Astrals: The Fallen Spirits

Zen walked through the streets of Ingara, sweat clinging to his skin like an unwanted second layer. It was hotter than he had expected, and he quickly realized why.

Fires roared in every direction, massive furnaces gave out heat, and blacksmiths hammered away at molten metal like they were trying to beat it into submission.

The air smelled of burning coal, scorched iron, and sweat.

At first, it was exciting—watching molten metal being shaped, the clang of hammers ringing like some chaotic symphony. But after a few minutes, the constant noise started gnawing at his nerves. He was sure if he stayed too long, his skull would split in half.

Then, something odd caught his attention.

Among the relentless movement, he spotted a small furnace with barely a flicker of fire inside. An old man sat next to it, arms crossed, staring at nothing in particular.

Zen narrowed his eyes. The entire street was alive with work, yet this man looked like he had retired mid-shift.

That's… weird.

Curiosity got the better of him. He stepped forward, bowing slightly with a hand to his chest—basic manners never hurt.

"Hello, sir. Need any help?"

The old man barely moved, his eyes shifting lazily to Zen.

"No work now. No need help." His voice was as dry and cracked as the anvil beside him.

Zen raised a brow. "No work? In a place like this?"

"Nought left to do," the man grumbled. "Work taken by young ones with quick hands and sharper tongues."

Zen glanced around. The other blacksmiths were working relentlessly, their forges burning bright. Yet this man sat in the shadows of a dying fire, his tools untouched.

Interesting, he thought.

If there was one thing Zen had learned by now, it was that anything out of place usually meant an opportunity—or trouble. Sometimes both.

Zen hesitated. He wasn't a blacksmith. He wasn't even remotely close to being one. But at this point, any opportunity was better than starving in the streets.

"I-I can help you if you'd like, sir," Zen offered, half-expecting the old man to wave him off.

Instead, the geezer slowly stood up, his hunched back making him look like a folded-up piece of paper. He shuffled toward a worn-out workbench, every step looking like it might be his last, and then, with all the grace of a dying man, plopped a Core onto the table.

"Man coumth from ther," the old man muttered, pointing a crooked finger into the distance.

Zen squinted. Right. That was definitely supposed to mean something. He took a second to translate the strange accent in his head. A man came from there. Got it.

"Gove the Core," the old man continued. "Tod to beat a dagger out thee."

Zen stared at him. "You… want me to make a dagger out of this Core?"

The old man nodded.

"Bode too old, eh," he coughed. "Lital help, can both some medisi."

Zen sighed. Great. So not only was he making a dagger, but he was also apparently the old man's new apprentice.

"Alright, but you'll have to teach me the process," he said. "I've never done this before."

The old man shook his head like he had expected this level of incompetence. "All strat som day."

Zen exhaled. Well, he supposed today was that someday.

The old man kept talking, but Zen was pretty sure he was only catching every third word. Something about fire, something about iron, and a whole lot of words that sounded more like someone choking on their own spit.

After a few painful minutes of deciphering, he put together a rough mental blueprint for what needed to be done.

Step one: throw the Core into this weird vessel and set it on top of the furnace.

Step two: crank up the fire until the stuff inside glows red like it's about to explode.

Step three: take it out, grab some iron rods—preferably without burning my fingers off—and start kneading it like a piece of dough from hell.

Step four: shove a handle into it while it's still hot and then hammer it into shape. Not a masterpiece, but it should at least look like a dagger.

Zen exhaled. Simple, right?

He grabbed the Core, threw it into the vessel, and placed it onto the roaring furnace. Almost immediately, the heat-blasted his face, making him wince.

Muki, completely uninterested in his suffering, had settled near the old man, her white eyes fixed on the process like an unimpressed supervisor.

Meanwhile, the old man kept muttering instructions, which only made things more complicated. Zen groaned internally. This was going to be a long day.

Zen wiped the sweat off his forehead as he pulled the glowing red Core from the furnace with heavy iron tongs. The heat was suffocating, but he focused on kneading the molten mass with iron rods, shaping it as best as he could. It wasn't perfect, but under the old man's grunted approval, the material slowly began to take form. 

Pressing the iron handle into the softened core, Zen hammered relentlessly, each strike sending sparks flying. The metal clashed and groaned under the force, molding into a crude but recognizable dagger. After what felt like an eternity, he stepped back, exhausted yet satisfied, as he held up the finished blade. It was rough and uneven, but undeniably his creation.

The old man let out a hearty laugh, his wrinkled eyes gleaming with amusement. "No bad, eh?" he said, patting Zen on the back with surprising strength. Zen couldn't tell if the old man was praising him or just entertained by his struggle, but at least he didn't mess up completely. Muki stretched lazily beside them, utterly unbothered. 

Meanwhile, at the towering gates of Ingara, the Astral Knight landed with a thud, his cloak billowing behind him. His masked face tilted slightly as he questioned the guards. The confirmation that the boy had indeed arrived made his fingers twitch with irritation.

A low chuckle escaped him, a hand running over his masked forehead. "You stupid boy," he muttered, amusement laced with venom. "You'll be dead soon, you fucking liar."