Astrals: The Fallen Spirits

Zen sat with the old man, gratefully accepting the food he was offered. As he tore small pieces of meat to share with Muki, the three of them ate together, their bond growing stronger with each bite. The old man had taken them in without hesitation, offering them a place in his workshop in Ingara.

Days turned into weeks as Zen worked alongside the old man, helping with small tasks in the forge. The shop was always alive with the sound of hammers striking metal, the steady heat of the furnace filling the air.

Fighters came and went, bringing broken tools, dull blades, and custom requests. Zen found himself immersed in the craft, his hands slowly adapting to the demands of blacksmithing.

His determination grew stronger as he observed the old man's patience and skill. Each task became a lesson, each mistake a stepping stone to improvement. The old man never scolded him, only offering quiet guidance when needed. Zen's hands, once clumsy and unsure, became steady. He learned to shape metal, temper blades, and understand the soul of a weapon.

Muki, too, had grown—not just in size, now thrice as big as when Zen first found her in the darkness, but in strength and intelligence. She would often accompany the old man on errands, carrying small sacks of supplies on her back or helping to guard their modest workshop. Despite her imposing size, she remained playful, curling up beside Zen at night and purring softly.

With each passing day, Zen felt a sense of purpose returning. His art had improved, his hands no longer trembling when sketching intricate designs for the hilts of swords or the engravings on shields. Blacksmithing was more than just work—it was an art form, one that required patience, passion, and precision.

For the first time in a long while, Zen no longer felt like he was just surviving. He was learning, growing, and forging his own path. 

"Yoth burn hand, boy!" the old man shouted, shaking his head as he watched Zen flinch, quickly pulling his fingers away from the hot metal.

Zen blew on his reddened skin, rolling his eyes. "Oh, come on, old man, I'm not as slow as you."

The old man chuckled, his deep, raspy laughter echoing through the forge. "I wis two more time betir than you were, lad. But you'll get there... maybe in another ten years."

Zen smirked. Their days together had turned into something familiar, something almost like family. The old man had been tough on him at first, but over time, his rough edges softened.

He taught Zen not just how to wield a hammer but how to have patience—how to shape both metal and his own future.

Despite the teasing, Zen respected the old man. His words were wise, even if they were buried under thick Ingara slang. He was more than a teacher. He believed in Zen and never treated him as just another lost soul passing through.

But deep inside, Zen knew.

This wasn't his path.

The forge was steady, reliable, unchanging—everything that Zen wasn't. He loved the craft, but his heart wasn't in it. Something inside him ached for more.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped away from the anvil. "I'll be back soon," Zen said, grabbing a small pouch of coins as he headed for the door. "Need to pick up some supplies."

The old man waved him off but gave him a knowing look. He wasn't blind—he had seen this before. The look in Zen's eyes, the restless energy, the way he stared out beyond the shop walls, always waiting for something else.

As Zen stepped out into the streets of Ingara, a thought pressed into his mind.

This is great… but I need to move ahead. Where? I don't know… but I don't want to be a blacksmith.

He glanced back at the shop, at the glowing embers flickering inside, at the old man hammering away, unbothered by the world outside.

Zen clenched his fists. It was time to figure out where he truly belonged.

When Zen returned, he carried a map of Ingara in his hands. He unfolded it on the table, tracing his fingers over the winding roads and unfamiliar names.

The old man glanced at him, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "I see you got you a map, eh?" he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

Zen didn't reply immediately. Instead, they cooked and ate together in silence, the warmth of the forge still lingering in the air. For the first time in a long while, the silence wasn't awkward—it was filled with unspoken thoughts. Both of them sat, lost in their own reflections.

After a while, Zen finally spoke. "I need to go explore."

The old man nodded, his expression unreadable. "Youst times now. You're a good lad."

Zen nodded back, his chest feeling heavy. He had known this moment would come, but it was harder than he expected.

The old man set down his cup, staring into the flickering embers of the forge. Then, in a steady voice, he said: "Remember, boy. In pursuit of greatness, you must give up your misery."

The words hit Zen hard—like a hammer striking hot iron. He felt something inside him crack. For the first time since being cast out of his town, tears welled in his eyes. He wasn't just leaving a forge—he was leaving behind one of the only people who had truly cared for him.

His mind flooded with memories of the past few weeks—the first time he held a hammer, Muki's playful growls, the old man's endless teasing. He had found shelter here, a brief sense of home.

With a shaky breath, Zen whispered, "I'm gonna miss you."

The old man let out his signature laugh, deep and full of life. "Bah! I'll be holding back home, lad." Then, in a quieter voice, he added, "You helped me a lot too. Thank you."

That night, neither of them spoke much. The forge crackled softly as they drifted off to sleep, the weight of their parting hanging in the air.

By dawn, Zen was gone.

The old man woke to an empty forge, the familiar presence missing. He stepped outside, looking up at the sky, and sighed.

"Be safe. We'll meet again, lad."

And with that, he turned back to the forge, the embers still burning—just like the memories Zen had left behind.