The sun rose lazily over Kaelthur, tinging the horizon with hues of gold and gray.

The chilly wind carried the familiar scent of freshly cut stone, charred wood, and magic—a blend typical of cities rising from the ashes.

Every street vibrated with the sounds of rebuilding: hammers banging, workers' voices, sustaining spells being cast by exhausted but determined mages.

Strax walked alone, his hands in his pockets, his black cloak dragging softly on the uneven ground.

There were no bodyguards, no servants, not even one of his wives at his side—just him and the distant pulse of a city breathing again.

Kaelthur was alive. Bruised, patched, but alive.

And as much as the pride within him smiled at the sight, there was also a certain unease… as if something within the demon still found it strange to see order where there had once been chaos.

He passed a group of workers attempting to erect a stone column—three humans and two elves, aided by stabilization magic.

The symbol of Cristine's information guild was engraved on the supply crates: two serpents entwined around an eye.

Strax recognized it immediately—the touch of Cristine's efficiency was everywhere.

Things happened quickly when she and Yennifer engaged.

One of the mages noticed his presence and reflexively stopped his spell in surprise.

"M-Mister Strax!" he exclaimed, bowing quickly. The others followed suit, some too nervous to even breathe properly.

Strax simply raised his hand, urging them to continue.

"No need to stop everything," he said simply, his voice calm and a slight smile. "Kaelthur won't rebuild itself, good work, everyone. I'll ask Monica to bring you some refreshments later." The mages nodded and returned to their work, perhaps even with more vigor than before.

It wasn't fear—it was reverence.

That mix of respect and primal instinct that made any living creature want to keep their distance, yet at the same time sought his approval.

Strax continued walking, crossing a makeshift bridge made of planks and chains.

Below, the river that ran through the city was still murky—remnants of the ash and debris of war.

The magical engineers were already trying to purify it with flow runes, and he watched for a moment the way the water reacted to the magic circles—small, glowing waves of blue energy.

He took a deep breath.

It was strange to see so much movement in a place that, weeks ago, had been nothing more than a smoldering graveyard.

A reminder that, despite all the destruction it wrought, the world always tried to rise again.

A sharp sound snapped him out of his trance. Above him, some twenty meters in the air, a construction crew worked on a partially restored building. A rickety scaffolding trembled under the weight of a young woman balancing a bundle of wood in her hands.

A scream echoed.

"WATCH OUT!" someone yelled.

Strax looked up, and time seemed to slow.

The beam fell first, spinning through the air. Immediately afterward, the woman slipped, trying to catch herself, but the scaffolding gave way under her weight.

She plummeted.

Strax's golden eyes lit up with a bright glow.

A single step.

Dust billowed as he moved—too fast for human eyes to follow.

The ground cracked beneath his momentum, and in an instant he was below the drop, his arm raised.

The impact was silent.

She fell straight into his arms, light as a feather. The beam of wood shattered beside her, scattering splinters across the floor, but not a single fragment touched her.

The world began to move again.

The wind blew again, and the noise of the construction site returned in waves of shock.

The young woman blinked, completely stunned.

Her tousled golden hair fell over her face, and her green eyes—huge and brilliant—met his.

For a second, she forgot to breathe.

Strax's face was close, his hard, defined features contrasting with the otherworldly glow of his golden eyes. There was a calmness there, a silent strength that seemed to contain the weight of an entire hell.

She felt her heart race, her hands trembling on her chest.

He watched her calmly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice deep and low, with a touch that sounded almost... human.

She blinked again, trying to formulate a response. "I-I… yes…" she stammered. "I-I'm sorry, sir! I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have—"

She tried to get up, but Strax still held her, firm, as if the gesture were natural.

When he released her, she stumbled over her own words and nearly crumpled to the ground.

"I-I'm sorry! I didn't see the support was loose! I—"

Strax sighed, adjusting his cloak.

"There's nothing to forgive. You just fell."

She lowered her head, blushing to her ears. "T-thank you so much for holding me, sir. I—"

"Strax," he interrupted.

"Huh?"

"My name," he said simply. "Call me Strax."

The girl's eyes widened, completely lost. "I—I can't, sir!"

"Yes, you can," he replied, starting to walk again. "And next time, check the ropes before you climb."

She stood still, watching him walk away, still feeling the warmth of his touch on her arms—though his touch had been stone cold.

Her heart was pounding wildly, as if something had been ripped from its place and would never return.

The other workers hurried down, murmuring among themselves, some thanking fate that Strax was there, others whispering:

"Did he really catch her in midair?"

"I didn't even see him move…"

"That's why Kaelthur came back to life." Even death itself bows before him.

Strax paid no attention.

He continued walking through the streets, his thoughts wandering.

He passed squares being repaved, shops reopening, and even small stalls selling hot food to the workers.

Kaelthur was no longer a field of ruins.

It was an empire in the making.

An empire he was creating—without even realizing it.

Up ahead, two children were playing with a ball made of old leather. When the ball slipped away and rolled toward him, one of them—a boy with disheveled hair and pointy ears—ran after it, but stopped when he realized who was there.

"I-I'm… sorry, sir!" the boy said, freezing a few feet away.

Strax caught the ball and studied it for a moment before returning it with a light kick.

The ball flew in a perfect arc, landing in the hands of the other child, who stared at him in astonishment.

"Play," he said, and continued on.

The boys watched until he disappeared around the corner, before laughing again and running as if the world had started spinning again.

The sound of hammers echoed before he even turned the corner.

A low, steady rhythm, like the beating of an old but stubborn heart.

The smoke from the forge rose in thick columns, mingling with the cold morning mist and tinging the air with the unmistakable scent of heated iron and burning coals.

Strax stopped before the wide, reinforced wooden door.

Above it, a new sign gleamed in the light: "Kaelen Forge – The Steel That Survived the Fire."

A faint smile curved his lips.

"Still modest as ever…" he murmured, pushing the door open with one hand.

The heat came first, intense and familiar.

Inside, the forge roared like a living beast—embers danced, the fire reflected off the walls covered in metal and tools, and old Kaelen stood there, just as Strax remembered: sweaty, sullen, and completely focused.

The blacksmith looked up for only a second, and his weary gaze met his visitor's.

His eyebrows arched.

"Hmph... the devil himself appears at my door. What do you want this time, Strax?" he asked without pausing the hammer.

The sound of impact echoed.

Sparks flew like stars.

Strax walked slowly to the workbench, surveying the freshly forged swords lined up on the stand.

The quality was impeccable—the balance of the steel, the gleam of the blades, the touch of light magic that made each one unique.

"I just came to talk," Strax said calmly. "It's been a while since I've been here."

Kaelen snorted, dipping the red-hot iron into the water. Steam rose in a burst of hiss.

"Talk?" He laughed, a hoarse, short sound. "You're not the type to talk, Strax. You show up, say little, and the world changes. So, save me my time and tell me what you want."

Strax inclined his head.

"Straightforward as always." He looked around, admiring the place. "The forge is better than before. I heard Cristine sent workers to reinforce the foundations."

"The girl is efficient." Kaelen wiped the sweat with his forearm. "And intelligent. She said she wanted my forge to be 'the heart of the reconstruction.' Little does she know that Kaelthur's heart is a golden-eyed demon that doesn't know how to rest."

Strax gave a slight nasal laugh, not denying it.

Kaelen watched him for a moment, noticing something different. The air around Strax seemed more… heavy, more defined.

He wasn't just a wandering warrior.

He was someone with purpose.

"You're planning something big, aren't you?" the blacksmith said, picking up his hammer again. "I can see it in your eyes. The same look you had when you felled the Beast Sovereign."

"I plan to build something," Strax replied simply.

"Build," Kaelen repeated, chuckling softly. "You? The same man who destroys everything he touches? Now you want to build a kingdom?"

"Precisely for that reason." Strax approached, his voice low but firm. "Because I've destroyed enough."

The blacksmith paused. For a moment, the silence between them was only the sound of the fire breathing.

Strax rested his hands on the table and continued:

"Kaelthur is rising. But it won't be just a city. I want to make it the center of a new domain—an empire that doesn't depend on anyone's scraps."

"Hah!" Kaelen laughed humorlessly. "An empire of monsters and murderers, is that it?"

"A free empire," Strax corrected. "Where strength and wisdom coexist. Where no one need kneel before another rotten monarch."

Kaelen's eyes narrowed.

"That sounds beautiful coming from a tyrant."

Strax stared at him silently. For a moment, the golden glow in his irises seemed to intensify, reflecting the flames of the forge.

But his voice remained calm.

"I need someone to forge the symbol of this empire."

"And you think I am."

"I know you are."

Kaelen snorted, tossing the hammer aside with a loud clang.

"You've gone mad. I'm an old man, Strax. I've forged too many blades, seen heroes, monsters, and kings die with swords I made. And they all said the same thing—'a new beginning,' 'a new empire,' 'an age of freedom.'"

He turned, fixing the demon with a hard stare.

"In the end, it's always blood. Always the same cycle. You won't change that."

Strax stepped forward, and the heat of the forge seemed to dim for a moment—as if the fire were receding.

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But I can assure you that as long as I exist, no one will impose another cycle on Kaelthur."

The silence stretched.

Kaelen studied Strax's face, searching for any hesitation, any trace of deception. He found none.

That was the expression of someone who believed—not in hope, but in pure will.

He sighed and sat down on the wooden bench.

"You want me to be the official blacksmith of your... kingdom. Is that it?"

"Yes," Strax replied. "I want Kaelthur's steel to be made by your hands. Weapons, armor, auxiliary forges—all at your command."

Kaelen gave a bitter laugh.

"You want me as an employee. A servant!"

"No," Strax corrected him immediately. "As a pillar."

The old man fell silent.

The word hung in the air, heavier than any hammer.

Strax continued:

"You survived when no one else believed Kaelthur would ever exist again. The people trust you, Kaelen." And I know that, with your name, any soldier will wield a sword believing it will never break.

He bowed slightly.

"I'm not asking. I'm offering."

Kaelen stared at him for long seconds, before slowly rising to his feet, his eyes flashing with stubbornness.

"And if I say no?"

Strax didn't answer immediately.

He simply walked to the anvil, where an incomplete sword rested, its blade still dull.

He held it, examining the metal. The heat still emanating from it didn't affect him.

"Nice work," he commented. "The balance is perfect. But the magical core is unstable."

"I'm not finished yet, you damned perfectionist," Kaelen retorted, crossing his arms.

Strax glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle smile.

Then, without warning, he raised his sword and slammed it against the stone wall.

The sound echoed like thunder.

The blade cracked in half, falling into two identical pieces.

The blacksmith's eyes widened, ready to explode—but before he could speak, Strax placed the fragments on the table, carefully aligned.

"Excellent iron. Pure strength. But without a true foundation, it shatters," he said, his tone low, almost didactic.

"Are you comparing me to a broken sword, are you?" Kaelen growled.

"I'm saying that Kaelthur's steel needs more than technique. It needs purpose." Strax stepped forward, his shadow swallowing part of the room. "And you are the only man capable of giving that to my kingdom."

Kaelen stared at him with a mixture of anger and respect.

The silence between them was so thick that even the fire seemed to waver.

Finally, the old man sighed deeply, running his hand over his soot-covered face.

"You speak too beautifully for a demon." he murmured.

"Perhaps I learned from the right people," Strax replied, remembering Yennifer and Cristine.

The blacksmith walked to a shelf and picked up a metal cup, filling it with water.

He drank slowly, thoughtfully.

Then, without looking at Strax, he said:

"If I accept, will I have complete freedom over production? No mages meddling in my forges?"

"Complete," Strax replied. "And I will provide the best apprentices and resources. I want Kaelthur to be known for steel as much as for blood."

Kaelen turned, looking him in the eye.

"And if your empire falls?"

"Then the iron you forge will be the inheritance of what survives."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Kaelen began to laugh.

This time it was a real laugh, heavy, almost tired.

"Damn…" he grumbled. "You always talk like that, don't you? As if the whole world were just another forge of yours."

Strax shrugged.

"Perhaps so. Heat molds. Time tempers. And fire…" he stared into the flames, "…fire purifies."

Kaelen snorted, but the smile at the corners of his lips betrayed his surrender.

"Very well, Strax. If it's an empire you want, then you'll have steel worthy of an empire. But if any of your wives decide to turn my forge into a magical arsenal, I swear I'll hit you with the hammer."

"Deal." "Strax replied, extending his hand.

The old man hesitated for a moment, then shook his hand—the warmth of the blacksmith's skin meeting the demon's inhuman cold.

The pact was sealed.

The fire seemed to roar louder, as if it had sensed the promise.

Strax turned to leave, but Kaelen called out to him:

"Hey, Strax…"

"Hm?"

"When this empire of yours begins, what will its symbol be?"

Strax paused in the doorway. His golden gaze gleamed for a moment, reflecting the flames of the forge.

"A dragon surrounding a sword," he replied. "The dragon represents the power that sustains… and the sword, the slash that cuts through."

Kaelen smiled, returning to his work.

"Hah… bold. Sounds like you."

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