The forge hissed and breathed like a beast alive, each gust of heated air washing over Kael as he swept the soot from beneath the benches. The days had begun to blur into one another, yet every swing of the hammer, every clink of metal, rang with sharp clarity in his mind. Boran's Forge was more than a workplace — it was a rhythm, a language spoken through fire and steel.
Kael's observations were keen. Within days, he discovered that Bram, the other apprentice, wasn't merely muscular and stubborn — he was a Spark-level Crest user with a fire affinity. His fingers could summon fire at will, shaping the furnace's heat like a conductor before an orchestra. Boran, on the other hand, was an Ember-level Crest user with a metal affinity. It was through his magic that molten iron moved like wax, shaped with impossible finesse.
Before Kael's crest had shattered, he had reached the Fang level, a step above Bram. Yet now, watching them perform their symphony of labor, he felt miles beneath them.
He jotted the crest ranks down in his notebook, memories filling the gaps:
Crest Ranks:
Ember: The first flicker of power, only enough to affect the world subtly.
Spark: Where minor manipulation begins — flame, wind, or water — just barely controllable.
Fang: The beginning of real strength, where control deepens and versatility blooms.
Scale, Blaze, Claw, Inferno, Aether, and Crestborn — higher tiers he remembered only as names whispered with reverence.
"These levels," he muttered one night, scrubbing the anvils, "this is what most commoners will ever touch... A Spark, if lucky."
He watched Bram at work each day. The boy's control over the furnace was precise. He'd stretch his palm toward the coals, fingers curling like talons, and the temperature would rise. He could keep molten steel balanced at the perfect orange hue without overheating it. Boran would then step forward, channeling his metal affinity, using magic to manipulate the raw ore as it softened. Under his touch, blades began to form — curved, precise, glowing.
Kael had never seen smithing so beautifully executed.
And he did nothing.
After a week of observation, guilt gnawed at him. He was taking up space, living off Lyra's goodwill, watching two men labor while he carried only ash and tools. A broken crest... that was no excuse.
On the seventh day, Boran called him in the morning.
"You've watched enough. Time to move your legs."
Kael straightened. "Yes, sir."
"I need twenty pounds of Birmite ore. Go to Grel's Ore House down on Copper Street. Tell the old bastard I sent you. Pay him with this." He handed over a sealed pouch of coin and a scribbled letter. Kael set off, the air thick with forge smoke as he crossed the cobbled paths of the city. The market district bustled, but Copper Street was quieter, worn down by decades of trade.
Grel's Ore House was a squat brick building. Inside, it smelled of dust, metal, and old ale. A burly middle-aged man looked up from a counter, his arms crossed under a leather apron.
"You're not a regular," he said, voice rough. "Name?"
"Kael. From Boran's Forge."
The man snorted. "Of course, the noble whelp. I heard."
Kael blinked. "You know Lyra?"
"Girl used to run errands for me when she was little. Borrowed trouble, that one, but with a kind heart." He took the letter, read it, then nodded. "You'll haul it yourself. Birmite's no feather. You up for that?"
Kael nodded. "I need the work."
Grel grunted. "Good. People who don't use their hands don't last."
That exchange became routine. Kael returned over the next two weeks, collecting ore, exchanging light banter, gradually earning Grel's trust. The old man even taught him how to check the purity of the ore by sight and weight.
Back at the forge, Bram began to warm to him. They spoke between shifts — about the best coal for forging, how Bram learned to control his flame, and once, even about how Kael used to practice runes.
"Could've been a good enchanter," Bram said. "Too bad, huh?"
Kael just smiled. "I'll be something else."
At the end of the second week, Boran called Kael into the back room — a storage space filled with old weapons, manuals, and a single training post wrapped in rope.
"You want to stop feeling like a dead log?" Boran said, lighting a lantern.
Kael stood straighter. "Yes."
"Then I'll show you something. It's not a crest art. It's older than that. Pre-Crest Era, some say."
He pulled out a tattered scroll and unrolled it on a table. The script was tight and spiraling, but the title was clear:
"Iron Root Body Manual: Foundation Technique of the Earth Pillar Lineage."
Kael stared. "A body-strengthening technique?"
"Yep. Nothing flashy. No flames or lightning. But if you practice it daily, it'll make you twice as strong as any average man."
Kael blinked. "Why haven't I heard of this?"
Boran chuckled. "Because you're a noble. Nobles don't teach their kids dirt-body methods. And even commoners don't care anymore — why bother with body training when even a weak Ember-level crest user can torch you from fifty feet away?"
Kael looked at the scroll with new eyes.
"Why do you use it?"
Boran rolled up his sleeve and flexed. "Because I'm a blacksmith, not a mage. I lift iron all day. My crest helps, but my body needs to keep up. This is how."
He tapped Kael's chest. "You're broken, boy. But broken things can be reforged. If you're willing."
Kael nodded. "Show me."
The Training Begins
The first night was brutal. The Iron Root Manual described a breathing technique tied to the rhythm of hammer strikes: inhale during compression, exhale during release, lock your core, anchor your stance.
Each stance — Earth Root, Stone Pillar, Molten Hold — was designed to root the body, to build core strength, tendon toughness, and muscular explosiveness. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't fast.
But it worked.
Kael spent hours every night after his chores training under Boran's silent watch. His muscles screamed, his spine throbbed, but each day he rose again.
By the end of the month, his body had changed. His shoulders hardened, his grip strengthened, his steps steadied.
Then began the four months of madness.
Kael woke before dawn and trained through sunrise, fitting in repetitions between hauling ore and hammering billets. Boran added more stances — Mountain Brace, Seismic Hold, Rooted Coil — each designed to test different parts of the body. Some focused on dynamic tension, others on explosive movement or maintaining rooted power under pressure.
Bram and Kael now shared jabs and jokes. Bram once watched Kael hold the Mountain Brace for half an hour without collapsing and let out a low whistle. "You're insane, you know that?" he said. "Respect, though."
Kael grinned through clenched teeth. "No crest... got to compensate."
Lyra visited the forge once that month, entering with soot on her face and fresh bread in a bag. She handed it to Boran, but her eyes found Kael, who was shirtless and mid-stance, sweat rolling down his back.
"Damn, Kael," she said, laughing. "You're turning into a beast."
Kael straightened, panting. "Better than being a twig."
She smiled. "Keep at it. Still owe me for those meals."
The days passed like this until, one night in the fourth month, something changed.
Kael trained late into the night, repeating the final version of the Earth Root stance. His body locked, his breath steady... and then it hit.
A deep ache radiated from his bones, his skin burned like coal, and suddenly — thick black soot began to ooze from his pores. It reeked of burnt oil and rusted blood.
The stench jolted Boran awake.
He rushed out and found Kael unconscious, kneeling, surrounded by foul-smelling smoke.
"Shit. It's happening," Boran muttered. He dragged the boy inside and set to cleaning him with rough cloth and water. Kael's body was filthy, coated in dark grime that clung like tar. Boran worked in silence, wiping away the residue, scrubbing until Kael's skin shone.
When he was done, he stood back in quiet awe.
Kael looked... transformed.
Though just fourteen, he now bore the frame of a seventeen-year-old. His chest and arms rippled with clean muscle, every line defined, his skin a healthy bronze hue. His jaw was sharper, his features hardened but no less handsome. Boran could only shake his head.
"Damn, boy. If you weren't cursed, any commoner would marry his daughter to you without blinking."
Kael stirred, eyes fluttering open. He sat up slowly, flexing his fingers.
"I feel... different. Like I was made of paper before."
He stood and walked outside. A thick log sat nearby for firewood. Kael swung his arm, fingers curled into a fist — and the log split in two with a loud crack.
He stared in awe.
The Iron Root Body technique had been completed. His crest may still be broken, but Kael's body had been reforged in fire and stone — and it was only the beginning.