At the gates of Sol'Varen, the golden city of human faith, the farewell took place under a silence heavy with meaning. There were no crowds. Only a highly select group of fewer than fifty people—renowned fighters, respected artificers, and elite warriors gathered to pay their respects.
The atmosphere was not one of noisy emotion, but of solemn contemplation. Restrained applause, like the rhythmic pounding of sacred hammers against the metal of reverence. Every pair of eyes followed, in absolute respect, the departure of a man whose legend was becoming more concrete by the day.
Drakk Miracle Claws.
Now nicknamed 'The Divine Blacksmith.'
The colossal bestial.
The Walking Forge.
Standing three meters tall, with a body forged by a thousand furnaces, his stride was slow and deliberate—like a controlled earthquake. Bronzed skin, toughened by fire, a thick black beard, upright doberman ears, and a protruding belly of one who ate well and lifted anvils like bread. Every step made the ground echo, and every moving muscle seemed to tell the story of an entire race.
Strapped to his back, a massive black marble box, as large as a divine crypt and taller than any ordinary man. No locks. No chains. Just sealed power.
Five tons of an unknown metal.
Carried as if it were a part of him.
At his side walked his apprentice, a young orc with a firm presence.
Straight black hair like the night, emerald green skin, eyes as lively as the forge's flame. Her unadorned obsidian armor was simple but flawlessly crafted—the kind of gear only a blacksmith would wear with pride. And on her back, a smaller replica of her master's box—perhaps, one day, a new legendary reliquary.
They walked together. In silence. Toward the unknown.
Toward demon territory.
One of the human temple masters, a middle-aged warrior with scars on his face and hands calloused from hundreds of battles, murmured as he watched them leave:
"I've never seen anyone like him… and with luck, I never will again."
Another man, an old forgemaster watching the departure from atop the golden walls, let a silent tear fall.
The pair of legendary gauntlets Drakk had forged for the humans were already on display in the Grand Sanctuary. That kind of admiration wasn't seen in other professions. But then again, all artificers were a little strange in their own way—so crying over a masterpiece was acceptable.
The gates closed.
And the sound of silence, as Drakk left the human capital, echoed across the nation like a distant thunderclap.
Drakk sighed.
A deep, muffled sigh, heavy with frustration and weight.
It wasn't the sigh of a man tired from the journey, but from something no one else could see: the burden of stagnant genius.
His footsteps, though as imposing as war drums, dragged the shadow of unmet expectations.
The five-ton box on his back wasn't what weighed on him. What truly weighed was the absence of answers. The time, the centuries of forging, the experiments… and the bitter feeling that he was still small in the face of true greatness.
"I'm still far away..." he muttered in a raspy voice, more to himself than to the apprentice following him.
Drakk knew the value of his name. Humans revered him. Orcs sang about him in their taverns. Elves would write of his feats.
But none of that mattered.
He knew the truth.
He knew that his legendary creations, no matter how extraordinary in the eyes of other races, still fell short of the mythical dwarven forges.
And that was the dilemma of Atlas.
As a being's power grew, so too did the gap between the user and their weapon.
It was simple in the early stages. A good blacksmith made a good weapon.
But once the peaks of power were reached… no ordinary weapon could endure.
No ordinary weapon was enough.
At the highest levels, warriors didn't forge their weapons—they hunted them.
Dungeon artifacts.
Ancient relics forgotten by history itself.
That was the reality of 90% of Atlas's powerful warriors.
They didn't wield masterpieces in their hands, but mysteries conquered through blood and risk—mysteries they often didn't even fully understand.
Drakk clenched his fist.
Take Glenn's group, for example. Talented young ones, full of promise, but still wielding only high-quality gear.
Yes, Dórian had a blade that burned with rage.
Seraphine wore armor that regenerated when touched by the air.
But… that was the limit of what they could buy or commission. And that's because Seraphine's armor and spear were both artifacts.
Had they possessed legendary or mythological artifacts, they might've completed the dungeon with far fewer injuries. But, well… that didn't matter anymore.
And that's exactly where the dwarves stood alone.
The only race capable of forging the impossible.
Creating weapons that not only endured—but rivaled legends.
But the dwarves… the dwarves shared nothing.
No methods. No secrets. No processes.
They wouldn't even let Drakk see the heat of their forges.
All he could do was wander.
From nation to nation, race to race, searching for something—any spark of inspiration that might take him further. But so far, not even elven festivals, orcish tournaments, or the well-coordinated battles of humans had given him what he sought.
The box on his back felt emptier than ever.
And now… only one territory remained.
The demons.
Drakk looked up at the gray sky of the borderlands, his golden eyes weary—but still hungry.
"May Supay, god of the deep forge, be with me…" he whispered.
The journey wasn't over yet.
And hope still burned faintly inside Drakk.
"That gauntlet you made for the humans… it was fascinating," said Skaryss, her green eyes glinting as she recalled the piece. She walked beside Drakk, her light steps contrasting with the thunder of his. "Any warrior would be happy with it. Especially that hot-headed girl… what was her name again...?"
Drakk blinked slowly, pulled from his thoughts.
"Priscila Varen," he said in his deep voice, as if speaking the name of a contained curse. "She's an aberration."
He paused, then added:
"And we thought Athena was enough of a problem."
Skaryss let out a short whistle, surprised.
"And her sister?"
She recalled the duel in the demon territory they were now heading toward.
"She beat Athena, didn't she? That's aberrant too, Master."
Drakk raised an eyebrow, correcting her with a hint of firmness:
"A draw. The demon… Glenn, the one with three affinities, interrupted the duel because of an assassination attempt."
He paused again and crossed his arms. "If the fight had continued… I've no idea what would've happened."
Skaryss narrowed her eyes, thoughtful.
"The one with three affinities...?" she murmured, as if the name was starting to carry new weight.
She turned her head toward Drakk and asked casually, but with intent:
"Aren't you curious, Master? He's the first individual in history to possess three affinities. Maybe… he's the missing spark."
Drakk let out a deep growl, like thunder rumbling in his chest.
"Let's hope so…"
Skaryss didn't reply. She simply looked ahead with a barely visible smile tugging at the corner of her lips and whispered to herself, like someone hiding a secret beneath their tongue:
"Three affinities… interesting."
The journey continued unhurried, with the surrounding landscape slowly changing. The fields grew damper, the trees became sparser, and the moisture in the air began to thicken. After several hours of silence and contemplation, Drakk and Skaryss arrived at the edge of a vast delta—a peaceful, beautiful place where the river split into dozens of crystal-clear branches that spread across sandbanks, tall reeds, and aquatic vegetation.
Anchored near the main bank, a sturdy vessel swayed gently with the ebb and flow of the current. It was made of dark wood reinforced with metal plating along the sides and topped with folded sails bearing the crest of the Church of the Three Fates—golden on white. A symbol that not only commanded respect, but also guaranteed safe passage through nearly all human waters.
Several well-dressed individuals were boarding slowly via the gangplank: mages, soldiers, and clerics. It was a reserved ship, where only invited guests or important figures were granted permission to embark.
Beside him, Skaryss also came to a halt. Her green eyes sparkled for a moment as she examined every detail of the vessel.
"So this is the ship?" she asked in a neutral tone.
Drakk nodded silently, his eyes still on the horizon.
The crossing would take seven days. They would sail down the great river to the southern shores of the human continent, passing through villages, fortresses, and riverside forests until finally reaching the border that separated human lands from demon territory—the beginning of the mountain ranges. From there, they would proceed on foot along the slopes into demon lands.
Drakk could fly, if he wished. Any individual who had broken through from Master rank to Transcendent was able to defy the laws of gravity and soar freely like a bird.
He could carry Skaryss in his arms with ease. But that wasn't the point. And it also wasn't exactly comfortable for his apprentice to travel thousands and thousands of kilometers being cradled the whole way.
No—this was a pilgrimage.
A path not charted by maps, but by conviction.
All who had ever touched the summit of Atlas knew: the epiphanies, the true leaps in power, rarely came in battle or amid war cries. They came… in silence. In contemplation. In mundane moments, between one breath and the next, when the world finally stopped screaming.
And that was what Drakk sought.
Contemplation. Peace. A trigger. A spark. An answer.
And perhaps, just perhaps, what he found in demon territory would be the spark that had eluded him for so long.