By midday, the forge was a furnace, and I was its coal—sweating, smoking, and slowly being pounded into shape.
But I didn't complain.
Mr. Drake worked like a man locked in a war with iron. Every strike of his hammer cracked the air like thunder, his thick arms moving with that steady, relentless rhythm forged from decades of labor. The forge stank of molten metal, ash, and oil—like the breath of a dragon who had long since stopped caring who it burned.
"More oil," he grunted.
I stepped in with the canister, the heat licking at my skin as I doused the half-forged blade on the anvil. Steam hissed up like a living thing, white and angry, but Mr. Drake didn't flinch.
"That'll hold," he muttered, wiping his brow with a thick rag. "Now check the clamps. We reshape the axe heads next."
I nodded, stepping away with sore arms and blistered hands. The ache had settled into my bones like it lived there. But even beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred.
That strange buzz under my skin hadn't gone away since sparring with Lina. It wasn't pain. Not exactly. More like pressure. Like I was being nudged from inside my own skin.
I felt it most in quiet moments. Just now, when I shifted my stance near the anvil. A subtle ripple in the air. A shift in balance. Like the hammer in Mr. Drake's hand slowed just a fraction before it struck the metal. Or like the scrap I dropped earlier didn't fall the way it should've—it leaned a little off-center, like something else pulled on it.
"You're drifting again," Mr. Drake said without looking up.
"Sorry," I replied, blinking away the haze. "Just tired."
He gave me a sideways look, then went back to work. "Tired don't make your eyes dart like that. Something else going on?"
I hesitated. "Lina said I've got an affinity. For space. And gravity."
His brow lifted a hair. That got his attention.
"She would know," he muttered. "That girl reads mana like she invented it."
I gave a weak chuckle. "I felt something yesterday. Like… the space around her twisted before she moved. Like the world warned me."
Mr. Drake wiped his hands, then moved to the back wall. Without a word, he grabbed a thick iron rod—three feet long and solid—and chucked it at me.
Instinct kicked in.
My arm jerked out and snatched it from the air. The weight dragged at my shoulder, but I caught it. Not cleanly. But before it hit the ground.
I stared at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously?"
"You think I throw metal at all my apprentices?" he said, folding his arms. "You felt the weight change in the air before it hit you, didn't you?"
I nodded slowly.
"That's your affinity. And if it's real, we're going to wake it up."
He took the rod back, then pointed toward the corner of the forge, where a small sand pit sat surrounded by worn stones—each the size of a cinder block.
"See those?" he said. "Forty pounds apiece. Move them to the pit. Barehanded. Stack 'em. No dropping. No dragging."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"That's only it," he said with a grin. "If your body can feel gravity, then you'll learn more moving those than you will swinging steel."
I rolled my neck and walked to the first block. It wasn't just heavy—it was dense, oddly weighted. The second I picked it up, I felt the imbalance. Not just in my muscles, but deeper. A tug, like something invisible trying to tilt the brick forward.
So I adjusted my stance. Slid my foot an inch. Let my hips move with the shift. The tension vanished, just a little.
Interesting.
I moved it. Then the next. Then another. Mr. Drake didn't say a word. Just watched with that blacksmith stare—patient, judgmental, but not unkind.
The more I worked, the more I felt. I stopped thinking so much and just listened—to the pull beneath each object, the way it wanted to move. Every motion became less forced. More efficient. Like my body was figuring out a rhythm my brain couldn't grasp.
I wasn't just carrying weight.
I was reading it.
By the time I stacked the last block into the pit, my arms were shaking, but I felt lighter inside. Like I had passed some kind of invisible threshold.
Mr. Drake just grunted. "You're starting to feel it."
I nodded, breathing hard. "Yeah. I think I am."
"Then you're ready."
"Ready for what?"
He pointed out the forge entrance.
"Go find Lina. She's expecting you."
⸻
When I left the smithy, the sun had dipped toward the tree line, painting the sky in slow oranges and pale golds. The village of Pinebarrow moved in slow rhythm—children playing near the stream, woodcutters unloading fresh timber, and a group of women laughing near the drying racks by the communal ovens.
I cut through the fields on foot, sweat drying on my back, arms still humming with strain. But I didn't feel broken. I felt tempered.
Like the forge had done more than beat on steel.
Lina was waiting in the same clearing behind the village—the one where we'd first sparred. She stood barefoot in the tall grass, long silver-gray hair tied into a loose knot, a wooden practice staff resting on her shoulder.
Her eyes found me as I stepped into the clearing.
"You're late."
I bowed my head slightly. "Had to lift some bricks."
She studied me for a moment—then nodded. "Good. You look tired."
"I feel… weirdly awake."
A faint smirk touched her lips. "That's progress."
She tossed me a wooden staff. I caught it, just a fraction faster than I should've. My fingers closed around it, and again, I felt that pull—the slight sway in the air, the gravity of her body, even before she moved.
Her first strike came fast.
I barely blocked it, my arms jolting from the force. The second came low, then another—high and arcing. I wasn't matching her in technique, but my body reacted, reading the flow, adjusting.
It was like learning to dance by listening to the beat of the world.
"Good," she said between strikes. "Your balance is better. You're reading space."
"I'm not thinking," I gasped.
"Don't. Thinking gets you killed. Feeling keeps you alive."
She spun. I ducked beneath the strike. My heel skidded—but I used the pull, the shift, and twisted with it. The staff came up and brushed her ribs.
I hit her.
Not hard.
But I hit her.
She stepped back and studied me.
"…Do that again."
We went for another round. And another.
Each time, I wasn't faster than her—not really. But I was slipping between her strikes. Feeling the weight of her body before it landed. Moving with the pull, not against it.
When she finally called for a stop, my chest was heaving, arms limp.
"You're not strong yet," she said, handing me a water gourd. "But your instinct is waking up. That affinity—it's not just potential. It's talent."
I didn't know what to say.
So I drank.
⸻
That night, back in the cottage, I pulled up my system again.
The screen shimmered quietly in the dark, casting pale light across my cramped little room.
⸻
[System Update – Status Screen]
Name: Mark Jackson
Level: 9
Race: Human (Draconic Resonance)
Role: Temporary Guardian – Pinebarrow
Health: 410/410
Mana: 125/125
Strength: 21
Durability: 19
Agility: 15
Intelligence: 12
Willpower: 19
Affinity:
– Space [Awakened – Minor Insight]
– Gravity [Beginner – Developing]
Passive Traits:
– Spatial Resistance I
– Minor Battle Endurance
– Gravitational Sensitivity I (NEW)
Active Skills:
– Dragon Enhancement [Partially Locked]
– Nova Break [Gauntlet Skill – 48% Charge]
Questline: Foundations of Strength
Objective: Train daily. Assist Pinebarrow. Reach Level 16.
Status: In Progress
⸻
The new trait pulsed softly.
[Gravitational Sensitivity I]
You instinctively feel subtle changes in weight, pressure, and mass within a limited range. Boosts balance, reaction time, and movement under unstable conditions.
I smiled.
It was slow. It was exhausting.
But I was getting somewhere.
Tomorrow, I'd return to the forge. And after that—another round with Lina.
If I could master this pull, this invisible current around me… maybe one day, I wouldn't just react to the world.
I'd shape it.
⸻
The next morning hit me like a blunt weapon.
Not because I was sore—though every inch of my body ached like it had been carved out and rebuilt with bricks—but because for once, I didn't wake up in a panic.
No monsters. No falling through the void. No Lina knocking me flat on my ass.
Just the quiet hum of Pinebarrow waking up, the faint smell of smoke in the distance, and sunlight bleeding through the cracks in the shutters.
I sat up slowly, muscles stiff but warm, the ache less sharp than it had been the night before. Like my body was adjusting. Adapting.
The system hadn't chimed again since last night's notification, but I could still feel the change. That subtle awareness humming beneath my skin, like the world had texture now—not just in touch, but in pressure. Like I could feel where weight was about to land before it did.
I stood, rolled my shoulders, and headed to the little washroom behind the cottage. There wasn't much—just a spout, a basin, and some worn cloths—but I made it work. The cold water hit like a slap, waking me the rest of the way up.
By the time I was dry and dressed, I could already hear the faint ring of a hammer in the distance.
Mr. Drake had started without me.
⸻
When I stepped into the forge, the heat greeted me like an old, angry friend.
"'Bout time," Mr. Drake said without looking up. His hammer came down hard on a glowing rod of steel, sending sparks flying. "You're late."
"It's barely sunrise."
"Sun's been up. If you're forging steel, you rise with the smoke."
I didn't argue. Just stepped to the side, grabbed a leather apron, and got to work prepping the station.
Today, though, Mr. Drake didn't hand me tongs or tell me to stoke the fire.
Instead, he gestured to the second workstation beside his—where a fresh set of tools had been laid out. Tongs. A hammer. A file. And beside them, a long, unshaped bar of dark iron.
"Today," he said, "you make your first blade."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
He nodded once. "You're strong enough now. Focused enough. I won't have you running around with something you don't understand."
I stepped closer, feeling the weight of the moment settle in my chest.
Making a weapon wasn't just forging steel. It was shaping intention. Purpose. Every swing of the hammer would be a choice—what kind of edge I wanted, what kind of fighter I was trying to become.
"What kind of blade?" I asked.
"Start simple. A short sword. Leaf-style. Double edge. You'll shape it from this rod." He tapped the iron bar with a thick finger. "I'll walk you through the first step. Then you take over."
And that's what we did.
⸻
We heated the rod until it glowed a rich orange. Then Mr. Drake showed me how to angle it on the anvil—how to strike not just hard, but true. Let the metal move, stretch, and pull under the weight of the hammer, not fight against it.
I took over after the first series of strikes.
It was slow work. Sweat poured from my brow. My arms trembled after every set. But the forge had a rhythm, and so did the steel. I began to feel it again—that same sense from yesterday. The pull of mass. The pressure of space around the anvil. The way the blade almost told me where to strike next.
Hours passed.
Mr. Drake occasionally corrected my form or pointed out where I'd warped the spine of the blade, but for the most part, he let me struggle through it.
"Good," he said finally, as I shaped the taper near the point. "Clean up the edge. Then we quench."
When it came time to dunk the glowing blade in oil, the hiss and burst of steam made something in me clench. It wasn't fear—it was respect. For the fire. For the weapon. For the path I'd started walking the moment I first swung my fists in that cursed forest.
By the time I had the blade cooling on the rack, my hands were blistered and my arms dead. But I was smiling.
I'd made something. Real. Heavy. Sharp.
⸻
After cleaning up and grabbing a quick bite—bread, dried meat, and water—I left the forge and made my way west of the village.
Lina was waiting where she always seemed to be: at the edge of the forest, arms crossed, silver-gray hair catching the wind.
She gave me a nod as I approached. "You're late."
"Drake said the same thing."
"That's because you are." Her eyes flicked down to the blistering on my hands. "You make something?"
"A short sword," I said. "Not perfect, but…"
"You made your first weapon. That's more than most." She turned and started walking. "Come. It's time you learned the other half of being a Guardian."
We moved through the tall grass toward the treeline. As we walked, the air shifted. The deeper we went, the heavier it felt. Not physically—at least not in a normal way—but like the trees themselves were watching. Listening.
Lina didn't speak until we were well inside.
"This forest," she said, "is old. Older than Pinebarrow. Older than the kingdom. Some say it remembers the shape of the world before the gods split the Realms."
I didn't respond. I was too busy watching the way the branches seemed to curl toward us—how the moss grew thicker on one side of the trees than the other. The air tasted faintly of copper and wet stone.
She stopped suddenly and crouched beside a patch of mushrooms.
"Tell me what you see," she said.
I crouched beside her. "Uh… fungus?"
She didn't even blink. "Look deeper."
I narrowed my eyes. The mushrooms were clustered in a crescent shape. Their caps shimmered faintly—almost imperceptibly—when the light hit just right.
"There's… mana in them," I said slowly.
"Not just mana. Intention." She touched one lightly. "These only grow where the mana flow is stable. Where the forest allows it."
I stared at her. "Wait, are you saying the forest lets things grow?"
She gave a sharp nod. "Everything here exists by the forest's will. That's what makes it dangerous. It's not just wild. It's aware."
I swallowed. "And we train in this?"
She stood. "You want to be a Guardian? You don't just fight monsters. You navigate the world they come from. That means learning the flow of mana. The signs. The sounds. The silences."
She led me deeper, showing me claw marks high in the trees. Scarred roots where something massive had passed. Patches of death where the grass refused to grow.
And all the while, I could feel it.
That buzzing again. The pressure. The shifting density of the world around me. Only this time, it wasn't coming from my body—it was everywhere.
The forest had weight.
"This is why your affinity matters," Lina said, stopping in a clearing where the sunlight barely reached. "Space. Gravity. They aren't just flashy powers—they're tools. When you can feel the weight of the world, you can predict danger before it moves. Sense predators before they strike. Balance where others stumble."
I took a deep breath, trying to focus on what I was feeling. The bend in the branches. The soft pull of gravity around a twisted tree trunk. The space between each sound.
"I think I get it," I said.
She smirked. "Good. Because next time, I won't be walking you through it. You'll lead."
My stomach dropped. "Seriously?"
"If you want to survive out here, you need to trust what you feel. Not what I say."
She turned and started walking again. I followed—quietly, this time. Eyes open. Ears sharp.
And for the first time, I didn't just walk through the forest.
I felt it breathe.