Chapter 7: Steel and Fire

The rhythmic clang of metal against metal rang through the village air. Dikun followed the sound, the unmistakable hammering of a blacksmith at work. It stirred memories of Bannerlord, where the village smith was often a source of weapons, repairs, and the occasional quest. But as he approached, he reminded himself — this was no longer a game.

The forge stood on the outskirts of Stonehill, a squat structure built of stone and timber. Smoke curled lazily from its chimney, and the scent of burning coal mingled with the metallic tang of molten iron. Crates of raw ore and piles of rusted scrap lay scattered along the perimeter, evidence of the smith's unending labor.

In the heart of it all, the blacksmith worked.

A mountain of a man, his muscled arms gleamed with sweat as he brought the hammer down upon a glowing hunk of steel. Sparks erupted with each strike, the light casting fleeting shadows across his soot-streaked face. His apron, stained with grime, bore the marks of countless days spent at the forge.

Dikun waited, observing the precise, almost rhythmic movements. There was no rush, no wasted motion. Only the steady dance of hammer and steel. It was a craft the blacksmith had likely mastered long before Dikun arrived in this world.

Finally, the blacksmith paused, plunging the newly shaped blade into a barrel of water. Steam hissed violently as the metal cooled. Only then did he turn, his sharp eyes narrowing at Dikun.

"Need something, stranger?" The smith's voice was rough, like gravel grinding beneath a boot.

"I need a sword," Dikun replied plainly. "A good one."

The blacksmith's gaze swept over him, lingering on the dried blood caked to his armor. "Had a run-in with trouble, did you?"

"Something like that."

A low grunt escaped the smith as he wiped his hands on a rag. "Plenty of trouble to go around these days. Bandits, taxes, and lords squabbling over scraps. But steel's always ready for a fight — if you've got the coin."

Dikun nodded, loosening the pouch at his belt. "I've enough for a blade that won't break the first time I swing it."

The blacksmith's lips curled into a faint grin. "Fair enough."

He motioned for Dikun to follow, leading him toward a sturdy wooden rack displaying an array of weapons. Swords, axes, and maces gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. Though none bore the elaborate etchings of noble weapons, they were well-forged — built for those who fought to survive, not for vanity.

"This one," the smith said, lifting a longsword from its rack. "Steel core. Balanced. Good reach, but not so heavy it'll tire you out. A proper soldier's blade."

Dikun took the sword, feeling its weight in his hands. The grip was wrapped in worn leather, molded to fit the hand of a fighter. He gave it a tentative swing, the air parting with a soft whistle. Solid. Reliable.

"How much?"

"Eight silvers."

It was a steep price for a man with dwindling coin, but a worthy investment. Dikun counted the silver from his pouch, each piece clinking against the next. The blacksmith accepted the payment without ceremony, then handed Dikun a simple scabbard.

"You'll want to keep it oiled," the smith advised. "And if it chips, bring it back. I mend what I make."

Dikun nodded in appreciation. "Thank you."

But as he turned to leave, the blacksmith's voice called out once more.

"Stranger."

Dikun glanced back.

"Word spreads quick in villages like this," the smith said, his gaze steady. "Folk are saying you killed some of Jorvik's men. That true?"

"It is."

The blacksmith studied him for a moment. "Then I hope that sword serves you well. You'll need it soon enough."

Dikun said nothing. He didn't need to. The weight of the blade at his side spoke louder than words.

---

The Calm Before the Storm

The sun dipped low as Dikun returned to the village square. A breeze carried the scent of roasted meat from a nearby vendor, but the hunger that gnawed at him was not for food. It was the hunger of purpose.

Jorvik.

Every step brought him closer to the inevitable confrontation. He had no illusions — the bandit leader would come for him. And if the rumors were true, Jorvik wouldn't come alone.

But Dikun was no mere wanderer. He was a veteran of countless campaigns, even if they had been waged behind a screen. His knowledge of strategy, combat, and leadership was unmatched in this world. And now, it was time to put that knowledge to use.

A temporary plan began to form.

First, information. He needed to confirm Jorvik's movements. The village had its share of gossip, but true knowledge came from those who traveled. Traders, scouts, even mercenaries — someone would know.

Second, allies. Fighting alone was suicide. Dikun needed men. Not just warm bodies, but soldiers. Fighters willing to stand with him when the time came. Harlon, the former swordsman, was a potential candidate. But there would be others.

Lastly, preparation. A confrontation with Jorvik meant more than just swinging a sword. Dikun needed supplies — food, armor, medicine. Every detail would matter when the battle began.

"One step at a time."

As the village lamps flickered to life, Dikun made his way back to the tavern. The night would bring its own opportunities. Conversations held over mugs of ale, whispers exchanged in dim corners — the pieces would fall into place.

But the most important thing Dikun carried wasn't his sword, nor his coin.

It was resolve.

The game may have changed, but the player remained the same.

And in Calradia, only the strongest survived.