Harem Sync: Divine Edition-Chapter 62: THE FORGE THAT WAITS

THE FORGE THAT WAITS

The forge was working for the first time in days.

Heavy heat filled the air, making sweat pour down even when standing still. The smell of burning coal mixed with heated iron permeated everything, entering the lungs with every breath.

Occasional sparks jumped from the anvil when someone hammered metal incorrectly, briefly illuminating the dark corners of the workshop.

Repetitive work: take metal, heat, hammer, cool, repeat. The two guards were sweaty, dirty, clearly out of place there. They weren’t blacksmiths. They were soldiers trying to do work they didn’t understand.

One of the guards held a simple sword on the anvil, the still-hot metal glowing a faint orange.

He tried to polish it with a rough stone as Gandloaf had shown, but the blade rejected the work; the stone slid without marking anything, as if the metal refused to be shaped by inexperienced hands.

"This doesn’t even look like iron..." he muttered in frustration, dropping the stone.

"Wow, who would have thought making a sword was so difficult..." the other guard said, holding a bucket of water in his hand, looking at his own attempt at a blade that had come out all crooked.

He doused the hot sword with water, violent steam exploding and rising in a dense cloud that made the two recoil, coughing.

From the corner of the forge, Gandloaf sat in an old chair eating bread and cheese that the group had bought earlier, Yukihime beside him nibbling on a small piece. He laughed at the scene.

"You bet you could make a sword yourselves in two hours," he said, chewing slowly. "It’s been three and a half hours already."

The veteran guard wiped the sweat from his brow. "The bet still stands! We just need more time to..."

"The bet was two hours," Gandloaf interrupted, a slight smile appearing for the first time in days. "You lost. Admit it."

"But you didn’t even teach us properly!" the other protested.

"I taught them everything they needed. It’s not my fault that soldiers’ hands aren’t suited for the forge." He grabbed more bread. "Pay what we agreed on, clean the entire workshop early tomorrow morning."

The guards exchanged defeated glances, then tried again even knowing they had already lost.

On the other side of the forge, Isabela was putting coal into the furnace using a shovel, large pieces that weighed more than they looked, her hands turning black with ash with each movement. She had tied her red hair back with improvised fabric, her white dress completely dirty.

She picked up Vorath’s sword with both hands, a two-meter blade that was far too heavy.

"Damn! This is incredibly heavy..." she murmured, dragging it to the furnace.

She placed the blade in the fire, then added her own Valtherion flames, red fire mixing with normal orange, the temperature rising absurdly. The entire forge ’roared’ with the increased heat.

She waited the time Gandloaf had instructed, then pulled the sword from the fire with large tongs. It didn’t need water to cool like the guards; the Valtherion fire controlled the temperature more precisely.

She placed it on the other anvil and tried to polish it following the instructions.

Nothing. The blade remained corroded, perforated, rejecting any ordinary work.

Gandloaf watched, giving occasional instructions between bites. "More pressure at the base. No, less in the middle. Rotate the blade."

Isabela followed the instructions, but looked at the sword with a strange expression, remembering Haru pulling it out of nowhere. Remembering the absurd power he demonstrated effortlessly.

A silent discomfort grew in her chest. It wasn’t hatred. It was... fear mixed with moral doubt. "What exactly is he?"

Yukihime swung her little legs, seated in the high chair next to Gandloaf, looking around curiously.

"Mr. Gandloaf, why is the entire village wearing white?"

Gandloaf took more cheese. "The Custodians, those masked men, ordered it. They told everyone to wear white and never speak to anyone not wearing the clothes."

"Why?" Yukihime asked.

"To easily identify strangers. Anyone with different clothes stands out." He chewed slowly. "And since everyone wants to avoid accidents... they obey. But it’s only for a week. While they’re out there investigating."

Yukihime nodded, processing it, then looked at Gandloaf’s missing arm.

"Can you make a sword with only one arm?"

"I can. It takes longer, but I can." He touched the bandaged stump. "All Dwarves have the Flame Path . It’s a blessing of our race. Every race in the world has a blessing or likeness to the God who created it."

"Similarity?" Yukihime tilted her head, confused.

"Humans have adaptability. Elves have a connection to nature. We Dwarves have a connection to fire and metal." He looked at the furnace. "That’s why we can walk through the flames between forges. That’s why metal... obeys our hands."

"But Flame Path isn’t only used for forging, right?" Yukihime asked cleverly.

Gandloaf looked at her with renewed respect. "Clever. No, it’s not only for forging. There are evil people who want Faith’of’iron."

"Faith’of’iron... what is that!?"

Gandloaf leaned forward, his voice becoming more serious, almost ritualistic:

"When the Dwarf forged the Crown of God in ancient times... God blessed him with Faith’of’iron It’s the power to command metal. To mold it without fire. To move it without touching it." He looked directly into her eyes.

"Have you ever seen anyone manipulating iron or similar metals with their hands, little girl? Making them move, bend, change shape just by thinking?"

Yukihime thought, then shook her head. "Actually... I’ve never seen it."

"Because it’s rare. Very rare. And dangerous." Gandloaf resumed eating. "Those with Faith’of’iron can make weapons out of nothing. They can disarm entire armies with a gesture. That’s why some hunt Dwarfs... trying to steal the blessing."

...

Isabela dropped the tongs, wiped her dirty hands on her already ruined dress, and left the forge to breathe; the heat was unbearable, she needed fresh air.

She stopped at the entrance, letting the night breeze brush against her sweaty face. And she almost bumped into an old woman approaching.

"Oops!" Isabela quickly stepped back.

"Everything’s alright, dear." The old woman smiled, a woman of about seventy, her completely white hair tied in a bun, wearing simple but clean white clothes, carrying a basket covered with cloth.

She looked at the forge working behind Isabela, smoke rising from the chimney.

"Well, there it is! The forge is working!?" The old woman admired, genuinely happy, but didn’t go in, remaining standing at the entrance calling: "Gandloaf! Gandloaf, dear!"

Isabela stood there, somewhat unsure what to do.

The old woman looked at her attentively, analyzing her face, dirty with soot, her red hair, her posture. "Are you helping him?"

"Yes, while... some friends sort something out."

"That’s good. That’s good." The old woman raised the basket. "I brought food for Gandloaf..."

She looked more closely at Isabela’s face, her eyes narrowing.

"Wait... you’re Valtherion?"

Isabela blinked in surprise. "I am. Like..."

"You look like that boy with the scary eyes!... Vaelor Valtherion Junior," the old woman said excitedly.

"Boy?" Isabela almost laughed. The old woman had called her father "boy," one of the most powerful men in the empire.

"That’s right, my father has a very scary look." She took off her dirty gloves, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"Not you." The old woman shook her head. "You look more... ahhh... the opposite of him. Softer. Less... terrifying."

Isabela felt something tighten in her chest. "My mother."

"Yes! It must be her." The old woman nodded, satisfied with her own deduction.

A brief silence.

The old woman sighed heavily. "These monsters... the things they do to us. We go from one massacre to another."

Isabela frowned. "Massacre?"

"The man who destroyed the village..." the old woman began, her voice growing lower, more tense. "They say they call themselves Gamers. That’s what he called himself before... doing that."

Heavy pause.

"They seem nice at first. They help. They smile. They speak nicely." The old woman looked at the ground. "But they aren’t. They put many people in danger... they even kill their own without a second thought."

She looked directly into Isabela’s eyes.

"If even they kill each other... what are we to be spared? We are less than nothing in their eyes."

She took a deep breath.

"And if even the Sacred Ones have started hunting them... it’s because it’s never a good sign. Every time they warned us about danger, they were right." She made a protective gesture with her hand. "May this plague end soon..."

Isabela froze, processing it all, her mind racing.

"Gamers... Haru is a Gamer."

"Even their own people they kill... They seem good, but they aren’t..."

The old woman waved goodbye, starting to walk away.

"Aren’t you going to talk to Gandloaf?!" Isabela asked, holding the basket.

"No, dear. He knows who came. If he wants to find me, he knows where my house is." She smiled. "Thank you for getting him back on his feet."

And she walked away slowly down the dark street.

Isabela took the basket to Gandloaf, who was still sitting with Yukihime.

He accepted it respectfully, nodding seriously. "I’ll thank her personally." He said, taking bread from the basket. "I’ll go see her tomorrow morning."

Isabela nodded distractedly, her mind still preoccupied with the old woman’s words.

"Gamers... they seem good, but they aren’t..."

She looked at Vorath’s sword on the anvil, gleaming faintly in the furnace light.

"What exactly are you, Haru?"