispering its approval in the raw, molten power now coursing through Ironrend. The once-battered war hammer had transformed. The steel was darker, imbued with the heat of the forge, and the runes etched into its surface pulsed faintly, as if alive. 

Gruxgar lifted the reforged weapon, his fingers tightening around its grip. The moment his calloused hands closed over the hilt, a surge of energy raced through his body, burning through his veins like molten iron. His breath hitched as visions flashed before his eyes—scenes of warriors clashing in brutal duels, of battlefields littered with broken steel and shattered bodies. The war hammer thrummed in his grip, as though eager to be tested. 

Darian stepped forward, his keen eyes locked onto the transformed weapon. "So? Feel any different, or do you just look meaner?" he asked, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. 

Gruxgar exhaled sharply and swung Ironrend in a slow, deliberate arc. The weight was the same, yet different—more refined, as if the weapon had become an extension of his will. The moment the hammer completed its arc, the very air rippled around it, a shockwave distorting the space in its wake. Dust and debris lifted from the ground, spiraling outward in response to the weapon's newfound might. 

Eilwyn, ever the scholar, narrowed his eyes. "That's not just reforging. That's awakening." He stepped closer, carefully tracing the glowing runes with a practiced eye. "This weapon... it has a will of its own now. You've forged something beyond mere steel, Gruxgar. You've given it a soul." 

Gruxgar snorted. "A soul, huh? If it does have one, it's probably just as stubborn and ornery as me." He glanced at the weapon, rolling his shoulders as the lingering burn of the forging process settled into his muscles. "Guess that makes us a good match." 

Darian crossed his arms. "We've come here, reforged your weapon, and discovered something ancient and powerful. But what's next? You've been talking about forging a new path, a new way of fighting. A sect, right?" 

Gruxgar's expression darkened with thought. He turned to the Emberheart Anvil, running his fingers across its scarred surface. "Yeah," he murmured. "A sect that blends blacksmithing with martial arts. One where warriors don't just wield weapons—they create them, bond with them, forge new techniques as naturally as breathing." His gaze flickered toward the runes lining the walls. "We'll use what we've learned here, the forgotten arts buried in this place, and mix them with our own skills. We'll craft weapons that evolve with us, that grow stronger as we do. A sect that doesn't just follow the old ways—we'll carve out a new legend." 

Darian chuckled. "That's all well and good, but a sect needs more than three people." 

Gruxgar smirked, hefting Ironrend onto his shoulder. "Then we'll find the right ones. We'll gather warriors, outcasts, and anyone willing to hammer their own fate into shape. And we'll make sure the world remembers our name." 

Eilwyn arched an eyebrow. "And what name would that be?" 

Gruxgar exhaled, his gaze fixed on the anvil, on the iron dust that lingered in the air, on the raw potential hanging thick in the silence. Then, with a sharp grin, he spoke: 

"Ironfang." 

The word settled into the air like a hammer striking steel—sharp, unyielding, and full of promise. 

A new sect was born. 

A new legend had begun

A sect's name meant nothing without strength to back it. And in this world, strength was earned in blood and fire. 

The Fallen Keep, though long abandoned, was not unclaimed. As Gruxgar, Darian, and Eilwyn stepped out of the forge chamber and into the crumbling courtyard, the sharp snap of a twig cut through the silence. Instincts honed by battle flared to life. 

Gruxgar's grip on Ironrend tightened. "Company," he muttered, his voice low and steady. 

Darian's hand drifted to the hilt of his sabre, his stance shifting slightly, weight balanced. "We expecting guests?" 

Eilwyn, ever watchful, murmured something under his breath, his fingers curling slightly—magic coiled, ready to be unleashed. 

Then, they came. 

From the shadows of the ruined battlements, figures emerged—rough men, clad in scavenged armor, their weapons dull but plentiful. Bandits. Opportunists who had claimed the Fallen Keep as their own hunting grounds. Their leader, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, sneered as he rested a jagged axe on his shoulder. 

"Well, well," he drawled, looking them over with the casual confidence of someone who had gutted men for less. "Looks like we got ourselves some lost souls." His eyes flicked to Gruxgar's hammer, still pulsing with embers from the reforging process. "And by the look of that fancy weapon, I'd say you've got something worth taking." 

Gruxgar exhaled through his nose, amused. "That so?" 

Scarface grinned, flashing yellowed teeth. "Now, I'm a reasonable man. Hand over your weapons, your coin, and maybe—just maybe—I'll let you crawl out of here with your legs still attached." 

Silence. 

Then, Gruxgar laughed. Not a polite chuckle, but a deep, rumbling, guttural sound—like a forge roaring to life. His shoulders shook, and Darian merely sighed, rubbing his forehead. 

"Ah, shit," Darian muttered. "You've gone and made him laugh." 

Gruxgar took a step forward, the weight of Ironrend shifting in his grip. The ground cracked slightly beneath his boot. "Let me tell you how this is gonna go," he said, his tone light but laced with something dark and unrelenting. "You lot are gonna rush me, thinking numbers will save you. And in the span of a few heartbeats, I'm gonna turn the lot of you into meat chunks." 

Scarface's expression darkened. "Cocky little—" 

He never finished. 

Gruxgar moved. 

Ironrend came down like the fist of an angry god. The first bandit in his path didn't even have time to scream. One moment, he was standing, sword raised—the next, his entire torso exploded into a spray of crimson mist and shattered bone. His legs, now unburdened by a torso, staggered for a brief second before collapsing. 

The courtyard erupted into chaos. 

Darian danced forward, his sabre flashing like a silver streak, slashing through flesh with ruthless efficiency. Eilwyn, his normally calm demeanor now sharp with focus, murmured a spell—ethereal vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around the legs of their enemies, locking them in place just long enough for Gruxgar to turn them into paste. 

Gruxgar fought like a living forge spirit—every swing of Ironrend sent bodies flying, bones crushed into powder. One bandit foolishly tried to parry his hammer with a sword. The steel shattered on impact, along with the poor bastard's wrist, arm, and ribcage. Another tried to strike from behind. Without looking, Gruxgar pivoted, swinging Ironrend in a wide arc—catching the man's skull with a sickening crunch. The bandit's head twisted grotesquely before separating from his body entirely. 

The remaining few hesitated, stepping back in fear. 

"Run," Darian advised them, flicking blood from his blade. "Or end up like your friends." 

Scarface, once so confident, now looked pale. He spat on the ground, snarling. "You don't know who you're messing with." 

Gruxgar rolled his shoulders. "Yeah? You don't seem to know who *you* just pissed off either." He pointed Ironrend at the man. "You get one chance. Leave. Now. Or I send you to meet your gods in pieces." 

Scarface hesitated. His pride warred with the survival instincts screaming at him to flee. 

Then, he turned and ran. 

The few remaining bandits followed, disappearing into the night. 

Gruxgar let out a breath, glancing at the carnage they had left behind. Blood pooled in the cracks of the courtyard stone, bodies lay twisted and ruined. 

Darian sheathed his sabre. "Well, that was a mess." 

Eilwyn inspected the corpses with clinical detachment. "Unremarkable. Scavengers with no discipline." He looked up at Gruxgar. "You didn't need to be *that* brutal." 

Gruxgar snorted. "They wanted a lesson. I gave 'em one they won't forget." He turned his gaze toward the ruined keep, toward the forge that still pulsed with promise. "We claim this place. Ironfang needs a home. And this?" He gestured around. "This is as good a place as any to start." 

Darian grinned. "Well then, let's get to work." 

As the bodies cooled and the keep stood witness to yet another chapter of bloodshed, the Ironfang Sect took its first true step into the world. 

And the world would soon learn to fear its name. 

The Fallen Keep had earned its name, but now, under new hands, it would rise again—not as a ruin, but as a fortress. 

Gruxgar surveyed the stone walls, still solid despite years of neglect. Moss and vines clung to the edges, the old banners of forgotten warlords reduced to tattered rags. Blood from the earlier battle still streaked the courtyard, soaking into the cracked stone. But where others might see decay, Gruxgar saw potential. 

"This place has bones," he muttered, running his hand along the rough stone. "Just needs muscle and fire." 

Darian wiped sweat from his brow, flicking a severed finger off his boot. "Aye, but muscle takes men, and fire takes fuel. You planning on forging an army out of thin air?" 

Eilwyn, standing beside them, adjusted his robes. "The keep has some defenses left—fortified walls, a defensible position, even remnants of enchantments woven into the stone. But we need people. Builders, fighters, blacksmiths." 

Gruxgar cracked his knuckles. "Then we find 'em." 

Darian gave a dry chuckle. "Oh sure, let's just walk into a town and ask folks if they wanna move into a murder keep. Sounds easy." 

Gruxgar smirked. "Not just any town. If we want warriors, we go where the desperate and dangerous gather. Mercenaries, wandering martial artists, outcasts—people who don't fit into the tidy little rules of the world." 

Eilwyn's eyes narrowed. "The Broken Tooth Market." 

Darian whistled. "That wretched hive of scum and villainy? Good call." 

The Broken Tooth Market wasn't a town so much as a lawless trading hub—where smugglers, sellswords, and rogue sect members gathered to trade goods, buy weapons, and hire mercenaries. Gold spoke louder than honor there, and might made right. If there was anywhere to recruit talent, it was there. 

Gruxgar tightened the straps on his pack, Ironrend slung across his back. "Then that's where we go." 

The Road to the Broken Tooth

Three days of travel through rugged terrain led them to the outskirts of the market. 

The first sign they were close was the smell—woodsmoke, sweat, and the unmistakable coppery tang of blood. The Broken Tooth Market was less a town and more a sprawling collection of tents, waggons, and hastily built wooden structures. Campfires burned in the open, figures clad in mismatched armour bartered over weapons, and mercenaries sparred in open circles to settle disputes. 

Gruxgar took a deep breath. "Ahh. Smells like opportunity." 

Darian wrinkled his nose. "Smells like unwashed bandits." 

Eilwyn ignored them both, already scanning the area with sharp eyes. "We'll need a plan. If we walk in and just announce we're recruiting, we'll be laughed at or gutted." 

Gruxgar smirked. "Then we don't ask. We show." 

Darian groaned. "You're gonna start a fight, aren't you?" 

Gruxgar cracked his knuckles. "It's the best way to earn respect in a place like this." 

And so, with Ironrend resting on his shoulder, the dwarf strode into the heart of the Broken Tooth Market, ready to make an impression. 

The Broken Tooth Market didn't just welcome violence—it *thrived* on it. 

Gruxgar, Darian, and Eilwyn walked down the muddy main path, past merchants peddling contraband weapons, slavers displaying chained captives, and alchemists hawking dubious potions that promised strength, speed, or an early grave. Everywhere, men and women with the hard eyes of killers lurked, watching, weighing threats against opportunity. 

It was the kind of place where strength dictated status. And Gruxgar had every intention of establishing his. 

A circular pit lay in the heart of the market, surrounded by a makeshift wooden fence. It was where disputes were settled, debts repaid in blood, and names were carved into legend. Fighters duelled for sport, wagers, and sheer pride. 

Gruxgar stomped toward the pit, stepping up onto the crude wooden railing. "OI!" His voice thundered over the crowd, cutting through the noise of haggling and drunken laughter. Heads turned. Conversations hushed. 

"I'm looking for warriors," Gruxgar declared. "Mercenaries, killers, fighters—anyone who knows their way around a battlefield. But I ain't interested in weaklings." He swung Ironrend off his back and drove its head into the dirt with a heavy *THUD*. "So if you think you're strong enough, step up." His lips curled into a sharp grin. "And I'll break you." 

The market erupted into jeers and laughter. 

A tall, broad-shouldered man in piecemeal armour shoved through the crowd. He had the look of a veteran—scarred knuckles, a flattened nose, and eyes that had seen too much. A notched greatsword rested against his shoulder. 

"You got a mouth on you, dwarf," the man sneered. "You sure your short legs can keep up?" 

Gruxgar rolled his shoulders. "We'll see soon enough." 

The crowd roared its approval as both men stepped into the pit. 

The moment the fight began, the mercenary lunged. He moved fast for his size, his greatsword carving a deadly arc. Most would have dodged. Gruxgar did not. 

He stepped *into* the strike. 

Ironrend rose to meet the blade, and the impact sent a shockwave through the pit. Sparks flew as steel met enchanted iron. The crowd gasped as the mercenary staggered backward, his arms rattled by the sheer force of Gruxgar's counter. 

"Too slow," Gruxgar grunted. 

The mercenary snarled and swung again, this time in a desperate flurry of slashes, trying to overwhelm. Gruxgar weaved through them with practiced ease, ducking, sidestepping, letting the blade whistle past his face by inches. Then, he struck. 

Ironrend crashed into the mercenary's ribs. Bone crunched. The man's feet left the ground as he was sent sprawling. He tried to rise—only for Gruxgar's boot to slam into his chest, pinning him down. 

"Yield," Gruxgar said. 

The mercenary gasped for air, blood dripping from his lips. But there was no defiance in his eyes—only stunned respect. He coughed, then nodded. 

"I yield." 

Gruxgar stepped back, turning to the gathered crowd. "Who's next?" 

More came. A swordsman with a jagged blade, a brawler with fists like bricks, a rogue who thought speed would save him. Gruxgat crushed them all. Some he broke bones, others he humiliated. But with every fight, the murmurs in the crowd changed—from mockery to interest. 

By the time the fifth fighter collapsed at his feet, breathing raggedly through broken teeth, the market had turned. 

A grizzled man in a battered coat, missing an eye and several fingers, pushed through the spectators. He studied Gruxgar, then let out a dry chuckle. "Hells, you got iron in your bones, dwarf." He gestured to a cluster of fighters behind him—mercenaries, cutthroats, veterans. "You want warriors? You got 'em." 

Darian leaned against the railing, smirking. "Well, that was quick." 

Gruxgar wiped blood from his forehead, grinning. "Told you. You don't *ask* in a place like this. You *show*." 

And with that, the first warriors of the Ironfang Sect were gathered. 

The night after Gruxgar's victory, the Broken Tooth Market was abuzz with talk of the dwarf who had crushed five warriors back-to-back. His name—still unknown to most—was already being whispered in corners, alongside drunken wagers and hushed speculation.

But Gruxgar wasn't celebrating. He was working.

Inside a rundown blacksmith's stall he had temporarily rented, the forge roared with fresh flames, licking the walls with hungry heat. Sweat dripped down his brow as he hammered out weapons—simple ones, for now. Nothing grand, nothing legendary, but weapons suited for battle nonetheless.

Outside, the first recruits of what would become the Ironfang Sect waited.

Darian sat on a barrel, sipping from a flask. "You sure this is the best way to start? You fight a bunch of bastards, tell 'em you're forming a sect, and now what? You gonna dress 'em in matching uniforms next?"

Gruxgar didn't look up from his work. "No uniforms. Just weapons. We need real fighters, not boys playing soldier."

Eilwyn leaned against the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. "And what exactly is this 'Ironfang Sect' supposed to be?"

Gruxgar set down his hammer and wiped his hands on a soot-stained cloth. "A force. A brotherhood. A place for warriors who don't belong anywhere else." He smirked. "And a means to make a damn good profit while we're at it."

Darian raised an eyebrow. "So… mercenaries?"

"Better than mercenaries," Gruxgar said. He picked up Ironrend and rested it against his shoulder. "Mercenaries fight for coin. We'll fight for reputation. For dominance. When someone hires us, they're not just paying for swords—they're paying for fear."

Eilwyn's lips curled into a smirk. "Ambitious."

Gruxgar nodded. "Aye. But first, we need to see what these recruits are made of."

The Test of Blood

Morning came, and with it, the first true trial of the Ironfang Sect.

The new recruits—about twenty in total—stood in the open yard outside the market's walls. Most were hardened killers, men and women who had seen battle before. Some were former mercenaries, others exiles from sects or outlawed clans. They weren't green boys eager to prove themselves—they were wolves, and wolves didn't follow weak leaders.

Grusgar stood before them, arms crossed. "You want to fight for the Ironfang? Then prove you're worth my time."

He pointed to the center of the yard, where a wooden ring had been set up.

"Last five standing are in. The rest? Find another cause to die for."

The crowd muttered. Some laughed. Some sneered.

Then the first man rushed forward.

What followed was less of a tournament and more of a bloodbath. There were no rules, no turns, no honor. It was a raw, brutal melee where only the strongest—or the smartest—survived.

Some fought with fists, others with knives. Bones snapped, teeth were shattered, blood painted the dirt. A man tried to strangle another, only to have his nose bitten clean off. A woman wielding twin daggers slit two throats before taking an axe to the chest.

Through it all, Gruxgar watched.

He wasn't looking for the fastest, or the strongest. He was looking for those who fought like they wanted to live—those who wouldn't break when things got ugly.

When the dust settled, five figures remained.

FiveVarka the Butcher – A towering, one-eyed warrior who wielded a cleaver as big as a man's leg. Exiled from a northern sect for excessive cruelty.

Silkfang – A wiry woman covered in scars, once an assassin for a fallen noble house.

Hrothgar Ironspine – A former mercenary captain, old but still deadly.

Juno the Red – A rogue martial artist with wild red hair and a love for chaos.

Grim – A silent, masked warrior with a curved blade and no past he cared to share.

They stood before Gruxgar, bruised, bleeding, but still standing.

He nodded. "Welcome to the Ironfang."

Darian exhaled. "Hells, I like this lot."

Eilwyn smirked. "This might actually work."

Gruxgar looked out at the ruined battlefield, the bodies of the fallen still twitching in the dirt. He grinned.

This was just the beginning.