The underground forge of Ashkar had no windows.

No sunlight had touched its black stone walls for nearly two hundred years.

Only fire lived there.

Fire and suffering.

Gigantic furnaces roared beneath iron chimneys while rivers of molten steel glowed across channels carved into the floor. Massive men hammered glowing weapons atop anvils large enough to crush a horse. Sparks exploded endlessly into the smoky darkness overhead like swarms of burning insects.

The forge supplied weapons for the king’s armies.

Swords.

Axes.

War hammers.

Armor thick enough to stop arrows.

And every single weapon forged there carried the same symbol burned into the steel—

the royal crest of Ashkar.

But far beneath the noise of hammers and chains, hidden near the coal pits at the far end of the forge, worked the smallest laborer in the entire kingdom.

An eight-year-old orphan boy.

Barefoot against the burning stone floor.

Thin from hunger.

His ragged clothes were blackened with soot and ash.

And despite the unbearable heat inside the forge—

the child never complained.

The blacksmiths called him Ash.

Mostly because no one remembered his real name anymore.

“Move faster, rat!”

A heavy boot slammed into the back of the boy’s legs, knocking him forward beside a pile of coal.

The workers laughed.

Ash slowly pushed himself back upright without a word.

His arms trembled from exhaustion as he lifted another bucket of coal nearly larger than his body.

One of the younger blacksmiths smirked.

“I swear the kid’s too stubborn to die.”

Another spat into the furnace flames.

“Would save us food if he did.”

Laughter echoed across the forge.

Only one person didn’t laugh.

Old Bram.

The oldest blacksmith in the underground halls.

His beard was gray with ash, and one side of his face had been burned years ago during a furnace explosion.

Bram watched silently while Ash carried the coal bucket across the forge floor.

Then he muttered quietly,

“The boy’s stronger than all of you.”

The others rolled their eyes.

“Because he carries rocks?”

“No,” Bram answered.

“Because he survives.”

Ash heard the words.

But he kept walking.

Because survival was the only thing he understood anymore.

He did not remember his parents clearly.

Only flashes.

Rain.

A woman singing softly.

Warm hands brushing dirt from his face.

Then flames.

Screaming.

Soldiers.

After that—

nothing.

The streets of Ashkar had raised him.

The forge had claimed him.

And the world had taught him quickly that kindness usually came moments before betrayal.

So Ash trusted no one.

Not the workers.

Not the guards.

Not even Bram.

Especially not Master Dren.

The ruler of the underground forge.

The giant blacksmith stood near the central furnace now, hammering a massive war blade while sweat poured down his scarred arms.

Every worker feared him.

Dren had once forged weapons directly for the king himself during the Border Wars.

People whispered he killed a man with a hammer strike strong enough to crush armor and bone together.

And tonight—

he was furious.

“The steel is wrong!”

BOOOOM.

His hammer smashed onto the glowing sword with enough force to shake nearby anvils.

The blade cracked in half instantly.

Workers froze.

Nobody dared speak.

Dren’s eyes burned with rage.

“You idiots ruined royal steel!”

No one answered.

Because failure inside the forge usually ended with blood.

Ash quietly lowered his head and continued stacking coal.

But Dren suddenly noticed something beside the boy’s work table.

A small hammer.

Roughly forged.

Covered in faded markings.

Tiny compared to the massive forge hammers around it.

Dren walked toward it slowly.

“What’s this?”

Ash stiffened immediately.

For the first time all night—

fear crossed his face.

“That’s mine,” the boy said quietly.

The workers burst into laughter.

“You made a toy hammer?”

“Look at the little blacksmith!”

Dren picked it up with one massive hand.

The strange faded markings along the handle glimmered faintly beneath the furnace light.

The giant blacksmith frowned.

“Where did you steal this?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You forged this?”

Ash nodded once.

The forge exploded into mockery.

Even hardened workers laughed openly now.

An eight-year-old child forging a hammer?

Impossible.

Dren’s smile turned cruel.

“Trash like this isn’t a weapon.”

Ash stepped forward immediately.

“Please don’t—”

BOOOOM.

Dren slammed the hammer against the anvil with monstrous force.

The weapon shattered instantly.

Metal fragments exploded across the forge floor.

Silence followed.

Ash stopped breathing.

Something inside his chest felt like it had cracked apart with the weapon.

Because that hammer was the only thing he had ever truly owned.

He had spent months secretly building it from broken scraps stolen from the forge garbage piles.

Every night after the workers slept—

he forged it alone.

Piece by piece.

And hidden deep inside the hammer’s core—

was a strange black shard he had once found buried beneath the furnace tunnels.

A shard that hummed softly whenever he touched it.

A shard that sometimes felt warm like a heartbeat.

Now the hammer lay destroyed across the stone floor.

The workers laughed again.

But Bram did not.

The old blacksmith stared at the shattered pieces carefully.

Then his expression slowly changed.

Because the fragments were moving.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tiny vibrations spread across the floor.

Blue light flickered beneath the cracks in the metal.

One worker frowned.

“Did you see that?”

The forge suddenly grew colder.

The furnace flames dimmed unnaturally.

And then—

the runes ignited.

Ancient glowing symbols burst alive across every shattered fragment.

The laughter died instantly.

Ash stared in shock.

The pieces trembled harder.

Then—

BOOOOM.

Every fragment launched upward simultaneously.

Workers screamed and stumbled backward.

The broken pieces spun violently through the air like they were being pulled together by invisible chains.

Piece by piece.

Rune by rune.

The hammer rebuilt itself midair.

The glowing blue symbols burned brighter with every second.

Until finally—

THOOOM.

The restored hammer slammed directly into Ash’s outstretched hand.

A shockwave exploded across the forge.

Furnace flames bent sideways.

Steel chains rattled violently.

And every worker froze in terror.

Because the weapon no longer looked broken or weak.

It looked ancient.

Alive.

The glowing runes crawled across the surface like veins of blue fire.

Dren stepped backward slowly.

“What… are you?”

Ash looked down at the hammer in confusion.

Then the runes suddenly flashed brighter.

And a voice whispered softly inside his mind.

Find me.

The child nearly dropped the weapon.

The voice sounded ancient.

Tired.

Lonely.

Then the glowing faded slightly.

Bram grabbed Ash’s shoulder immediately.

“Run.”

Ash blinked.

“What?”

The old man’s burned face had turned pale.

“RUN NOW!”

Too late.

The forge doors exploded open.

Royal soldiers stormed inside wearing black armor marked with silver dragon crests.

Behind them walked a tall man wrapped in dark crimson robes.

The High Inquisitor.

Malgrim.

The most feared man in Ashkar after the king himself.

Workers immediately fell to their knees.

Even Dren lowered his head.

Malgrim’s cold eyes scanned the forge slowly.

Then stopped directly on Ash’s hammer.

For the first time in years—

fear flickered across the inquisitor’s face.

“That weapon…” he whispered.

Ash tightened his grip nervously.

Malgrim stepped forward.

“Kill the boy.”

The soldiers charged instantly.

Bram shoved Ash backward.

“GO!”

Steel swords flashed toward the child.

Ash raised the hammer instinctively.

BOOOOM.

Blue lightning exploded from the weapon.

The nearest soldiers were thrown violently across the forge hall.

One smashed through an anvil.

Another crashed into molten steel channels.

Panic erupted instantly.

Workers screamed.

The forge shook violently.

Ash stared at the hammer in horror.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Seize him!” Malgrim roared.

More soldiers rushed forward.

Ash turned and ran.

The underground forge became chaos behind him.

He sprinted through smoke-filled tunnels while soldiers thundered after him.

The hammer pulsed in his hand like a living heart.

Find me.

The whisper returned.

Ash followed the strange pull instinctively deeper beneath the forge.

Past abandoned furnace chambers.

Past collapsed mining tunnels.

Until finally—

he reached a massive iron door hidden beneath layers of ash and chains.

Ancient symbols covered its surface.

The hammer glowed brighter immediately.

Ash touched the weapon against the door.

The runes answered.

BOOOOOOM.

The chains shattered apart.

The giant door slowly creaked open.

Cold air rushed from the darkness beyond.

Ash stepped inside.

And froze.

The chamber beyond was enormous.

Far older than the kingdom itself.

Ancient pillars surrounded a gigantic circular hall carved deep into the mountain.

And at the center—

stood a throne.

Not a royal throne.

A forge throne.

Built entirely from black metal.

Upon it rested the skeleton of a gigantic armored figure.

A king.

Or perhaps something worse.

Its empty skull faced downward toward a second hammer resting across its lap.

Unlike Ash’s small weapon—

this hammer was massive.

Covered in the same glowing blue runes.

The whisper inside Ash’s mind became louder.

At last…

Behind him—

soldiers burst into the chamber.

Malgrim entered slowly beside them.

And when he saw the throne—

his face lost all color.

“No…” he whispered.

“It’s real.”

Ash looked back nervously.

“What is this place?”

Malgrim’s voice trembled.

“The tomb of the First Smith.”

Silence filled the chamber.

Then Bram’s voice echoed weakly from the entrance.

The old blacksmith had followed them.

Covered in blood.

Breathing heavily.

“The legends were true…”

Ash stared at him.

Bram slowly approached the throne.

“Thousands of years ago,” he whispered, “before Ashkar existed… the First Smith forged weapons capable of destroying entire kingdoms.”

The old man pointed toward the giant hammer.

“He forged them using living souls.”

The chamber grew silent.

Malgrim smiled darkly.

“And the final weapon was never completed.”

Ash looked down at his small hammer.

Then realization struck him.

The shard inside it.

The humming metal.

The runes.

Malgrim nodded slowly.

“You found the missing core.”

The inquisitor’s expression twisted with obsession.

“Do you understand what that means, boy?”

Ash stepped backward.

“No.”

“It means your hammer is the final key.”

Suddenly the skeleton moved.

CRACK.

Its massive skull lifted slowly.

Blue fire ignited inside its empty eyes.

The soldiers screamed.

The ancient corpse stood from the throne with terrifying slowness.

Metal armor groaned like mountains shifting.

Then the giant creature looked directly at Ash.

And knelt.

Every person in the chamber froze.

The First Smith lowered his head before the child.

Not Malgrim.

Not the soldiers.

The boy.

Ash’s heart pounded violently.

“Why is it bowing?”

The ancient figure finally spoke.

Its voice sounded like stone grinding together.

“Blood… recognized.”

Malgrim’s eyes widened.

Bram stared at Ash in horror.

“No…”

The old blacksmith slowly looked at the child’s face.

The eyes.

The hair.

The strange resistance to heat.

And suddenly—

he remembered.

Years ago.

A royal execution.

A murdered bloodline.

Bram whispered shakily,

“You’re not an orphan.”

Ash froze.

“What?”

Malgrim smiled coldly.

“The king slaughtered the bloodline of the First Smith long ago.”

The inquisitor’s eyes burned with greed.

“But one child escaped.”

Ash’s breathing stopped.

“No…”

“You were never supposed to survive.”

The chamber trembled violently.

The ancient skeleton raised its massive hammer slowly.

“The heir… has returned.”

Malgrim suddenly drew a black dagger.

“Kill him now!”

The soldiers charged.

But the First Smith moved instantly.

BOOOOOOM.

Its hammer smashed into the ground.

The entire chamber exploded apart.

Stone pillars shattered.

Shockwaves hurled soldiers through the air like leaves in a storm.

Ash stumbled backward in terror.

The ancient warrior turned toward him.

And for the first time—

its glowing eyes softened.

“Finish… the forge…”

Then the ceiling collapsed.

Massive stones rained downward.

Malgrim screamed furiously while retreating.

“Bring the mountain down! Bury this place!”

Explosions thundered above the tunnels.

The entire underground forge began collapsing.

Bram grabbed Ash immediately.

“We have to go!”

“But the skeleton—”

“NOW!”

The old man dragged him through collapsing tunnels while the mountain crumbled around them.

Behind them—

the First Smith remained inside the ancient chamber alone.

Holding back the falling mountain.

Ash looked back one final time.

The glowing eyes met his.

Then the chamber disappeared beneath fire and stone.

The underground forge of Ashkar collapsed completely moments later.

The mountain shook so violently half the capital heard it.

Smoke swallowed the sky.

Workers fled screaming into the streets.

And by dawn—

the forge was gone.

Ash and Bram hid deep inside the ruined lower districts of the city.

For three days they remained hidden while royal soldiers searched everywhere.

Wanted posters spread across Ashkar.

THE CURSED BOY MUST BE EXECUTED IMMEDIATELY.

But Bram finally told Ash the truth.

Years ago—

the royal family feared the bloodline of the First Smith.

Because those born from that bloodline could awaken ancient forge weapons.

Weapons powerful enough to overthrow kingdoms.

So the king ordered every descendant executed.

Ash had survived only because someone smuggled him away during the massacre.

“But who?” Ash whispered.

Bram remained silent a long moment.

Then finally—

“I did.”

Ash stared at him.

The old blacksmith looked away.

“I was there the night your family died.”

Pain filled his burned eyes.

“I helped forge weapons for the royal soldiers.”

Ash’s chest tightened.

“You helped kill them?”

Bram nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Silence filled the room.

“I hated myself every day afterward.”

The old man’s voice cracked.

“So when I found you alive beneath the ruins… I couldn’t leave you there.”

Ash looked down quietly.

For years he had wondered why he survived.

Now he knew.

Not fate.

Not luck.

A guilty old blacksmith.

Bram handed him a wrapped bundle.

Inside rested the restored hammer.

The blue runes glowed softly.

“You need to leave Ashkar,” Bram whispered.

“The king will never stop hunting you.”

Ash touched the weapon carefully.

The runes pulsed warmly.

Then suddenly—

the hammer shifted.

Metal expanded outward.

The handle lengthened.

The head reshaped itself.

Ash stared in shock.

The weapon was changing.

Evolving.

Like it was responding to him.

Bram smiled weakly.

“The First Smith’s weapons grow with their master.”

Ash looked toward the distant city walls.

“What if I don’t want to run anymore?”

Bram’s face hardened.

“Then Ashkar will burn.”

But Ash remained silent.

Because deep inside—

he remembered the workers beaten by soldiers.

The starving children in the streets.

The innocent families crushed beneath royal greed.

And he realized something terrifying.

The kingdom feared his bloodline for a reason.

Not because they created weapons.

Because they could destroy tyrants.

That night—

Ash returned to the ruined forge mountain alone.

Smoke still rose from the collapsed tunnels.

The city believed everything beneath it had been buried forever.

But Ash felt the hammer pulling him forward.

Toward something hidden beneath the ruins.

He climbed through broken stone until finally reaching a deep crack in the mountain.

Blue light glowed inside.

Ash descended carefully.

And froze.

The ancient chamber still existed.

Partially destroyed.

But the throne remained standing.

And beside it—

lay the First Smith.

Collapsed beneath shattered stone.

Its body barely moving.

Ash rushed forward.

“You’re alive!”

The ancient figure looked at him weakly.

Then slowly extended one hand.

Inside its palm rested a small iron pendant.

Marked with the same glowing runes.

“Your mother…” the giant whispered.

Ash stopped breathing.

“She asked… me to protect you…”

Tears filled Ash’s eyes instantly.

“You knew her?”

The ancient figure nodded slowly.

“She was… my last descendant.”

Ash’s chest tightened painfully.

Then the First Smith did something impossible.

It reached upward—

and removed its own helmet.

Ash froze in shock.

Because beneath the ancient armor—

was not a skull.

Not a corpse.

But an old man.

Alive.

Barely breathing.

His body was covered in glowing cracks like cooling metal.

The First Smith had never truly died.

He had bound himself to the forge throne for centuries waiting for his bloodline to return.

Ash stared at him speechlessly.

“You’re human…”

The old man smiled weakly.

“For now.”

Then his body slowly began turning into ash.

“The forge consumes us eventually.”

Tears rolled down Ash’s face.

“Don’t die.”

The old smith gently placed one massive hand against the boy’s head.

“You are the last.”

The hammer beside Ash glowed brighter than ever before.

“Build… a better kingdom.”

Then the First Smith smiled one final time.

And crumbled peacefully into glowing blue ash.

The chamber fell silent.

Ash sat there for a very long time.

Alone beside the ancient throne.

Holding the hammer.

Holding the pendant.

Holding the weight of an entire bloodline.

Then slowly—

the boy stood.

One year later—

the kingdom of Ashkar changed forever.

The cruel king vanished after a sudden uprising swept through the capital.

The royal soldiers surrendered when their own forge workers refused to build weapons anymore.

The underground slums became rebuilding grounds.

The starving were fed.

The prisons opened.

And at the center of the rebuilt forge district—

stood a new forge unlike anything the kingdom had ever seen.

No chains.

No child workers.

No whips.

Only fire.

Creation.

And hope.

Inside the forge—

a young boy stood hammering glowing steel atop an anvil.

No longer starving.

No longer alone.

The workers around him laughed warmly while sparks danced through the air.

Bram sat nearby shouting advice angrily despite secretly smiling every few minutes.

And hanging above the central forge—

rested the symbol of the First Smith.

Not as a warning.

But as a promise.

Ash lifted the glowing hammer once more.

BOOOOM.

Blue sparks exploded across the forge beautifully.

The workers cheered.

And somewhere deep beneath the mountain—

ancient runes quietly pulsed with approval.

Because after centuries of blood, fear, and silence—

the forge had finally awakened again.

This time—

in the hands of someone who would use it to protect instead of destroy.