The road to Smithfist was rough, worn down by carts, boots, and heavy hooves. The closer Rhys got, the thicker the air became, carrying the smell of smoke, hot metal, and the heat of unseen forges.

Smithfist was well known as the City of Anvils, and it was easy to see why.

From the ridge, Rhys saw the city ahead. Dozens—maybe hundreds—of forges lit the skyline, their smokestacks pumping black and gray clouds into the air. The steady clang of hammers striking metal was so strong it could be felt through the ground.

The city walls weren't made of polished stone like other capitals. Instead, they were built from black iron plates, reinforced with massive bolts carved with runes. Red banners marked with the Smithfist clan symbol—two crossed hammers—hung over the walls.

As Rhys got closer to the gates, he noticed how large they were—wide enough for three caravans at once. The guards standing there didn't look like ordinary soldiers. Each carried a heavy hammer and weapons so massive they could be used as anvils. Their armor wasn't shiny, but tough and worn from years of use.

This was clearly a place where metalwork was more than just trade—it was everything.

Rhys felt his bond with his beasts stir faintly. Aurelius, still a newborn, pulsed with curiosity. Puddle's calm presence steadied him, and Moonbounce gave off quiet reassurance.

"Yeah," Rhys muttered with a small smile. "This city's going to work out fine."

The guards stiffened when he approached, studying him carefully. One of them, a broad man with a scar across his jaw, stepped forward.

"Traveler," the guard said in a rough voice. "Smithfist welcomes craftsmen, warriors, and traders. But your aura…" His eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing the power inside Rhys. "…Your beasts aren't ordinary."

The other guards shifted uneasily, glancing between each other.

Rhys didn't flinch. He rested a hand on his sword and met their eyes. "I came here to sharpen my blade. If Smithfist is as good as people say, I'll find what I need inside."

The scarred guard watched him for a moment, then broke into a grin. He moved aside and motioned him forward.

"Then the anvils welcome you. Enter Smithfist."

The gates opened with a heavy groan.

The sound of hammers grew louder inside the city, ringing like a constant heartbeat. Rhys walked forward, his cloak brushing against the soot-stained stones, and stepped into Smithfist, the city of fire and iron.

The streets of Smithfist were loud and alive. Sparks flew from open workshops, and the clang of hammers echoed from every corner. Even the air tasted of soot and iron. Rhys took it all in, though his first priority was simpler—rest.

He found an inn near the outer district, a squat building with thick beams and a roof blackened by years of forge smoke. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the smell of stew and ale. The innkeeper didn't ask many questions—travelers came and went often in Smithfist—and a few coins secured Rhys a room for the night.

After checking on his beasts in the heart space, he stepped back into the streets. He wasn't wandering aimlessly—he already knew where he had to go. Still, he made sure his pace looked unhurried, like he was just another traveler exploring the city.

His path led him to the outskirts, far from the master forges at the center. Here, the smiths were apprentices and castoffs. Their hammer strikes were clumsy, their flames weak, their shops half-collapsed under years of neglect.

Rhys stopped before one of the smallest workshops. A crooked sign hung overhead, the letters almost worn away. Inside, a low fire struggled to stay alive. A young dwarf stood at the anvil, hammering a warped piece of iron with movements that seemed untrained.

But Rhys could feel it the instant he stepped through the doorway. That aura—old, heavy, and sharp—wasn't from some novice.

The dwarf looked up, wiping sweat from his soot-streaked face. His eyes narrowed faintly, studying Rhys. Then, as if masking something, he forced a clumsy smile."Looking for a smith? I'll warn you—my work's nothing compared to the forges deeper in the city."

Rhys shrugged, playing along. "Doesn't matter. I'm just passing through."

The dwarf tilted his head, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. He set his hammer down with deliberate slowness. "Passing through, huh? Then maybe you'll humor me. There's… something different about you." His gaze lingered a moment too long, as if he saw through more than he should have.

Before Rhys could reply, the dwarf gestured toward a pile in the corner—a mountain of bent, broken, discarded blades. "Most who come here walk past without a second glance. But sometimes… a stranger notices. Sometimes, they don't see junk. They find something else." His voice dropped slightly, like he was sharing a secret. "If any blade calls to you, take it. The rest… we'll see."

Rhys's eyes slid toward the heap of steel. To anyone else, it was just trash—useless shards of failed smithing. But he already knew better. This was where the hidden path began.

Still, he kept his expression neutral, as though he'd stumbled into this by chance. He crouched near the pile, letting his hand hover above the twisted hilts and rusted edges.

Behind him, the dwarf watched closely. His smile had shifted—less clumsy now, more… knowing.

Rhys felt the stir of his bond. Aurelius sparked faint warmth, Puddle steadied him, and Moonbounce gave off a quiet, grounding hum.

He smirked faintly. So this is how you're hiding it, old man.

Out loud, he only said, "Alright. Let's see what is worth picking up."

The dwarf, acting like a clueless apprentice, was actually an Ancient Blacksmith of the Ancient Dwarf race. They were rare, but each carried something from the oldest times—a flame of their kind. Back when laws were loose and mana was not separate from man's essence, it was possible to give birth to all kinds of legendary flames. For the dwarves, their "fated flame" was the heartflame, and this dwarf carried the Seven Hearts Flame—the same hidden item Rhys was after.

At first, Rhys hadn't planned on searching for it. He was just passing through and thought to rest. But on the way he had noticed this dwarf's shop, and later, after checking at the inn, he came back to pick the quest.

The reason the Ancient Dwarf was willing to pass it on was simple—he was going to retire. And for dwarves, "retirement" meant the end of their life. The last years of a dwarf were spent forging until they fell dead at the anvil. Sometimes, though, they left behind a treasure. Sometimes, when death approached, they passed down their flame and their skills. This dwarf was searching for someone worthy before that moment came.

Rhys sifted through the pile of blades the dwarf had forged. Many were bent, cracked, or dull. But one stood out. Not flashy, not perfect—just a simple, plain sword. And yet, it was the best among them.

"I'll buy it," Rhys said, holding it up.

The dwarf squinted at him. "Why do you want that one?"

Rhys' answer was steady. "It's the best forge among them."

The dwarf's soot-darkened face softened into a faint smile. His eyes glimmered, though he tried to hide it. "And how do you know?"

Rhys ran a thumb along the blade. "The flashy ones are all show, but their cores are flawed. They won't last. This one…" He tilted the sword, watching how the edge caught the dim forge-light. "…is plain, but it survived. The balance is right. The mistakes are there, but they've been corrected. That makes it the strongest piece here."

The dwarf let out a low chuckle, beard speckled with ash.

"Hah. Spoken like someone who's seen a forge before."

"No, just need what's worth to use," Rhys replied, then asked, "So how much for it?"

The ancient dwarf leaned back, eyes steady. "My name is Belholms Ravier."

"Rhys Mercer. Nice to meet you," Rhys nodded back.

Belholms gave a small smile. "I will give it—and my secrets—to you for free, if you bring me one thing."

A quest prompt flickered before Rhys's eyes.

"What is it?" Rhys asked.

Belholms's gaze seemed to drift far away, as if to younger days. "In the north, where the mountains are, all the ores are mined. Long ago, I once came across the Luminous Heart Ore—an ancient ore, forged of the same essence as the Luminous Steel. I want that ore. Just bring me a single piece, and I will give you many things in return."

Rhys accepted the quest. "Alright. I'll bring it."

"Go on, then. I will wait," Belholms said, the glow of his forge reflecting in his eyes.

Rhys smirked faintly as he stepped out. "Good thing I already know where it is."

Rhys retraced his steps through the winding streets, leaving the ember-lit glow of Belholms's forge behind. The city air tasted of soot and hot iron, but beyond its walls the mountains rose like jagged teeth against the sky. That was where the ore awaited.

The Luminous Heart Ore.

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