Halfway up the cliffside, he paused, chest heaving as he searched for his next hold. The weight on his back was nothing new—Mal had carried heavier during his years as a firefighter before the system changed everything. But those climbs had always involved ladders, structure, predictability. This was different. The stone was wild and brittle in places, the wind sharp and erratic.
He’d spotted the cave from a distance. Did he need to explore it? Not really. But he needed something—anything—to keep his mind busy, to drown out the thoughts clawing at the edges of his focus.
The climb had taken no more than five minutes, but sweat still clung to his dark brown skin, glistening under the morning light. He’d made it. The ledge wasn’t large—just enough space for a few stubborn trees, patches of grass, and scraggly shrubs that led toward the cave entrance.
The cave was small, dark, and isolated—silent but for the soft drip of water echoing off the stone. Inside, there was little more than scattered piles of rocks and loose dirt, as if it had been untouched for years. This was exactly what he needed—quiet, solitude, and not a single trace of another soul.
Mal removed his armour, leaving only a thin, sweat-dampened shirt clinging to his skin. The chest plate bore a deep dent from the last encounter—courtesy of that beast. He set his shield down next. It had held, barely, though a few splinters along the edge caught his attention. With time and effort, maybe he could patch it up.
But it was the sword that truly gnawed at him. How had the creature’s hide been that tough? The blade had bent at the centre, rendered useless in the middle of the fight. He’d finished the massive boar with brute force, driving the edge of his shield into its skull until it stopped moving. It hadn’t been graceful, but it had been necessary.
His hands rested on his knees as the memory replayed itself. The fight had lasted longer than he thought. Too long. Somewhere between his first block and his last swing, he realized—he was alone.
Mal had always sensed something off about the group he’d been assigned to. They knew each other from before the system—he was the outsider. He couldn't blame them for being cautious, not entirely. But when the boar charged, instincts took over. He raised his shield, activating his boost skill just in time to absorb the impact. He fought back hard, drawing the beast’s attention.
He shouted for support—once, twice—nothing. No response. Just the snarl of the creature and the thud of its hooves.
And that’s when it hit him—not the boar, but the truth. He’d been fighting alone for longer than he’d realized, shield up, sword swinging, calling out for support that never came. They had been there when the creature first emerged—he was sure of it. But now? Nothing. As he was hurled backward, crashing into the dirt, the realization settled in. They hadn’t circled to help, hadn’t flanked the creature. They were gone. They had run. Left him behind as a distraction, a convenient target so they could escape.
Now he knew—the boar hadn’t driven them away. They had always planned to leave him. If the beast hadn’t shown up, they probably would’ve waited until his back was turned, maybe while he slept, and vanished without a word. The hushed conversations, the sideways glances—that had been the warning signs.
He clenched his jaw and shook off the thought. That was behind him now.
Mal turned his attention to the cave floor, gathering the scattered rocks with a quiet purpose. Each stone he placed felt like a small act of control, a way to ground himself against the storm of betrayal still churning inside. The work was slow, repetitive—just what he needed.
He took his time, selecting flat stones for the base, stacking others in a careful dome. At the back of the cave, he found a patch of clay-rich soil, damp and pliable. He mixed it with water from a trickling wall seep, turning it into a crude mortar to seal the gaps.
After nearly an hour, the makeshift oven took shape—a squat, uneven furnace of rock and earth. It wasn’t elegant, but it was functional. And more importantly, it was his—built by his own hands, with no one to help and no one to leave him behind.
Mal had always been drawn to metalwork. It was his escape, his quiet place after long shifts—back when life made more sense. He’d go home, head straight to his garage-turned-workshop, and lose himself in shaping copper, brass, and steel. He didn’t make weapons or armor back then—just art. Fluid, abstract pieces that twisted like thoughts made solid.
Now, sitting alone in the stillness of the cave, surrounded by raw stone and the weight of everything he’d left behind, Mal let his fingers trace the rough edge of the furnace. He breathed deep, the scent of damp earth and ash grounding him. Maybe this isn’t so different, he thought. Different tools, different purpose... but the hands still remember.
He packed the furnace with dry wood, stacking it carefully before striking the mana flint. A spark caught the kindling almost instantly, flames flickering to life in the shallow hearth. As the heat built, Mal grabbed his shield, angling it toward the fire and pumping it like a makeshift bellows. The flames responded, growing brighter, hotter.
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He knew it wouldn't be enough to reach true forging temperatures—not with this setup, not with stone and salvaged wood—but it might still be enough to make a difference. He slid the bent sword into the heart of the coals, embedding it up to the hilt, watching as the fire licked at the twisted steel.
Just enough to soften it, he thought, jaw tightening. Just enough to make it right.
He wasn't sure why it mattered so much. The blade was damaged, maybe ruined—but something about trying to fix it felt necessary. Not just practical. Personal.
You bend, you don't break, he told himself. You get back up. You shape yourself again.
While the fire did its work, Mal turned his attention to the meat he'd brought with him—thick strips carved from the boar he had slain earlier. He’d known he would need food and had salvaged what he could from the beast before climbing. Skewering the meat, he held it over the rising heat, rotating it slowly. The flesh was tough, chewy, and charred at the edges, but it was warm, and it filled his stomach. That was enough for now.
It had been a while now. The cave was sweltering hot, the furnace glowing orange. He had kept feeding it. It was time.
Mal gripped the sword with a wrapped hand and pulled it from the furnace. The blade was white-hot, glowing with potential. Maybe this will actually work, he thought, a cautious flicker of hope stirring in his chest.
He brought it swiftly to the 'workbench'—a large, flat slab of stone he’d cleared at the side of the cave. Placing the sword across it, he retrieved his makeshift hammer: a dense rock lashed to a sturdy stick. Crude, but it would do.
He began to strike. Again and again, the rhythmic clang echoed off the stone walls. Sparks flew with every hit as the glowing metal started to shift, just slightly, under the pressure.
Come on... hold it together, he muttered to himself. Just a little more.
But the heat faded too quickly. The blade dimmed, losing its pliability. He cursed under his breath and returned it to the fire.
He repeated the cycle four more times—heat, strike, reheat. The cave grew stifling, his shirt soaked through with sweat, the air thick with smoke and effort. By the time he straightened the blade to something resembling its original form, night had already fallen beyond the mouth of the cave.
He stood there in the firelight, breathing heavily, staring at what he’d reshaped. Not perfect. Not new. But his. A notification came to his blurred vision.
Item Upgrade
Initiate’s Shortsword (Inferior) → Reforged Shortsword (Common): This blade still bore the signs of battle—scratches, faint warps, the ghost of a bend near the center—but it was whole. Reinforced. It had endured heat, hammer, and grit, reshaped not by the hands of a master smith but by sheer will and necessity.
A faint pride stirred in Mal's chest. He was no stranger to working metal—he’d crafted smooth, graceful forms in another life—but this was different. This was ugly, crude, beaten into shape through sweat and will. And yet, it worked. He’d figured it out. It wasn’t art, but it was survival. And in this moment, it felt like the system had reached out and clapped him on the back.
Not bad for a first try, he thought, lips curling into a tired, crooked grin.
The next notification came.
Profession Unlocked: [Blacksmith – Beginner-Level 1]
Through grit and fire, you’ve taken your first steps as a smith. You’ve reshaped what was broken, forged something from ruin. This path will demand more than strength—it will call for patience, craft, and vision. Will you create tools of survival, or will your hands shape something more? Something beautiful, worthy of a legacy?
Level-Up Bonus: Strength: +5, Agility: +1, Vitality: +1, Endurance: +3, Toughness: +2, +2 Free Stat Points
Updated Attributes:
- Strength: 16 → 21 (+5)
- Agility: 14 → 15 (+1)
- Intellect: 8 → 8 (+0)
- Wisdom: 8 → 8 (+0)
- Vitality: 15 → 16 (+1)
- Endurance: 15 → 18 (+3)
- Toughness: 16 → 18 (+2)
- Perception: 9 → 9 (+0)
Skills Acquired:
[Fuel Infusion (Inferior)]: Infuse flammable materials with mana, enhancing their burn. Wood, oil, and other fuels now ignite hotter and last longer, increasing the efficiency of your forge. Effect scales with Strength.
[Forge Sense – Passive (Inferior)]: You more easily sense and identify weak points and imperfections in metal objects. This heightened awareness improves the success rate of reforging and crafting actions, making failures less likely. Effectiveness scales with Perception.
[Forgekindle (Common)]: Harness mana and stamina to raise and stabilize forge temperatures, allowing for more consistent smelting and shaping of metal. Enhances heat control, improves material response, and reduces forging time. Effectiveness scales with Perception and Endurance.
For once, something was finally going right. No whispers behind his back. No false allies. Just the weight of metal, the rhythm of his hammer, and the fire he’d built with his own two hands. It wasn’t safety—but it was his. And that was enough.
"Is that another one, Nadu?" Cain sat up from his lounge position on the stone bench, stretching like a cat in the sun. The sharp ping of a system alert echoed softly in the divine chamber.
The Blue God didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the massive tome hovering before him, pages turning with a breeze that didn’t exist. Cain tilted his head and grinned.
"You know, you’re going to get a frown-line if you keep staring at that thing."
Nadu finally exhaled, the faintest shimmer of annoyance—more fond than frustrated—passing over his otherwise unreadable expression.
"Another smith," he said at last. "He reforged a blade. Common rank."
Cain whistled low. "I bet the gods of the forges are shaking in their boots."
"He did it with a rock tied to a stick, Cain."
"Exactly my point."
The god closed the tome with a snap, sending a pulse of light across the chamber.
"Thousands have awakened professions," Nadu muttered. "But this one... there’s something in the way he works. No power, no guidance. Just heat and effort."
Cain leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "You’re starting to sound impressed. Should I be worried?"
Nadu didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. Cain chuckled.
"Fine. But if he ends up breaking the system, I’m still blaming you. Old rules or not."
The Blue God smiled—thin, thoughtful—and the stars behind his eyes stirred.