Chapter 22 – Sparks of the Forge (~417 words)
The road back into StoneDragon was quiet—almost too quiet. Only the distant echo of wagon wheels, the clang of iron, and the murmur of evening merchants broke the silence. Metatron's coat was still scorched at the edges from the volcanic fields, but his stride wasn't slowed. In his left hand, a molten core burned like a captured sun.
Players paused their conversations as he passed.
> "Is that… a Molten Fang Core?"
"You don't get that off anything smaller than an Alpha."
"He soloed that? No way…"
Metatron's visor reflected none of their chatter. He moved past them, toward the heart of the city's industrial district—where the air was thick with smog and the scent of molten steel. Ahead stood a block-shaped building of dark iron and brick: Ironjaw Forge.
The doors were thrown wide. Inside, pistons pumped as fire blazed through steel-lined tunnels. Sparks flickered against the stone floor as master crafters worked—some hammering swords, others fitting plate armor or tempering metallic rods. This was a place where history and craft bled into one another, where innovation met ancient sweat.
Behind the main anvil stood Garron Ironjaw, broad as a bear, beard smudged with soot.
"You've been out where the land burns," Garron growled, staring first at the molten core, then into Metatron's visor. "And yet here you stand."
Metatron laid the core on the workbench. It pulsed, coiling heat into the room.
"I'm not here to buy a weapon," he said. "I need the forge."
Garron narrowed his eyes. "Forging your own? With this kind of material?"
Metatron nodded once.
Garron grunted. "Most crafters wouldn't dare. But I'm no fool—I can see purpose behind a man's eyes." He tossed a ring of heavy keys. "You've got until sunrise. Mess up my anvil and I'll drown you in quenching oil."
Metatron caught the keys with a gloved hand. "I won't."
As Garron walked back into the roar of flame and steel, Metatron turned to the workbench. He began unlocking compartments, gathering heat-resistant clamps, measuring tools, and cooling rods.
The gun at his side—the Daylight pistol—rested in its leather holster. But tonight, that would change.
Tonight, something new would be born from the fire. A weapon not meant for the masses—but for the one who walked alone.
The sparks had already begun to fly.