Chapter 26: Chapter-26-: Fog and Hidden Blades
The morning fog hung over the noble district like a heavy blanket, cold and damp, wrapping around the tall spires and stone statues. Zairen Kaelridge stepped out of Viscount Draven's manor, his black cloak fluttering in the breeze. His red eyes scanned the quiet street, tense with the thought of the upcoming war. The wet cobblestones echoed under his boots, each step sounding like a heartbeat. He touched the leather bracer on his wrist, feeling the hidden blade inside—a small comfort. In two days, he'd face a dangerous raid against bandits. Everyone called it a suicide mission. Zairen wasn't ready to die, but he didn't think the gods cared much about his opinion.
Then, like a spark in the gloom, he saw her.
Seressia Draven stood by the manor's iron gates, her lavender hair flowing like a river of dusk, catching the faint light. Her arms were crossed, and her violet eyes burned with anger so fierce that, if she weren't bound by duty, she might have killed Zairen right there. She was a storm in human form, and Zairen had just walked into her path."Oh… fuck me sideways,"Zairen muttered, stopping mid-step. He turned, hoping to slip back into the manor unnoticed.
"I see you, Zairen," Seressia called, her voice sharp as a blade. "Take one more step, and I'll make sure you're crawling back."
Zairen froze, heart pounding. He turned slowly, forcing a grin. "Seressia. Didn't expect you here. I was just… checking the door."
Her eyes narrowed, cutting through him. "Checking the door? You're a worse liar than I thought."
Zairen scratched the back of his neck, searching for an excuse. "I forgot my coin purse. Inside. Really important."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy as the fog. Her gaze pierced him, unyielding, as if she could see the fear he buried beneath his bravado.
"Enough," she said finally, her sigh sharp as a whipcrack. "I don't have time for your nonsense. Father insists I escort you to the blacksmith. Says you'll need 'decent metal' if you're to die in that fool's raid." Her lips curled, but there was no warmth in it. "I hope you do die."
Zairen blinked, feigning offense. "Your kindness is overwhelming."
"You rejected my invitations. Three times." Her voice cracked, just for a moment, betraying something raw beneath the anger. "Don't expect my pity now."
"For your information, Seressia," Zairen said, with nonchalantly"I was training for the raid. Why else would I skip your invitations? Why would I turn down someone as beautiful as you?" In his mind, he added, I wish I could've seen your anger instead of this wall between us. He smiled faintly, hiding the thought.
"Fuck you " she said. I know you avoiding me
Zairen raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, Seressia, such language. A pretty lady like you shouldn't talk like that."
She glared, her anger flaring hotter. "You," she snapped, then took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "Don't waste my time. Let's go."
She snapped her fingers at a waiting carriage, its black frame gleaming with House Draven's sigil—a serpent coiled eating his own tail. The driver, a thin man with dark eyes, bowed low. Seressia climbed inside without looking back. Zairen sighed, feeling the weight of the war and her fury, and followed.
The carriage felt like a fancy coffin, all dark velvet and heavy silence. Crimson cushions glowed faintly in the dim light, and the air smelled of incense and steel. Seressia sat across from Zairen, staring out the window, her silence as sharp as a knife. Zairen kept quiet too. This wasn't awkward—it was a quiet battle, fought with glares and unspoken grudges.
Outside, the city rushed by in a blur of smoke and steam. The noble district's clean stone buildings faded into the industrial quarter, where forges roared like angry beasts. Smoke filled the sky, and sparks flew like tiny stars. Here, blacksmiths weren't just workers—they were masters of fire and iron, shaping weapons that could change fates. Zairen's hand tightened around a scroll in his cloak—his design for a blade that might keep him alive.
The carriage stopped in front of a huge building of stone and steel, its arches blackened by years of fire. The walls were carved with the Anvilsworn Guild's crest: a hammer wrapped in flames. A sign above the gates read: Hall of the Anvilsworn – Masters of Creation.
Seressia stepped out, her movements quick and sharp. "Let's make this quick," she said, not looking at him.
Zairen followed, the heat of the hall hitting him like a wave. Inside, the air buzzed with the sound of a thousand forges. The smell of hot metal filled his lungs. Weapons lined the walls—swords with jagged edges, bows made of bone, and gauntlets carved with strange runes that seemed to glow faintly. This place wasn't just a workshop; it was a temple of war.
A young woman, her face smudged with soot, bowed to Seressia. "Lady Seressia, how can the Anvilsworn help House Draven?"
"Get Master Haxton," Seressia said. "Tell him Draven is here."
The woman hurried off, and soon, a giant of a man appeared. Master Haxton had shoulders like walls, arms like hammers, and a beard streaked with ash. His presence filled the room. On his neck was a glowing iron rune—a Class-Sigil, marking him as a Prime-tier blacksmith, one of the few left in the Southern Realms. Zairen had heard stories of these masters, whose weapons could bond with a warrior's soul.
"Seressia Draven!" Haxton's voice boomed, warm and loud. He hugged her like a daughter, and to Zairen's surprise, she smiled—a rare, soft look.
"Master Haxton," she said warmly. "Father sends his regards and a job."
Haxton's eyes, sharp as molten iron, turned to Zairen. "This the kid?"
"Zairen Kaelridge," Seressia said, waving a hand. "Youngest of House Kaelridge. Father says he'll probably die in the bandit raid, so he needs something sharp to hold off death a little longer."
Zairen bowed, hiding his nerves. "It's an honor to meet a Prime-tier blacksmith."
Seressia elbowed him. "Be clear. Haxton's one of the last masters. His blades have killed dragons and closed hellgates."
"Ow," Zairen muttered, rubbing his side. "I said honor, didn't I?"
Haxton laughed, a sound like thunder. "I like you, kid. Come on, let's forge something for your soul."
Seressia stepped back, her expression cooling. "I've errands to run. When you're done, find your own way back." She turned, her cloak swirling like a stormcloud, and vanished into the hall's depths.
Hexton chuckled, clapping Zairen's shoulder. "Love feud?"
Zairen smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "More like death threats with a side of venom. She's… complicated."
Haxton chuckled. "Okay, little one, if you say so."
The forge room was like a cave of fire. Chains creaked above, bellows hissed, and sparks fell like red snow. Unfinished weapons lined the walls, some glowing with strange power. Haxton led Zairen to a scarred anvil, its surface marked by years of crafting.
"What do you need?" Haxton asked, folding his arms. His Class-Sigil glowed brighter near the forge, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Zairen unrolled his scroll, showing his design: a long, light blade with one sharp edge and a serrated back for ripping through enemies. It had a hollow core to keep it balanced and a slot for a gauntlet. No shine, no fancy marks—just deadly. For armor, he wanted light plates over his chest and heart, layered with dragonbone scales for protection without weight. Silent and plain, built to survive.
Haxton nodded, studying the plans. "You want a killer's weapon—fast and quiet."
"I want to stay alive," Zairen said, his voice firm but tinged with fear, perhaps. Or defiance.
The blacksmith clapped his shoulder. "Two days. I'll work all night. Most noble kids want shiny swords to show off. You want something to keep you breathing. I respect that." He paused, his face growing serious. "The bandit raid isn't easy, boy. It's not a normal fight, especially for a young one like you. You'll think you're fighting bandits, but they've got tricks up their sleeves. Be careful."
Zairen nodded. "I will."
Haxton turned to his forge, his sigil glowing brighter. "This blade will carry my fire. If you're worthy, its Runic Brand will know you're the one meant to hold it."
When Zairen stepped outside, the sun was gone, hidden by smoke and clouds. He bought three leather flasks and some hard bread from the market, ignoring the vendors' curious stares. His raven-and-crown sigil marked him as noble, but his tired eyes said something else—a man walking toward danger.
At the city's back gates, the guards let him pass without a word. He slipped into the woods, where the air smelled of damp earth and decay. The Devil Tree loomed ahead, its twisted branches marking the path toward his dark journey. The tree's shadow stretched across the horizon, a monolith of obsidian and dread.
Zairen touched his bracer, the hidden blade cold against his skin. He thought of Seressia's question about his sister, her voice softening for a moment. He thought of Haxton's warning about the bandits. He thought of the raid, where men faced death or worse.
He took a step forward, into the shadow, toward whatever waited.
Blacksmith Ranks: The Fire of Zairen's World
Forging Power, Not Just Metal
In Zairen's world, blacksmiths don't just make swords—they forge magic and fate. They're called Arcane Smiths, and their skills decide who lives or dies in battle. Every smith has a rank, like fighters or mages. Here's the simple breakdown of their levels.
Class-Two Smith (Basic Level)
These are the starter blacksmiths.
They make simple swords and armor for town guards and small armies.
They can add tiny magic runes to make weapons a bit stronger.
You'll find them in village forges, learning from guild bosses.
Think of them as the guys arming the grunts for fights like Zairen's bandit raid.
Class-One Smith (Mid-Level)
These smiths are a step up, crafting for nobles and knights.
They use magic metals and monster parts, like dragon claws, to make cool gear.
Their stuff is used in big battles or dangerous magic missions.
They work with special tools called Spirits metal that glow with power.
Haxton was one of these before he got even better.
Prime-Tier Smith (Master Level)
These are the top dogs, super rare and crazy skilled.
They use magical forges to make weapons that connect to a warrior's soul.
Their gear can block powerful spells or dark magic.
Their weapons have glowing marks that shine for the right fighter.
Haxton's at this level.
Grandmaster (Legend Level)
Nobody's at this level anymore—it's pure legend.They could shape metal just by talking, no tools needed.
Their creations, like a spear that killed a demon or a crown that controls shadows, are lost treasures.
They worked for kings and gods, their forges hidden away.
Mythic Level-
Only one known Who died during the war between god and voidking
he is the one who forge the voidking sword