Forged Foundations

Dawn broke through the high windows of Markus's workshop, bathing the clutter of steel beams and half-finished rifles in pale gold. The quiet hum of machinery winding down from a night's rest set a subdued tone—though for Donte, the day felt anything but idle. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, standing near a row of battered crates, half-listening to the hiss of the forge's pilot flame. He'd gotten here early, stomach in knots, mind abuzz with memories of the mindscape.

But he wouldn't be repairing runes today.

This morning, Markus had made it clear: training first.

In the corner, Markus double-checked a bundle of heavy rods, glancing over them with a mechanical arm that clinked softly at the joints. He wore a sleeveless coat over a mesh undershirt, revealing old scars lining his forearms—a testament to a life spent in battle or behind molten steel. The motion was unhurried, methodical.

The older man spotted Donte and gave a short nod. "You're here. Good."

Donte walked over. His legs felt sluggish—part anticipation, part leftover fatigue from the day before. He bowed his head briefly. "Morning."

Markus set the rods down with a dull clank. "Took you long enough. We've got a long day—flow technique drills, forging basics, some spear forms, and if you survive all that, maybe you'll learn something about real synergy."

A knot of excitement twisted in Donte's stomach. "I'm ready."

"Then follow me outside," Markus said simply.

He led the way through a side door. Stepping outside, Donte blinked against the crisp morning air. The workshop backed onto a small yard enclosed by corrugated fencing. Rusted scraps piled in corners—old forging discards, mechanical arms beyond salvage, a forest of half-melted rods. The ground was packed dirt, dotted with footprints from years of heavy boots.

Markus stopped near a line of metal posts hammered into the earth. "We'll start with physical conditioning. Flow technique means nothing if your body can't handle the stress."

Donte braced himself. He recalled the single attempt to use runes in the real world—how it sapped him in seconds. Shaking off the memory, he nodded at Markus.

"Five laps around the yard," Markus said, folding his arms. "Not a sprint—just keep moving, let your muscles warm. Then we'll do some dynamic stretches. After that, you learn a more complete version of that breathing cycle."

Donte exhaled and began trotting around the yard. The ground crunched beneath his boots. Morning light hadn't warmed the air much yet, so each breath felt cool in his lungs. He circled the perimeter, passing stacks of twisted steel beams and a cluster of old auto parts. By the third lap, his thighs burned, but the ache felt good—a real, physical anchor, unlike the mindscape's effortless illusions.

Markus watched impassively as he finished the laps, only nodding once when Donte slowed to a stop.

"Decent pace," he remarked. "Now do these." He demonstrated a series of lunges, twists, and arm swings—movements designed to loosen joints and engage the core. Donte followed suit, matching Markus's posture as best he could, ignoring the mild sting in his calves.

By the end of the short routine, a thin sheen of sweat traced Donte's forehead. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Markus gestured for him to come closer.

"Remember the basics I showed you last time," Markus said. "We did a simple breathing cycle, arms lifting and lowering. That was the seed. Today, we expand it. Call this an early scaffolding for your personal Flow Technique."

Donte nodded, inhaling deeply. "I'm listening."

"Good." Markus stood straight, feet shoulder-width apart, knees lightly bent, arms relaxed at his sides. "Now, I want you to sink your weight a fraction—like you're about to fight. Not stiff, not slouching."

Donte mimicked the stance, feeling the tension shift to his legs. The yard's loose dirt scuffed underfoot.

"Arms float up when you inhale, but this time, let them arc outward and then come together near your chest," Markus said, demonstrating a fluid half-circle with his arms. "Exhale as they lower—like a wave washing back to shore."

He repeated it slowly, emphasizing the rhythm. Donte tried to follow, stumbling at first. The movement felt more expansive than the small lift-lower cycle from before. He kept messing up the exhale timing. Markus corrected him gently: a hand on Donte's wrist, adjusting the angle, reminding him to relax his shoulders.

They practiced for several minutes in silence. The yard's still air took on a meditative quality, broken only by faint clangs from within the workshop. Each cycle made Donte more aware of his own posture. He discovered tension in his shoulders he hadn't realized existed, letting it drain with each exhale.

"Good," Markus finally said. "Now the tricky part—footwork. Step forward slightly on the inhale, arms circling outward, then step back on the exhale."

He demonstrated once—perfectly timed, smooth as water. Donte sighed inwardly. The motion looked graceful, but replicating it with the correct breath pattern was no small feat. He tried, stumbling with the step-back portion, almost tangling his feet.

A small smirk crossed Markus's face. "Relax. Don't fight the flow."

Donte nodded, swallowing frustration. He repeated it, slower. Each breath, he stepped forward, arms forming that half-circle, then pivoted slightly and stepped back on the exhale, arms returning. After half a dozen attempts, something clicked. He found a slight harmony: in, arms out, step forward; out, arms in, step back. The yard around him seemed to fade, replaced by the internal sense of moving energy in sync with muscle.

Markus looked on with a faint nod. "That's the gist. No skill usage yet. Just get comfortable."

So Donte cycled again. And again.

Time stretched.

A mild sweat formed along his neck, but the motions never felt exhausting, more… cumulative. Each repetition layered on a deeper familiarity. He noticed how his heart slowed rather than sped, how the tension in his thighs settled into a stable posture.

After a while, Markus spoke up again. "Now imagine your breath is carrying something—a mild current. When you inhale, you draw in your intangible power. When you exhale, you let it flow back, stable and anchored. Don't forcibly channel skill yet, just visualize the path."

Donte tried it. He pictured a soft glow traveling from his feet up into his chest on the inhale, then coasting out along his arms. On the exhale, the imaginary glow retreated, sinking back through his core. Maybe it was a childish image, but he felt his breathing align more consistently.

"That's the start of shaping your personal Flow," Markus said. "Eventually, you'll tailor the path to your class. But for now, standard forms will keep you from passing out when you do real skill usage."

Donte inhaled, stepped forward. The gentle morning sun kissed his arms, and the half-circle motion felt almost natural now. Exhale, step back, arms returning. Over and over. He repeated it until the cycle became second nature, a continuous wave of shifting posture.

Eventually, Markus signaled him to stop. Donte let his arms drop, rolling his shoulders. A mild warmth suffused his core, not unpleasant.

"Not bad," Markus said, picking up a ragged spear shaft from a nearby rack. It was metal—shorter than average, battered, with a dull tip. "Now let's see if you can maintain that breath while doing something more physical. Spear basics."

He tossed the spear to Donte, who caught it with both hands, wincing slightly at the weight. The shaft, though shorter, still weighed more than a standard wooden staff. He recognized it from the workshop's corner—a discard piece waiting for either salvage or meltdown.

"First stance," Markus said. "Feet diagonal, left forward, knees soft. Spear angled across your body."

Donte complied, placing one foot ahead, the other behind. The spear felt awkward in his grip. He tried to recall some of the basic movements from earlier training sessions.

Markus circled him. "Not bad. Now integrate the breathing cycle. Inhale, shift the spear forward slightly. Exhale, revert. Keep the arms free, not stiff. The flow is your anchor, remember?"

Donte nodded, uncertain. He tried stepping forward with the spear, arms forming that half-circle. The extra weight of the metal shaft threw off his center. His foot slid in the loose dirt. He cursed under his breath. But he resumed, inhaling deeply, stepping forward, letting the imagined current guide him.

He exhaled, stepping back, arms returning. After a few tries, he found a sort of synergy—imperfect, but workable. His mind flicked to the illusions in the mindscape where skill usage was so easy. Out here, every motion demanded real, tactile effort.

Yet with each breath, he sensed a faint alignment. The cycle he'd practiced with arms alone meshed with the spear's extension. He didn't feel a surge of skill usage—he wasn't channeling runes, after all—but his core felt stable enough to handle it if he tried.

"Good," Markus said, hand resting on his mechanical arm. "Keep refining that. A spear user's flow can channel energy along the weapon, but only if the base posture is stable."

Donte repeated the forward step, let the imaginary current flow with his breath, and retracted on the exhale. Over time, he took a few jabs, always returning to the cycle. He felt the difference: less lurch, more control. It was a small improvement, but noticeable.

Markus watched silently for a while, then raised a palm. "Enough. Let's not kill your arms on day one. We'll polish that next time."

Donte lowered the spear, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. His pulse beat a steady rhythm, not the frantic pace of overexertion. He felt mild satisfaction at the progress—a stable platform to build on.

Markus motioned him back toward the workshop's side entrance. "Time for forging basics. No runes, no illusions. Just the raw side of the job."

Donte followed him inside, stepping past old crates piled with scrap. The interior air carried that familiar metallic tang, more intense now that the forge heated up for the day. Flames danced at the far side, controlled by mechanical bellows. Tables crowded with half-finished gun parts and lumps of raw iron lined the walls.

Markus led him to a smaller station near the forge—an anvil, tongs, a wide array of hammers. "We'll start you on something simpler than firearms. A small blade, maybe. You need to understand real forging from the ground up."

Donte eyed the lumps of iron in a nearby bin. "A knife?"

"Precisely. A short blade is a perfect canvas—manageable size, straightforward shape. If you do well, we can try a small sword or spearhead next time."

Donte nodded, stepping closer to the anvil. The heat of the forge radiated over him, making sweat bead on his brow once again. He inhaled, recalling the cycle from outside, letting the mild calm settle. No runes. No illusions. Just raw forging.

Markus handed him a chunk of iron. "We'll shape this. Tongs in your off hand, hammer in your main. Watch the temperature carefully. The flow helps you remain steady but doesn't replace skill."

Donte placed the iron into the forge, carefully controlling the bellows with a foot lever. The metal glowed a dull red before shifting toward a brighter orange. He used tongs to extract it and position it on the anvil. Markus guided him through the first strikes, adjusting his hammer angle, reminding him to keep a certain tension in his grip but not to choke the hammer.

The clang of metal on metal rang through the workshop, each strike sending sparks flying. Donte tried to keep that fluid breath from earlier. Inhale—hammer raises. Exhale—hammer drops. Over and over, with the aim of flattening and shaping the iron into a rough blade profile.

Sweat trickled down his spine, each impact jarring his arms. Still, he felt a mild synergy in the repetition—like the flow breathing earlier had warmed his body to handle the cyclical nature of forging. He wasn't channeling TARR or DRAV or any runic concept. Just normal forging. Yet each fluid breath kept him from overstraining.

Markus observed, correcting the angle of the hammer or the position of the tongs. Occasionally, he'd tap Donte's elbow or knee to remind him of posture. In time, the chunk of iron began taking the shape of a crude blade. Donte paused, reheating it in the forge whenever it lost the right glow.

As the session wore on, his arms ached in the real sense—physical exhaustion from actual labor, not magical drain. His mind felt clear, though. No illusions. No runic skill. No headache.

The final shape emerged after nearly an hour of hammering. A short, rough blade—uneven, but definitely a blade form. Markus had him quench it partially, explaining the complexities of heat treatment. Donte listened, though sweat and fatigue made his focus waver.

By the time they finished, the workshop air felt thick with heat and the smell of burnt scale. Donte set the half-formed knife aside, panting softly.

Markus nodded in satisfaction. "Not bad for a first pass. We'll refine it tomorrow—grinding, smoothing, tang shaping. But you see how real forging demands breath, posture, and repetition?"

Donte slumped onto a nearby stool, wiping an arm across his forehead. "I do," he admitted. "I felt the breath cycle help me not gas out so fast."

"Exactly," Markus said. He placed the forging tongs aside and crossed his arms. "That cycle is the seed. We'll expand it into a real Flow Technique over time. Add foot maneuvers, adjust for heavier weapon forging, eventually fuse it with your class skills. But for now, you see the difference?"

Donte managed a tired grin. "It's day and night compared to illusions. Everything out here… costs more. But it's also more tangible."

Markus smirked. "Precisely. You can do wonders in your head, but wonders only matter when they take shape in steel."

Exhaustion weighed on Donte's limbs, but a glimmer of triumph burned in his chest. He'd hammered out a small blade shape, used the breathing cycle to keep from collapsing, and recognized the real meaning of synergy. No runes. No illusions. Just sweat and method.

He exhaled, letting tension drain from his shoulders. "What next?"

Markus gave a rare half-smile. "That's enough forging for the moment. We'll do spear stance improvements and more Flow drilling after lunch. Then tomorrow, you refine the blade. Baby steps."

Donte nodded wearily, pushing aside the stool and standing. Despite the weariness, he felt good—grounded. The memory of being unstoppable in the mindscape had clashed with harsh reality, but he didn't resent it. If anything, he appreciated the challenge. He wanted to earn real synergy, to unify illusions and actual forging skill.

With a faint groan, he stretched his arms overhead, the ache in his muscles a reminder of the morning's exertion. He pictured the mindscape's undone runes. He pictured TARR, NAL, IXA, LUN, DRAV—how each concept might eventually apply in real forging. But not today. He had to build a stable Flow Technique that allowed him to harness them, or else risk burning himself out with a single skill activation.

He walked with Markus toward a makeshift break area in the corner—some stools around a battered table. A half-full jug of water and a few leftover bread rolls from last night's dinner lay waiting.

As they sat, Markus took a swig from the jug. "By the way," he said, wiping his mouth, "Don't think I haven't noticed you're more determined today. Something happen in your head?"

Donte paused, glancing at the older man. He considered mentioning how in his last mindscape session, he'd discovered a new rune. But no—he'd agreed not to talk about the runes this chapter (or day) because the day was about forging with no runes. Instead, he just shook his head and smiled mildly. "Just realized I have a lot of work to do."

Markus grunted, not pressing. "We all do."

They ate in relative quiet, each sip of water refreshing Donte's parched throat. Despite exhaustion, a contentment settled over him. This was real. This was forging a foundation for everything he'd do next—Flow for better synergy, physical training to handle tools, and weapons basics so he wouldn't die if he got into a fight.

The mindscape might keep evolving in leaps and bounds, but out here, he had to walk step by step.

And that was fine.