The air shifted the moment General Noctis made his presence known.
He was impossible to ignore. Crimson horns, like blood-forged rubies, curved slightly backward from his forehead with a threatening elegance. His eyes, equally red, seemed to gaze straight into the soul of everyone around him, while his short, military-style white hair stood in stark contrast—like snow amidst war.
Though shorter than Drakk, standing just over two meters tall, his aura was overwhelming—an oppressive and precise power, like a living fortress. His mature build wasn't excessively muscular, but firm, functional, and lethal.
Even Drakk felt the weight of that presence.
He gave a small respectful nod.
"General Noctis," he said firmly, "an honor."
Noctis returned the gesture with a brief nod and turned on his heels, leading them along a black stone path that wound through the mountain range like an ancient serpent. His military boots echoed rhythmically across the ground.
"A special mount has been sent from the capital," he informed them. "And a guide will accompany you safely to your next destination."
Drakk walked beside him—heavy, silent steps.
"The stories about you don't do you justice," he commented, glancing sideways.
There's an old premise in the world: the strong recognize the strong.
Noctis, expression neutral, bowed his head in respect.
"I appreciate it. I hope you find what you're looking for... And if one day you fill that void within you, I'd be honored to wield a weapon forged by your hands." He gave Drakk a sidelong glance.
"I'm tired of relying on what I find inside dungeons."
"If that day comes," Drakk replied seriously, "it will be an honor."
**
They continued walking through a colossal fortress, its black walls embedded with defensive runes. Demon soldiers marched in perfect formation, blades waiting to be drawn.
To the right, a scarlet castle rose atop the highest peak of the range, forged from the same vivid and oppressive material as the Crimson Gate. Its towers pierced the clouds, and its aura of dominance made one thing clear: this was the seat of a ruthless military force.
At the end of the fortified trail, Drakk and Skaryss finally reached the departure area.
And before them, a singular spectacle awaited.
A Sleipnir—a black, eight-legged steed with scarlet eyes and two long ebony horns curved forward like spears—was hitched to an opulent carriage. Though elegant, the vehicle radiated functionality. Its frame was reinforced, adorned with runic details and red ornamental metal.
The celestial creature neighed softly, as if recognizing the presence of the two travelers.
Although there was no need for a driver, standing before the carriage was a broad-shouldered, straight-backed, bald man.
Isaac, head of the Imperial Demon Blacksmiths.
Unlike the soot-stained look he wore at the forges, today he was dressed in a ceremonial robe that resembled armor made of noble fabric, with shimmering black and red tones under the dim demon sky.
Drakk's eyes widened with a hint of surprise.
"Isaac?"
The man grinned broadly, eyes sparkling.
"Good to see a hammer-brother again."
The Sleipnir snorted softly, its ebony hooves marking the beginning of the journey.
With an uncharacteristic display of gallantry, Isaac opened the carriage door. The interior would steal the breath of any visitor: from within, the space was inexplicably larger—like the carriage folded reality upon entering.
Two reinforced compartments sat at the rear, perfectly shaped to accommodate Drakk and Skaryss's massive black cases. Above them, a dark leather seat seemed to embrace anyone who sat, and the ceiling was tall enough for even Drakk, with his three-meter frame, to stand comfortably.
When the three boarded, the Sleipnir began to move with a surreal smoothness for its size, as if its hooves barely touched the ground.
Isaac folded his arms, leaning back with a sarcastic grin. His eyes slid toward Skaryss.
"I'm impressed," he said with a voice heavy with affectionate mockery. "How did you get this iron-bashing brute to take you on as a disciple?"
Skaryss chuckled with restrained pride, the tips of her canines visible in her smile.
"Simple secret: give more work to someone who lives to work."
Isaac let out a booming laugh, his broad chest rising and falling.
"Hah! Then you've got the right spirit." He turned slightly toward Drakk, eyes narrowing. "You really found someone interesting, huh? And a variant, no less..."
The silence was broken by a faint smile on Drakk's lips. Skaryss, however, frowned, startled by the accuracy of the diagnosis.
"...How?" she murmured.
"The way your prana vibrates—it doesn't align with the regular affinity system," Isaac replied with a shrug. "It's unusual... and intriguing."
Drakk studied his old friend for a moment, eyes narrowing like a blacksmith sizing up a new material. His gaze passed over Isaac's muscular frame, his fingers, the faint scent of metal and fine oil... but what truly caught his attention was the gleam in the imperial blacksmith's eyes.
"You've changed," he murmured. "You're different. You've evolved."
Isaac raised an eyebrow.
"Oh really? Didn't even notice!" he replied playfully.
"Yes. To me, it seems you're close to my current level of forging mastery," Drakk said bluntly. "And you were always good—but not that good. What happened?"
Isaac hesitated for a second. The smile remained, but his eyes shimmered with a touch of nostalgia—or pride.
"A fortunate encounter," he said enigmatically. "Something... special. It led me to craft unique pieces. And it stirred something inside me."
Drakk narrowed his eyes, but didn't press further.
"Unique pieces?"
Isaac merely folded his arms, leaning back with a look of mystery.
Isaac's lingering silence still hung in the air. Drakk, his eyes half-closed, studied him once more. He knew the man was hiding something—and probably wouldn't reveal it any time soon.
But instead of insisting, the towering beastfolk let out a deep sigh, crossed his broad arms over his chest, and changed the subject.
"Tell me, Isaac," he began in a deep voice, "am I going to be well received in this territory? Will the demons really open their gates for me? Even with this fragile alliance we have with your kind... will I truly get to glimpse your culture?"
Isaac let out a loud, dry laugh, slapping his thigh with his fingers.
"Hahaha! Drakk, you have no idea... Queen Selene has prepared a festival in your honor."
Drakk's eyes widened slightly, one eyebrow arching in genuine surprise.
"A festival?" he murmured, thoughtful. "I've had something similar among the orcs, elves, and humans… but the demons will do the same?"
"Haa no... nothing like this one!" Isaac replied, a wide grin spreading across his face, the kind worn by someone who pities what's about to come.
Among all races, demons held a singular advantage in the world of forging not because of artisanal tradition, but because of their absolute adaptability.
While elves, orcs, humans, and dwarves relied on master blacksmiths to craft custom weapons—or, more often, were forced to use dungeon-found artifacts that only partially suited their combat styles—the demons played an entirely different game.
In the Demon Empire, it didn't matter if the artifact was crude, unstable, or misaligned. If it ended up in the right hands, there was only one name to bring it to: Adriel Lunaris Argentum.
Adriel. The Magical Artificer. A name that made even the greatest blacksmiths swallow hard. He was called the surgeon of artifacts. While the rest of the world scoured for rare pieces and prayed for luck, he took average equipment and turned it into relics. Every inch refined, every trace re-enchanted, every imperfection redefined until the object became an exact extension of the warrior who wielded it.
That was the difference that put the Demon Empire ahead—not for having the best materials or the strongest weapons, but for turning any tool into the perfect weapon for its bearer. And this was crucial when it came to the most powerful figures in the empire.
While other nations settled for powerful weapons that didn't always fit, the demons wore war like a tailor-made suit of armor.
"And how does this festival work?" Drakk asked, his voice carrying the weight of someone already calculating the implications.
Isaac grinned, the kind of grin people wore right before dropping a bomb.
"It starts with a grand open-air event in the center of Chaos." He adjusted himself, his eyes gaining a spark of excitement. "The empire has provided tons of magical ores, and any blacksmith is free to challenge another in public duels."
Drakk furrowed his brow, intrigued.
Isaac continued, a slight smirk tugging at his lips—he knew the weight of what he was revealing:
"And it won't just be a spectacle. According to the new imperial decree, the Forging Oversight Syndicate has authorized real grievances to be settled in the arena. Old debts, broken contracts, trade disputes, family conflicts… everything can be laid on the anvil and judged by the hammer."
He paused, letting the impact settle before continuing:
"And more... families, institutions, even noble houses can appoint blacksmiths as legal representatives. If you owe money to the central bank, for instance, you can challenge the bank's blacksmith. If you win, the debt is considered paid. The forge becomes the courtroom. The metal, the argument. And the outcome… the verdict."
Drakk arched an eyebrow slightly, taking it in. This wasn't just about showcasing talent. It was about applying purpose.
"The Syndicate," Isaac added, "acts as regulator and judge. They evaluate whether the case is legitimate, balance the terms, limit the level of materials used, and ensure the match stays fair—even between opponents of vastly different power. Nothing goes unchecked."
Drakk crossed his arms, clearly intrigued.
"And has it actually been used?"
Isaac nodded proudly.
"Six months ago, a noble family on the brink of collapse hired a young blacksmith as their last hope against the Chaos investment bank. The kid won by forging a binding chain that withstood a direct attack from a Master. The debt was forgiven."
"Another time," he went on, "two trade guilds were locked in a silent war over ore routes. The Syndicate intervened: a single forging match settled the matter. A spear versus a shield. The more functional piece won. The conflict? Avoided."
Drakk let out a rough chuckle, shaking his head in approval.
This was more than a competition. It was a political and economic machine. A link between tradition, art, and conflict resolution.
Brilliant. Not just for the complexity...
But for the genius of its structure.
"Impressive," he murmured. "It's not just about showing skill... it's about giving meaning to the forge. Real strength. Practicality. Responsibility. I've never seen anything like it."
"Neither have I," Isaac admitted. "And you wanna know where you fit into all of this?"
Drakk shot him a sideways glance, suspicious.
Isaac burst out laughing.
"You're going to be the judge of this whole mess."
The silence that followed was broken only by Skaryss's muffled laughter, while Drakk let out a deep sigh, already sensing that this trip would be anything but peaceful.