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The clang of steel had become a familiar refrain in Markus's workshop, day after day. A week had passed since Donte truly began integrating the Flow cycle into his forging routine, and each dawn saw him stepping through the doors with a quiet determination. He'd learned to pace his breath, time his hammer strikes, and keep from collapsing—small triumphs that each felt monumental.
Today, the morning sun filtered through dusty windows, illuminating racks of half-finished blades and scattered gun barrels. Donte stood at the anvil, sweat beading on his brow as he hammered a short iron rod into the shape of a spear tip. The orange glow of heated metal licked the edges of the iron, sparks dancing each time the hammer connected. A week ago, this would've left him gasping in minutes, but the Flow technique—inhale, raise, exhale, strike—kept him steady.
He paused to reheat the metal in the forge, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. Markus leaned against a metal post nearby, his mechanical arm folded across his torso.
"You're not panting for dear life," Markus observed, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. "Another day, another step, huh?"
Donte nodded, pulling the iron free of the coals. "The breathing cycle helps. I can last an hour or more now."
Markus gave an approving grunt. "Good. You'll need that stamina if you ever try… more advanced forging methods."
Donte's heart fluttered. They both knew "more advanced" referred to Donte's ties to an ancient, forgotten language. Markus was aware Donte's class was unusual, that it dealt with a lore nobody remembered, but he didn't press for details, and Donte didn't volunteer them.
Setting the metal back on the anvil, Donte hammered out the final shape of the spear tip. Each strike felt purposeful. Every time the iron glowed a fraction too dull, he paused, heated it again, and repeated the process. A dozen careful hits later, the spear tip took rudimentary form—a small triumph but a sign of progress.
When he finished, he set it aside on a cooling rack, shoulders tingling with a pleasant fatigue. "That'll do for now," he murmured.
Markus nodded, pushing off from the post. "We'll refine it tomorrow. For now, yard drills. Spear stances."
Donte wiped his hands clean, following him outside. The yard behind the workshop was enclosed by corrugated metal fencing. Old mechanical scraps lay in random piles. The sun cast a bright glare, making the dirt glimmer in places. Donte swallowed, bracing for more training.
Markus retrieved a dull practice spear from the fence, handing it over. "Same routine—footwork, step-lunge, pivot. Maintain that Flow cycle. Don't slip."
Donte planted his feet, recalled the breathing pattern, and began. He advanced and retreated, pivoting around imaginary targets. Each breath anchored his posture, preventing the frantic stumbles he once had. The yard's dryness hit his throat, but he endured. A few minutes later, a sweat-drenched calm settled over him—a sign of improvement.
Markus let him run through the motions for a time, correcting a foot or an elbow now and then. Eventually, he signaled a stop. "You're stable. Keep it up."
Donte lowered the spear, arms burning. "Thanks."
They stepped back inside, the shift in light making Donte blink. He set the practice spear on a rack near the door, recalling how exhausted he would've been a week ago from just forging. Now, he could handle forging plus basic spear drills with enough stamina to spare.
"Take five," Markus said, crossing to a battered trunk on a side table. "We'll do more forging later, but I've got errands to run."
Donte inhaled, nodding. He grabbed a canteen and poured a little water down his parched throat. The workshop's interior carried the tang of heated metal and burnt scale, oddly comforting. Markus rummaged in the trunk, pulling out some scattered rods and smaller scraps, then left with them, muttering about a neighbor who needed quick repairs. Within a moment, Donte was alone in the workshop.
He stood in silence, letting his eyes wander over the disorganized piles of leftover pieces from forging sessions. A half-smile flickered across his face. A free moment, alone. Maybe time to experiment further with what his class could do—he'd been meaning to push beyond mere forging.
During the last week, he'd tested a fraction of Runesmith on small scraps. He discovered he could trace faint runic lines, only to watch them flicker with unstable power before he cut them off, wary of draining himself. He'd gleaned that real-life runic usage demanded a synergy he hadn't fully grasped.
Now, he stepped to a corner table holding a chunk of leftover steel. He lifted it, feeling the weight in his hand. If he tried a small runic inscription?
His heart thumped. The Flow cycle might keep him from fainting. He cast a look at the door—Markus was gone. This was his chance to push the boundary.
Holding the chunk steady, Donte focused inward, recalling the subtle hum that came with his link to that ancient language. Nothing flamboyant—just a tiny line. He conjured a fraction of Runesmith. That familiar tingle crept from his shoulders down to his fingertips.
He pressed a fingertip to the metal, imagining a tiny symbol. Heat thrummed in his chest. Slowly, a faint glow traced a shape on the steel surface—something reminiscent of TARR or NAL. The forging environment in his mind had taught him these shapes, but seeing them appear in real metal felt surreal.
Then the strain hit.
A spike of dizziness threatened. He inhaled sharply, forcing the Flow cycle to guide him. Inhale—brace, exhale—control. The glow wavered but held. Not for long, though. When he tried to finalize the shape, a wave of exhaustion barreled into his mind, forcing him to sever the attempt. The partial rune vanished, leaving only a dull line scorched into the steel.
He gasped, reeling from the minor skill usage. At least he hadn't crashed to the floor. That was progress. A week ago, such an attempt might've knocked him out. Now, he stood upright, winded but intact.
"Better," he breathed. No illusions—just real forging synergy. But still nowhere near forging a complete runic inscription.
He set the chunk down, letting his heart settle. Markus knows I have some runic ties, he reminded himself, but it's best if he doesn't see me pushing this too fast. He exhaled, shaky but exhilarated. Step by step, indeed.
A short while later, he glanced at the battered trunk near the side. Another skill tugged at his thoughts: Structural Scan, a sense that let him perceive mechanical integrity. He'd never tried it outside quick fantasies. Now might be the time.
He crossed the workshop, picking up a broken gear assembly from the trunk—a leftover piece from an old Church-blessed contraption. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the Flow cycle, letting it form a cushion around his senses. Then he reached for the subtle hum near his collarbone, where he sensed Structural Scan might reside.
Focus…
He activated it, feeling a mild swirl in his chest. Nothing explosive. His vision latched onto the gear's shape. Tiny hairline cracks and worn edges glowed faintly in his peripheral mind. It was like an overlay—he saw stress points, misalignments. Marvelous clarity.
But within seconds, the cost flared. His mind reeled; a dizzy ache pounded behind his eyes. He broke the skill off, nearly dropping the gear. The pain receded, leaving a mild headache. Again, not a total collapse—an improvement, but still draining.
He set the gear down, pressing a hand to his forehead. "That's… intense," he whispered, massaging his temples. He pictured how easily these abilities might manifest in a stable environment, yet real usage hammered him. Another small step forward, though.
Minutes passed, letting him recover before Markus returned. When the older man did reappear, arms empty, Donte forced a neutral stance.
"Neighbor wanted me to fix a squeaky gate—turns out it was half rusted. I told them to replace it," Markus said, eyeing Donte. "You good?"
Donte nodded, keeping calm. "Just tired from forging."
Markus's gaze flicked across the workshop, but he said nothing more. Donte felt relief. He believed Markus wouldn't blow his cover, but it was simpler if he didn't see the half-burned runic line on the steel chunk or guess about Structural Scan
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The day advanced through more forging tasks—Donte hammered out additional knife shapes and small brackets, weaving the Flow cycle into every strike. By mid-afternoon, his arms ached with real, physical fatigue, but the crippling exhaustion of older days stayed at bay.
Eventually, Markus called it. "That's enough forging. You look spent." He put a finishing clamp onto a metal brace, stepping away from the anvil. "You've earned the rest of the day."
Donte exhaled, setting down the hammer with trembling fingers. "Thanks."
Markus rummaged near a battered trunk on the side, retrieving a worn, steel-bound tome. Faint lines of Thalics etched the cover—the official script recognized by the Church. He turned to Donte, tone gruff but not unkind. "Since you can hold your own forging for an hour or two, we'll start real lessons on this tomorrow."
Donte walked over, curiosity sparked. "Thalics. Right. That's the recognized method of enchantment."
Markus nodded, flipping the tome open. "Yeah. Basic lines for durability, edges, synergy. The Church's official script. If you want to pass as a normal crafter, you need to know these. Especially if you start forging beyond mundane items."
Donte studied the swirling text. It looked more like paragraphs than single symbols, unlike the runes he'd glimpsed earlier. "Makes sense. And the item grading system, that's in here too?"
"Exactly," Markus said, tapping a page. "Standard, Refined, Advanced, Master, Legendary. Each tier demands more complex Thalics lines. The Church sells official seals for each rank, making a tidy profit from crafters."
Donte bobbed his head, imagining how it might help disguise his own runic attempts if he built up a repertoire of Thalics lines. "So we do the basics tomorrow?"
Markus snapped the tome shut, handing it over. "Yep. We'll start with Standard-tier enchantments so you can do repairs without raising suspicion. Then we'll go deeper—maybe Refined lines if you pick it up fast. Just… keep in mind your hidden powers might slip out if you're sloppy."
Donte accepted the tome, hugging it against his side. "I'll be careful."
Markus fixed him with a measured look. "I know you've got that… ancient script angle. But trust me: Thalics is your safety net. The Church won't bat an eye at normal enchant lines. They'd definitely investigate if they saw unknown runic symbols from old lore."
Donte forced a nod, recalling the faint scorch line he'd managed to imprint on scrap metal earlier. "I appreciate it."
"Good," Markus said. "We might talk about advanced forging soon—maybe real synergy if you prove stable." He paused, eyeing Donte briefly. "And if you keep at it, there's a place folks like you eventually go: The Core Hunt Authority."
Donte blinked. "The what?"
Markus cocked an eyebrow. "The Core Hunt Authority. An organization that recruits strong or talented class holders—like crafters, hunters, fighters. They handle high-level resource gathering, big jobs, dangerous hunts. I guess you never heard?"
Donte shook his head. Then, a faint memory stirred: wandering the city streets with Vespera after the ceremony, glimpsing a large, ornate building with a stylized 'CHA' emblem near the upper district. Back then, he hadn't known or cared what it was. "I think I saw their building once with Vespera… after the ceremony. It looked important."
"Yeah, well, they're a big deal. If you get good at forging or develop your class further, you can sign up. But that's a ways off," Markus said, stepping away from the trunk. "Focus on not killing yourself first, yeah?"
A small thrill ran through Donte's chest despite the caution. He wasn't ready, but the notion of a recognized place for advanced crafters lit a spark of possibility. "Right," he managed, "maybe someday."
"Someday," Markus echoed. Then he jerked his chin toward the door. "All right. Day's done. Go rest. Don't burn yourself out messing with that older knowledge on your own, got it?"
Donte offered a small, sheepish grin. He trusted Markus in principle, but best not to confirm any secret experiments. "I'll be responsible."
A grunt of acceptance from Markus. Donte turned away, forging a path through the workshop's scattered scraps. The battered tome in his arms felt weighty, a new piece of the puzzle. As he left the building, stepping into the late-afternoon glow, he marveled at how different life felt now—physical forging by day, quiet explorations of runic powers at the edges of secrecy.
If he could unify them without draining himself to nothing, that would be the real triumph. For now, he'd keep up these hidden trials, strengthening body and skill. Eventually, he'd see how far the synergy of that ancient script and mainstream Thalics could carry him.
Exhaling, he walked into the sun's warmth, arms still thrumming with the aftershocks of forging. A small, determined smile crossed his face. Tomorrow would bring more forging, Flow refinements, and the first official lessons in Thalics. One day, he might even stand among recognized crafters, forging gear that any Church official would see as normal—never guessing at the deeper runic foundation beneath.
And in the back of his mind, he replayed the memory of that imposing 'CHA' emblem he'd spotted with Vespera, now with fresh meaning: the Core Hunt Authority, a possible gateway to bigger hunts, bigger forging projects, bigger challenges. But for now, day by day, piece by careful piece, was more than enough.