Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 37 - 36 – Embers of Iron and Flame

The moment Eron accepted the blacksmith legacy quest, the world around him dissolved like smoke caught in wind.

One second, he was in the area where he gained the quest, standing before an odd anvil half-buried in stone and inscribed with molten runes. The next, a gust of ash-laden wind hit him, and everything turned dark.

Then — light.

He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the sight. He stood now in the middle of a small rustic village, nestled within a mountain valley under a crimson-tinted sky. Wooden huts dotted the edges of a dirt path, smoke trailing lazily from chimneys. It smelled of iron, old embers, and something faintly burnt.

"Where the hell...?" he muttered.

A system notification pinged.

[Quest: Legacy of the Ashen Forge]You have entered the Trial Space.Objective: Learn from the Last Forgefather of Ashvold.Note: You will not be able to leave until the trial is complete.Death here results in legacy rejection.

Eron’s stomach twisted. "No pressure," he mumbled, squinting at the village center. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

The place was quiet — too quiet. A ghost town wrapped in smoke and memory.

Then, the sound of hammering echoed faintly in the distance. Rhythmic. Steady. As if the world itself beat in time with the strikes.

Eron followed the noise.

At the edge of the village, a small forge sat beside a split tree that looked like it had been struck by lightning a dozen times. Black soot coated the anvil, the anvil was massive, bearing marks from generations of strikes. Standing beside the furnace was an old man — wide-shouldered, bald, with a beard that nearly touched his waist. His skin looked like leather burned in war, and his right hand was metallic, likely forged by himself.

The man didn’t even glance up as Eron approached.

"You lost, boy?" the old man asked without turning. His voice was gravel and iron.

"I’m here to learn," Eron said, standing straight. "You’re the Forgefather?"

The man snorted. "I’m the disappointment of Ashvold. Same thing, I suppose."

Eron frowned. "The system told me to learn from you. I—"

The hammer stopped mid-strike.

"I don’t teach," the man said flatly.

Eron blinked. "Why not?"

"Because people like you come looking for tricks," the old man growled. "Looking for shortcuts. I’ve buried better smiths than you’ll ever be."

"I’m not like them," Eron shot back.

"No," the Forgefather said, finally turning. His eyes were dull grey — like coals long gone cold. "You’re worse. You’ve yet to burn."

The old man returned to his forge, ignoring him.

Eron stood there for several minutes, unsure what to do. He paced, grumbled under his breath, then picked up a stray hammer lying on a bench. The metal felt heavier here, like it carried history. Or weight from the trial itself.

He began heating a small piece of iron, hoping to prove himself through action.

The forge roared to life, louder than it should have.

And then... the illusions began, this time differently.

The air shimmered, and suddenly, the village changed.

Children laughed nearby. People bustled around him, cheerful and loud. The buildings looked newly built. The cracked walls were restored. The lightning-struck tree now bloomed with leaves of glowing silver.

It wasn’t a dead village anymore.

It was alive.

Eron froze, confused. "What the—?"

"Memories," the old man said behind him. "This place shows you what it remembers. It wants to test you."

"Test me how?"

The Forgefather walked past him. "By seeing if you’ll be broken by this. Or if you’ll forge something from it."

For hours, Eron tried.

He attempted to craft a basic short sword — but the metal warped.

He tried a dagger — it cracked.

He attempted a gauntlet — the fingers fused together.

And while all this happened, the villagers walked past him. Talking, laughing, living. None of them acknowledged him.

Only the Forgefather watched.

Each time Eron failed, the old man shook his head.

"You strike too fast."

"You temper too late."

"You lack purpose."

Frustrated, Eron slammed the tongs into the ground. "Then show me!"

"No," the man replied simply.

"Why not?!"

The Forgefather turned, eyes sharp now. "Because I don’t teach those who beg. I teach those who endure."

Eron collapsed on a bench later that night, arms aching, face blackened with soot. His hands trembled.

This wasn’t a normal legacy trial. This was... something deeper.

The illusion kept shifting. One moment he saw a wedding happening in the center plaza. The next, a funeral pyre. He saw the same people laughing and weeping. The same buildings standing tall, then burning to ash.

The village showed him cycles. Heat and cold. Life and loss.

But the forge always remained as it was.

And the Forgefather, no the old man, never left.

By the third attempt at crafting, Eron began changing his approach. He didn’t rush. He listened to the rhythm of the hammering. He observed the way the Forgefather controlled the flame.

He mimicked it.

Still — no success. The axe he tried to make this time melted mid-forging.

"I did everything right!" Eron growled.

"You copied," the old man said, not unkindly this time. "But it wasn’t yours. Not truly."

Eron stared at him, breathing hard.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, genuinely. "I want to make weapons. I want to build armor that protects people I care about. Isn’t that reason enough?"

The old man looked at him for a long time, the flames of the forge casting flickers across his weathered face.

Then he turned away.

"No. You don’t deserve my teachings."

And that was the end of the day’s trial.

As the sky dimmed and the illusion of the village faded into twilight, Eron sat alone near the forge, his hands scarred from his efforts, spirit exhausted.

Still, something inside him didn’t give up, it wanted him to continue, keep moving forward.

He looked at the hammer beside him.

And then he grinned, just a little.

"Fine, old man. If you won’t teach me today... I’ll make something tomorrow that forces you to. I swear I will or else my name’s not Eron."