Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 38 - 37 – The Sound of Forging Stars

The sky above the illusionary village was caught in a strange twilight. The villagers’ shadows flickered in and out, walking their looped patterns of laughter, grief, life, and death. But Eron had stopped paying attention to them.

The forge never slept.

In this illusion-wrapped village lost to time, neither sun nor moon governed the sky. Only the fire in the forge burned with any certainty. Its embers hissed, cracked, and flared—feeding on the same relentless rhythm that now pulsed in Eron’s chest.

He hadn’t eaten.

He hadn’t rested.

But he wasn’t done.

The Forgefather hadn’t spoken to him since the last failure. Just a disapproving grunt and a dismissive wave. And so, Eron no longer waited for approval. He wasn’t here for comfort or kindness.

He was here to earn a legacy.

All that mattered now was the anvil in front of him.

He had slept for maybe an hour. If that. More like a nap taken while sitting against a wall, still gripping the hammer in his soot-stained hands.

But something had changed in him overnight. Not something loud or dramatic—but slow and molten, like metal softening under heat.

He no longer waited for permission to begin.

Now, he forged.

He woke with a jerk, blinking as the forge’s embers pulsed beside him.

The Forgefather stood nearby, back turned, staring into the flames.

Eron slowly got up, stretched out the stiffness from his body, and approached the raw materials he had inspected a dozen times the day before.

Iron, yes. But not ordinary. This ore shimmered faintly under the forge light—crimson flecks dancing across the black metal. The quest interface had called it Emberite, a rare metal found only in ancient volcanoes.

It was a quite a good material for forging.

And yet, most forged junk.

Today, he would do something else.

First, he prepared the fire.

Eron added dry coal in a specific order, pinewood beneath, followed by broken bricks of volcanic charcoal, topped with powdered fireroot. He recalled the way he had seen the old man do this thing again and again. It wasn’t meant for this situation, but fire was fire.

He pumped the bellows slowly, then faster.

The fire bloomed.

Red. Orange. Yellow.

Then finally, white.

It hissed as he placed the Emberite ingot inside.

"Again with the hammer?" came the gruff voice behind him.

Eron didn’t turn but a strange smile had curled up in his lips. "No. This time it’s my hammer. My rhythm."

The Forgefather raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

The boy had learned to listen, at least.

Eron waited precisely 23 minutes.

He didn’t touch the Emberite until the pulse inside the metal matched the pulse in his wrists. He couldn’t explain how he knew—it wasn’t something he saw, but something he felt.

Then, using tongs wrapped in soaked hide, he pulled it out.

He placed it on the anvil with reverence—not fear, not hope, but respect.

And then he began to strike.

Not like yesterday.

Not rushed. Not wild.

This was... measured.

Clang.Clang.Clang.

The rhythm came not from his arms, but from somewhere deeper.

Clang.Tshk.Clang.Tap.

Each strike flattened a flaw. Each movement pulled purpose from the Emberite. Sparks flew, but they danced around him like fireflies, not embers. The hammer grew heavier the longer he worked, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The villagers around him faded. The forge grew silent, save for the ringing of iron.

Even the Forgefather had gone still.

Time passed strangely in the illusion.

Hours rolled like mist, unnoticed.

Eron smoothed the blade’s edge.

He re-heated.

Tempered it in a strange blue liquid from a barrel marked "Neverwater." It steamed like a banshee, but the metal sang when it touched.

He etched his name on the equipment. As a personal signature.

He carved a channel into the center of the blade to reduce weight, then sharpened the edge until it gleamed a shade between obsidian and wine-red.

When the blade was finished, he crafted the hilt.

Wrapped with scaled hide he’d tanned himself during an earlier trial. The pommel bore a knot of Emberite curled in on itself, it felt like a symbol of resilience.

He bound it with iron thread. No glue. No shortcuts.

At the 17th hour, he sat back—exhausted, trembling, and soaked with sweat.

Before him lay a one-handed saber. Not massive. Not flashy. But deadly, beautiful, and precise.

He touched it once more—

[Item Created: Emberwake Saber]

Grade: Rare

Durability: 100/100

Strength, +5

Ignites on critical hits, Minor burn chance

Description: A saber born of will and tempered by persistence of a new blacksmith. It sings with the fury of a forge long sealed.

[You have crafted a Rare-grade weapon on your first successful attempt. Your Forging Talent has increased significantly.][Legacy Resonance with the Class +25%]

[The Forgefather has taken notice.]

A long silence followed.

Then:

"...Hah."

Eron turned, chest still heaving.

The Forgefather stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the blade.

"Stubborn brat," the old man muttered. "It took me three years to make something of that grade. You managed it in three days."

"I worked for 18 hours straight," Eron rasped.

"You looked like a dying crow halfway through," the old man said gruffly. But there was something... not quite amusement. Maybe admiration.

The Forgefather was quiet for a moment.

Then, to Eron’s shock, he picked up the saber, tested the balance... and smiled.

It was a sad smile. Quiet.

"You know why I stopped teaching?" the old man asked, still holding the blade.

Eron shook his head.

"Because something happened... many many years ago."

Eron scratched the back of his head. "Was kinda hoping you’d talk more, honestly."

The Forgefather barked a laugh.

"Well, then. Guess I owe you a few words."

He turned toward the forge.

"Bring your saber. Tomorrow, I show you how to make armor."

Later, as the twilight deepened and the illusionary villagers danced in a fading festival scene—one Eron didn’t even notice—he sat outside the forge with his saber resting across his lap.

He didn’t feel proud.

Not exactly.

What he felt was... solid.

Like something inside him had finally cooled, hardened into shape.

He had come seeking a class upgrade.

What he found was a craft.

And it was only just beginning.