[Location: Wildwoods, Midgard]
I used to love Brok as a character in-game, a good comic relief. A grumpy little blue-blacksmith with a foul mouth and the oddest sense of pride.
Like this lil' fuck could curse at Kratos without any hesitation and still walk away alive. Bold. Insane. Hilarious.
But face to face, oh boy~ blood pressure sky rockets. I seriously salute Kratos for having to put up with this creature in close proximity.
"...Oi." Brok spat, squinting at me like I was something that crawled out of Helheim's latrine. "You deaf, lump? Or you just too stupid to answer when a master smith's talkin'?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Patience. I am Asura. I have fought gods who blotted out the stars. I will not suplex a four-foot blue goblin across Faye's garden.
Okay, okay, fighting gods is a lie, but suplex is fully on the table.
Ahem!
My eyes brightened up as I saw Faye coming back and leaning against the doorway.
My saviour.
I literally stumbled toward her, like a child wronged by a creepy uncle.
"Faye." I whined, yes whined, because pride is a distant memory when Brok's sandpaper voice is drilling your skull. "Please remove this… this… smurf from my vicinity before I commit an interspecies hate crime."
Faye arched one elegant brow, utterly unfazed. She glanced from me to Brok, then back again, lips twitching with the kind of amusement that cut deeper than any blade.
"Smurf?" she echoed, tone all sweet innocence.
"Blue menace," I corrected, stabbing a finger toward him.
Brok snorted. Loud. Wet. Like a dying goat choking on gravel. "Hah! This tall bastard's got a tongue after all. Thought ya were one o' them broody, silent meat-walls like that other god stompin' 'round Midgard."
Other god. My stomach did a little flip. I knew who he meant. I shoved the thought away. Not yet.
"Careful, dwarf," I muttered, folding my arms. "Insult me too much and I might mistake you for training equipment."
Brok's eyes gleamed. "Hoh? Is that a threat or a promise, lump?"
Faye stepped between us like a referee breaking up two toddlers fighting over a stick. Her hand pressed against my chest—not gently, mind you. The strength behind her palm was enough to push me back a step.
"Asura," she said with that tone. The one that could stop wars. Or start them. "Behave."
My jaw worked, but the look in her serene blue eyes made something unclench in my chest. Fine. Fine! I huffed like a sulky ox.
Brok, of course, grinned like he'd just won a bar fight. "Heh. Whipped already. Good. Means you'll listen when I say you fight like a sack o' piss."
I nearly lunged. Faye's hand tightened.
Patience. I am wrath, but I am also survival.
I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose and forced my fists to unclench. The ground under me had already begun to crack from the pressure rolling off my body. A little more and Faye's garden would look like Muspelheim's training pits.
Not a good impression.
Brok scratched his ass with a greasy rag, completely unfazed. "Hah! Thought so. Ain't got the balls to bite back. Just another tall hunk o' meat lookin' scary but soft where it counts."
I tilted my head, smiling too sweetly. "Funny. That's exactly what your mother said when she met me."
Silence.
Even Faye blinked.
Brok's jaw dropped just enough for me to see the vein bulging in his temple. His stubby fingers flexed like he was about to throw the rag at me, or maybe an axe.
"You—!" he barked, sputtering. "You dirty, lowdown, goat-humpin', Hel-born—"
"Enough."
Faye's voice sliced through the garden like the Leviathan Axe through birch wood. Cold. Commanding. And yet, somehow amused.
I swallowed. Brok coughed.
Her hand slid off my chest, but her gaze lingered on me longer than it needed to. A warning. And something else. Something softer.
I cleared my throat. "...So. Why exactly is the blue menace here again?"
Brok sneered. "The name's Brok, ya muscle-brained slab. And I came 'cause your missus asked me to look at yer weapons. Not that you even have any proper weapons, judgin' by them poor excuses you've been swingin' around."
I bristled. "My fists have put gods in the dirt."
"Yeah? And they'll put you in the dirt too if ya keep usin' 'em like a half-wit berserker. Flesh tears, bone breaks. Steel lasts. Or do ya plan on punchin' dragons till your knuckles fall off?"
…Okay. Fair point.
But he didn't need to say it like that.
"Besides," Brok continued, "yer aura stinks o' raw power. Too much for untempered flesh to channel. Yer body's holdin', sure, but it's burnin' itself from the inside out every time ya fight."
My frown deepened. "You can sense that?"
Brok gave me a look that screamed are you daft?. "Of course I can. I'm the best damned smith in the realms. I know when a weapon's about to snap—flesh or steel."
That shut me up.
Faye's lips curled faintly as she folded her arms. "That's why I called him. You need a focus. Something to ground your wrath. Otherwise…" Her gaze softened, but it didn't lose its weight. "Otherwise, it will consume you."
Her words hit deeper than I cared to admit. Because she was right.
I'd felt it. Every time I cut loose, the Mantra surged higher, hotter. It wanted more. It wanted everything. And one day, it might not stop until I was nothing but a raging beast.
...Yeah. A weapon didn't sound so bad right now.
But knowing my luck, the "weapon" Brok had in mind was probably a rusty butter knife he dug out from his asscrack.
I squinted at the dwarf. "Alright, blue menace. Suppose I humor you. What weapon do you think fits me?"
Brok's lips twisted into a grin, showing teeth far too white for someone who smelled like fermented goat piss. "Heh. Finally, yer tiny brain caught up. Took ya long enough." He slapped his tool belt, and from one of the pouches pulled out a small chisel glowing faintly with runes. "But before that—"
He pointed it at me.
"Strip."
I blinked. "...Come again?"
"Yer ears clogged? Strip. Down to the waist."
I looked at Faye. She was already rubbing her temple like she expected this conversation to happen exactly the way it was going.
I turned back to Brok. "Listen here, smurf. You couldn't handle me naked even if you—"
"By the Norns, shut yer gob!" Brok barked. "I need to see the state of yer body, ya meat tower! The energy runnin' through yer veins ain't normal. If I'm to forge somethin' to channel that mess, I gotta check what it's doin' to yer flesh. So strip before I make ya strip."
I narrowed my eyes, my pride grumbling in the corner of my skull. But the logic was sound. Reluctantly, I tugged the torn pelts off my torso and tossed them aside.
The firelight bathed my skin—bronzed, scarred, but too smooth where wounds should've lingered. Faint lines of molten red pulsed under my skin like cracks in a volcano, veins glowing faintly with that same mantra fire I'd seen in the basin.
Brok's eyes widened for just a moment. Then he whistled low. "Hohhh. Well, I'll be damned. Faye weren't kiddin'. Yer body's patchin' itself like a forge weldin' broken steel. Every injury ya take just bakes ya harder. But—"
He jabbed the chisel toward my chest, close enough that I considered biting it. "—that same power's eatin' ya alive. Little by little. One day it'll burn hotter than yer body can handle, and then pop! Yer a pile o' ash."
I raised a brow. "Thanks for the optimism."
Brok smirked. "Not optimism. Truth. But truth's what I work with. Steel don't lie. Neither does flesh."
Faye stepped closer, her hand brushing lightly against my arm. Her eyes softened for a moment, though her tone didn't. "That is why you need a weapon. A channel. Let your wrath flow into something, not always through you."
Her words hung heavy in the air. And damn it, I knew she was right.
I clenched my fist, watching the faint red glow pulse brighter in response. A whisper echoed in my skull—the mantra urging me to unleash, to burn, to destroy. My hand trembled before I forced it still.
"Fine," I muttered. "So what weapon do you suggest? A sword? An axe?"
Brok barked a laugh. "Pfft! Sword? Axe? Hah! Look at ya. Yer fists are like anvils already. Nah, what ya need ain't no farmer's toy. You need somethin' that moves like you. Somethin' that sings with yer rage. Somethin' that burns."
"And what would that be?"
"Ya tell me? The weapon is for ya. What comes in that tiny brain of ya?"
Brok's chisel tapped against his calloused palm, his amber eyes never leaving me. It was the look of a smith weighing ore, deciding whether it was worth hammering into steel or tossing back into the dirt.
The question hung in the air, heavier than I expected.
What weapon did I want?
I'd never thought about it before. Back home—well, back in my original world—I was a slave office worker, the only entertainment in life was watching anime, playing games. Mostly games.
And the only fight I ever wanted was 'fisting' my HR until his teeth clicked together like a typewriter.
But now? Now I had a chance to actually pick a weapon. Something real. Something forged, not pixelated behind a screen.
I rubbed my chin. "What weapon, huh? Well… always thought katanas looked cool. Swords, too. Big-ass claymores, like in Dark Souls."
Brok rolled his eyes so hard I swore I heard them rattle. "Pfft. Katana? Claymore? What're ya, some poncy elf prancin' in the woods? Ya'd snap a toothpick like that swingin' all wild as ya do. And claymore? Hah! Would take ya half an hour to swing the damn thing, by which time the troll's already chewed yer bollocks off."
I scowled. "Tch. Buzzkill."
"Not a buzzkill, ya bloody muppet. Reality. I'm a smith. Ain't here to stroke yer fantasies."
Faye smirked faintly, arms folded as she leaned against the wall. "He's right, you know."
I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "Et tu, Faye?"
Brok jabbed his chisel at me again. "Quit yer bitchin'. Think proper. What's the first thing comes to yer mind when ya picture fightin'? The first image. Don't overthink it. Weapons ain't just steel—they're extensions of yer soul. Ya don't choose them. They choose you."
That made me pause.
Extension of my soul, huh?
I closed my eyes. Tried to picture it. Tried to imagine myself in battle.
Not fists. Not just fists. Something burning. Something raging. Something wild, untamed.
Chains.
Chains wrapped around my arms, blades biting at the ends, carving through hordes of monsters while fire licked the air. The memory wasn't mine—but it was burned into my gamer brain from years of watching Kratos tear apart gods. The Blades of Chaos.
I saw them. Felt them. Wrath flowing from me into the chains, arcs of fire painting the battlefield. Not just striking, but consuming. Endless motion. No wasted moment.
My eyes snapped open, chest heaving slightly.
"…Chains," I muttered. "Blades on chains."
Brok's brows shot up, his beard twitching with what might've been respect—or gas. Hard to tell.
"Well I'll be… ya actually got a brain cell rattlin' around in there. Chains, eh? Not the stupidest choice I've heard."
Faye tilted her head, curious. "Chains?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Blades bound to me. Something I can throw, pull back, spin, burn through anything in my way. Doesn't matter if it's a troll, a dragon, or a bloody mountain. I want something that doesn't just hit. I want something that stays with me. Like a promise."
Faye's expression softened for a heartbeat, though she hid it behind that calm mask of hers. Brok, meanwhile, barked out a laugh so loud the hut rattled.
"HAH! Hells, boy, ya just described a nightmare I once had after drinkin' too much mead. Blades on chains! Hah! Crazy bastard."
He slapped his thigh, but the laughter faded quicker than expected. His amber eyes sharpened, narrowing on me. "But… maybe it suits ya. Somethin' wild, somethin' that'll burn right alongside ya. Yeah… chains could work."
"Then make it," I said, my voice harder than I meant. "Forge me the blades."
Brok gave me a long look, scratching his beard. "Ain't that simple, lump. Forge like that don't just need metal. Needs bondin'. Runes. Blood. Somethin' more than hammer and fire. And chains? Hohhh… chains like yer thinkin' are dangerous."
"Dangerous?" I smirked. "Brok, I am dangerous."
"Yer a bloody idiot, is what ya are."
"Same thing."
He grunted, but I caught the faintest twitch of a grin under the beard.
"But I alone am not… enough to make what you're yappin' about," Brok grumbled, rubbing his thick blue fingers through his beard until sparks of irritation practically flew. "Creating something like that's easily on Mjölnir's and that axe's level—aye, even stronger if yer dumbass insists on pourin' all that burnin' fury into 'em."
I cocked my head. "So you're saying… you can't?"
His eyes narrowed. "Careful, lump. Ain't a word I like tossed around near my forge."
"I'm just asking if the 'best blacksmith in all the realms' is actually saying the words 'not enough'."
Brok's face went redder than fresh-forged steel, and for a second, I honestly thought he'd blow a gasket and start swinging his hammer at my shins.
Instead, he spat. Loud. Onto the floorboards. "I didn't say I can't. I said I ain't enough alone." He jabbed a thick thumb against his own chest, then spat again for emphasis. "But with my brother? Sindri? Different story. That fancy little shit's got the runes and enchantments, I got the guts and grit. Together? We made weapons that gods themselves wet their nappies over. Together, we could forge the thing yer yammerin' about."
Sindri. My gamer brain immediately pulled up the memory of the neurotic, squeamish, gold-dusted dwarf who cleaned his hands five times in the span of a single cutscene. The total opposite of Brok's crusty blue ass.
I grinned. "So, what you're saying is—get Sindri, and we can make my blades?"
Brok glared at me, but his beard twitched like he'd swallowed the truth and hated the taste. "Aye. In theory. But ya don't just find Sindri. Bastard hides better than a fox in winter. Always pissin' himself over dirt, danger, or the sight o' his own shadow."
I tilted my head. "So, I just gotta find him."
Brok barked a laugh. "Just gotta, he says. Lad, even Odin's ravens couldn't sniff Sindri out if he don't want to be found. And if ya do find him, good luck gettin' him to work with me without complainin' about my… hygiene."
"Hygiene?" I echoed.
Brok sniffed his armpit, shrugged. "What? Forge don't care if yer scrubbed clean or smell like goat piss. Metal listens to sweat and hammer, not soap."
I pinched my nose. "Gods, no wonder he avoids you."
"Oi!"
***
Join my Patreon to support me and read over 5 chapters advanced.
p*treon.com/SuryaPutra_Karna01
Put 'a' instead of '*'