➤ Chapter 8: "Tools of Iron, Heart of Wood"
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Morning sunlight spilled over the roof of Ehsan's cabin as he opened the chest beside his furnace. Inside: ten smooth iron ingots, still warm from last night's smelt.
He ran his fingers across them—textured, pixel-stiff but glowing with potential. These weren't just resources. They were milestones.
Stone had served him well. But stone cracked. Stone broke. Iron... was reliable. Sharper. Stronger.
Today wasn't about fighting or venturing far. Today was about crafting—refining what he had.
He took a slow breath and began.
First, he cleared the workbench.
It was cluttered with extra sticks, old stone picks, a few saplings he'd meant to plant but hadn't.
He set them aside, carefully. This wasn't just crafting—this was ritual.
He laid down planks and sticks.
Then, one by one, he placed the iron ingots in the crafting grid.
Click. Click. Click.
A new pickaxe.
Smooth. Clean. Silent.
Then a sword. Shovel. Axe. Hoe.
He didn't need them all right now, but he made them anyway.
For the feel of it.
For the idea that tomorrow, he'd be ready for anything.
He equipped the sword and stepped outside.
The balance felt right. Heavy in a way that made him aware of his grip, his posture, his presence.
He swung it once.
Clean arc. No lag. A perfect cut through the air.
The forest around his base was quiet, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of leaves and distant chicken clucks.
Nothing attacked.
Nothing moved.
Still, the sword felt justified—like part of him.
He wasn't a fighter. But he was a survivor.
And survivors prepare.
With the new axe, Ehsan went to the trees.
He didn't harvest aggressively. Just the ones closest to the house—the older oaks that were starting to block sunlight from the crops.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Logs fell with satisfying weight, and he replanted every sapling.
He worked in a circle around his base, building rhythm. Not because he had to.
Because it felt good.
The axe didn't splinter. It didn't slow.
Wood turned to planks, planks to slabs, slabs to fences.
By midday, he had enough material to expand the porch, add a small deck, and begin shaping what would soon become a proper tool shed.
By afternoon, the smell of wood smoke filled the air.
He was cooking again—baked potatoes with just a dash of charcoal-flame, and a fish he'd caught early that morning.
While it cooked, he built a small wooden sign beside his door:
"Base Camp – Day 6"
He stood and stared at it for a while.
It wasn't fancy. But it felt... earned.
This wasn't just where he lived.
It was where he chose to be.
Later, he sat by the fire pit, iron tools at his side, the orange glow of dusk washing the clearing in soft, dreamy color.
His home looked different now—more than a box with walls. It had shape. Layers. Thought.
And maybe that was what mattered most.
It wasn't just about better tools.
It was about building something worth protecting.
With hands of iron.
And a heart still rooted in wood.
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▶ To be continued...
Next Chapter: "Whispers from the Deep"
Thanks for reading!