The Royal Forge of Ashkar never slept.

Day and night, its furnaces burned.

Molten steel flowed like rivers of fire.

The ringing of hammers echoed across the capital from dawn until midnight.

Kings trusted the forge.

Armies depended on it.

Legends were born within its walls.

And on the hottest day of summer, a ragged fifteen-year-old boy walked through its gates.

His name was Dorian.

Barefoot.

Dust-covered.

Wearing torn clothes patched together more times than anyone could count.

He carried no weapon.

No money.

No reputation.

Only a simple request.

“I want to become an apprentice.”

The workers laughed immediately.

The apprentices laughed harder.

Even the guards smirked.

Standing among master craftsmen and elite smiths, Dorian looked completely out of place.

Then the giant stepped forward.

Master Blacksmith Gorim.

The most famous smith in Ashkar.

A mountain of muscle and scars.

His arms were thicker than tree trunks.

His beard was blackened by years of furnace smoke.

He stared down at Dorian.

Then laughed.

The sound echoed throughout the forge.

“You?”

The apprentices grinned.

Dorian remained calm.

“Yes.”

Gorim shook his head.

“This forge creates weapons for kings.”

“I know.”

The giant leaned closer.

“And what can you do?”

Dorian answered honestly.

“Nothing.”

The apprentices exploded with laughter.

Several nearly fell over.

Even some workers chuckled.

Nothing.

The boy admitted he knew nothing.

Gorim’s smile vanished.

Without warning—

SMACK.

The giant slapped Dorian across the face.

The force sent the teenager stumbling backward.

The forge roared with laughter.

Dorian’s cheek burned.

But he didn’t retaliate.

Didn’t shout.

Didn’t complain.

He simply stood up again.

That annoyed Gorim even more.

The giant hated calm people.

Especially poor ones.

Especially when they refused to look humiliated.

Then his eyes landed on a pile of rusted junk near the furnace.

Broken tools.

Discarded metal.

Forgotten scraps.

Among them rested an ancient hammer.

Small.

Rust-covered.

Worthless.

Or so everyone believed.

Gorim picked it up.

“Here.”

He tossed it toward Dorian.

The hammer landed at the boy’s feet.

“Even scrap metal suits you better.”

The forge erupted.

More laughter.

More mockery.

The apprentices pointed and grinned.

One shouted,

“Perfect match!”

Another yelled,

“Maybe he can polish rust for a living!”

Dorian looked down at the hammer.

Something felt strange.

Very strange.

The moment his fingers touched the handle—

THUMMMMM.

A deep metallic vibration echoed through the forge.

The laughter stopped.

Instantly.

Workers looked around.

“What was that?”

Nobody knew.

Then another vibration followed.

THUMMMMM.

Stronger this time.

The rusted hammer felt warm.

Almost alive.

Dorian frowned.

The vibration spread through the workshop.

One hammer rattled.

Then another.

Then ten.

Then fifty.

Then hundreds.

CLINK.

CLANK.

CLANG.

The entire forge suddenly trembled.

Blacksmith hammers vibrated on racks.

Warhammers hanging on walls shook violently.

Massive forging mauls rattled beside furnaces.

Tools everywhere began responding.

The apprentices exchanged nervous glances.

The laughter disappeared.

Gorim’s smile faded.

“What is this?”

Nobody answered.

The vibration intensified.

Every hammer in the forge was reacting to the rusted relic.

As though recognizing it.

As though greeting an old king.

Then silence returned.

Absolute silence.

Dorian slowly raised the hammer.

It felt impossibly light.

Balanced.

Comfortable.

Like it belonged in his hand.

Without thinking, he swung it.

Only once.

BOOOOOOOOM.

The forge exploded with sound.

A shockwave burst outward.

Workers were thrown backward.

Furnace flames bent sideways.

Anvils rattled.

Chains snapped.

And at the center of the workshop—

the Great Anvil cracked.

Everyone froze.

The Great Anvil was legendary.

Forged from a single block of star metal.

So heavy that twenty men were required to move it.

For three hundred years it had survived countless strikes.

No weapon had ever damaged it.

Not even slightly.

Yet now a thin crack stretched across its surface.

Then another.

And another.

CRAAAAACK.

The giant anvil split perfectly in half.

The two pieces crashed to the floor.

The forge fell silent.

Nobody breathed.

Nobody moved.

Several apprentices looked ready to faint.

Gorim stared at the broken anvil.

His face had turned white.

Impossible.

Completely impossible.

Then the hammers began rising.

One by one.

From every corner of the forge.

Small hammers.

Large hammers.

Warhammers.

Forge hammers.

Mining hammers.

Hundreds of them slowly floated into the air.

Workers backed away.

Fear spread through the workshop.

The floating tools surrounded Dorian.

Not threateningly.

Protectively.

Like loyal soldiers greeting their commander.

Then something appeared inside the furnace.

A shadow.

Huge.

Far too large to be human.

The flames twisted.

Expanded.

Formed a silhouette.

A colossal titan.

Thirty feet tall.

Broad shoulders.

Massive arms.

Holding an enormous hammer.

The apprentices collapsed to their knees.

Even Gorim stepped backward.

The fiery giant stared directly at Dorian.

Then slowly bowed its head.

The image vanished.

The forge remained frozen.

Nobody spoke for nearly a minute.

Finally one elderly smith whispered:

“The Forge Titan…”

The words spread through the workshop.

Fearfully.

Reverently.

The Forge Titan.

A mythical figure from ancient stories.

The first smith.

The creator of legendary weapons.

Most believed he never existed.

Yet everyone had just seen him.

Or something connected to him.

Gorim swallowed.

For the first time in decades, he felt uncertain.

“Boy…”

His voice sounded smaller now.

“What is your name?”

“Dorian.”

The giant stared at him.

Then looked toward the rusted hammer.

His expression changed.

Recognition.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Slowly, he approached.

Carefully.

Almost respectfully.

Then he examined symbols hidden beneath the rust.

His hands began trembling.

“No.”

The old smith backed away.

“No, no, no…”

The apprentices stared.

“What is it, Master?”

Gorim looked horrified.

“That hammer…”

He swallowed.

“…shouldn’t exist.”

The room became even quieter.

Then Gorim revealed an ancient story.

Over a thousand years earlier, before Ashkar existed, a legendary artifact had vanished.

The Hammer of Varkun.

The first hammer ever forged.

The weapon carried by the Forge Titan himself.

According to legend, every hammer created afterward inherited a tiny fragment of its spirit.

That was why smiths considered hammers sacred.

They all descended from the first one.

The apprentices listened in stunned silence.

“But it disappeared,” Gorim continued.

“Lost forever.”

His eyes shifted toward Dorian.

“Until today.”

The realization hit the room like lightning.

The worthless hammer wasn’t worthless.

It was the source.

The origin.

The ancestor of every hammer in existence.

No wonder the tools responded.

No wonder the titan appeared.

Then an elderly archivist rushed into the forge.

Breathing heavily.

Holding several ancient books.

“I found it!”

Everyone turned.

The archivist opened a fragile manuscript.

Inside was an illustration.

The Forge Titan.

Holding a hammer.

The exact same hammer.

The room erupted with gasps.

Dorian stared at the drawing.

Something felt familiar.

Too familiar.

Then he noticed another detail.

Beneath the image was an inscription.

A prophecy.

Ancient words written centuries ago.

The archivist read aloud.

“When the Forge Hammer returns, it shall answer not to strength…”

He paused.

Then continued.

“…but to the blood of the builder.”

The room fell silent.

Nobody understood.

Except the titan.

The furnace suddenly ignited again.

Blue flames replaced orange.

The giant silhouette returned.

This time it pointed directly at Dorian.

Then at a mural hidden beneath centuries of soot.

The workers quickly cleaned the wall.

As dust fell away, another image emerged.

A man.

A blacksmith.

Young.

Strong.

Holding the Forge Hammer.

The apprentices looked at the mural.

Then at Dorian.

Then back again.

The resemblance was undeniable.

The same face.

The same eyes.

The same jawline.

Everyone froze.

The mural was over a thousand years old.

Yet it looked exactly like him.

The archivist nearly dropped his books.

“The Builder King.”

Gorim looked confused.

“What?”

The archivist pointed at the mural.

“Not the Forge Titan.”

The room fell silent.

“The Builder King.”

According to forgotten history, the Titan had a son.

A king who refused conquest.

Refused war.

Instead he built cities, bridges, roads, and kingdoms.

His descendants vanished after the fall of the ancient empire.

Or so everyone believed.

The titan pointed at Dorian again.

Then slowly faded away.

Leaving only silence.

The meaning was clear.

Dorian wasn’t chosen randomly.

He was the last descendant.

The final heir.

The bloodline had survived.

Hidden among ordinary people.

For centuries.

Gorim slowly turned toward the boy.

Memories flooded his mind.

The slap.

The insults.

The humiliation.

The rusted hammer thrown at his feet.

Regret crashed into him like a wave.

Because he finally understood the truth.

He hadn’t humiliated a worthless orphan.

He had insulted the only person in the kingdom capable of awakening the Forge Hammer.

The chosen bearer.

The heir of the Builder King.

The last descendant of the first civilization.

For the first time in decades, Master Blacksmith Gorim lowered his head.

And bowed.

Not to a king.

Not to a noble.

Not to a warrior.

To a ragged teenage boy holding a rust-covered hammer.

And every blacksmith in the forge followed.

One after another.

Until hundreds knelt before him.

Dorian stood silently among the furnaces.

Surrounded by floating hammers.

Holding the oldest hammer in the world.

While deep beneath the mountains of Ashkar, ancient mechanisms dormant for a thousand years began awakening.

Because the Hammer had returned.

And somewhere in the darkness, an ancient city was preparing to rise again.