The seasons in the Ashen Plains did not turn; they attacked. The harsh, biting cold of winter did not yield to a gentle spring, but was violently overthrown by a brutal, oppressive summer. The sun became a merciless tyrant, beating down on the black rock of the mesas until the air itself seemed to shimmer and warp with heat. For Link, the forge was no longer a shelter from the cold, but a crucible within a greater furnace.
Months had passed since his training began. The boy who had arrived at Korgon's forge, a lean but wiry child, had been hammered and reforged into something new. The relentless, grueling labor had stripped away all his softness, replacing it with the dense, corded muscle of a true survivor. He was still small, still a boy of eleven, but he moved with a grounded, deliberate power. He could now swing the heavy blacksmith's hammer with one arm, his strikes clean and forceful. The great bellows, once an instrument of torture, now sang under his command. He had met the Goron's impossible standards, not through brute force, but through a quiet, unyielding endurance that Korgon had come to respect.
The Goron, for his part, had deemed Link's foundation to be, if not as solid as a Goron's, then at least no longer as fragile as a Hylian twig. The time had come for the second phase of his training.
One morning, Korgon led him out of the forge and up a winding, treacherous path to the flat, windswept top of the mesa. The wind here was a physical force, a constant, powerful river of air that howled across the sun-baked rock.
"Your father taught you to fight like a Hylian," Korgon's voice boomed over the wind. "To dance. To be the leaf that slips around the stone." He pointed to the center of the mesa. "The mountain does not dance. Stand."
Link did as he was told, assuming the low, wide stance the Goron had forced upon him. "Now," Korgon rumbled, "let the wind try to move you. Do not fight it. Become the mountain that the wind breaks against."
For hours, Link simply stood. The wind pushed and pulled, a relentless, invisible bully. At first, he struggled, his muscles straining to keep his balance. But as the sun climbed higher, he began to understand. He stopped fighting the force and instead focused on his connection to the ground, just as Korgon had said. He felt the unshakeable solidity of the mesa beneath his feet, and he drew strength from it, letting the wind flow around his unmoving form. His defense, he realized, was not his shield. It was his roots.
When Korgon was finally satisfied, the first true spar began. The Goron did not use his war hammer, but a blunted training sword that was little more than a slab of iron the size of a man. Link drew his own blade, its familiar weight a sharp contrast to the brutal tools he had been wielding for months.
Korgon's attacks were slow, almost lazy, but each one carried the force of an avalanche. Link knew instantly that to parry would be to have his arm shattered. The lessons of the forge and the mesa came together. He did not meet power with power. He met power with the earth. He would hold his ground, absorb the bone-jarring impact of a blocked strike through his solid stance, and then use his Hylian speed to dodge away, the Goron's massive blade striking sparks on the rock where he had been a moment before. He was both the unmovable rock and the quick lizard that scurried upon its surface.
For the first time, a look of genuine approval appeared on Korgon's face. "Good," he grunted. "You are learning. You have the fire of the Hylian, but the stone of the Goron is beginning to take root in you."
It was during one of these sessions, weeks later, that something new happened. They were sparring, the rhythm of Link's dodging and Korgon's crushing blows becoming a familiar dance. Korgon, deciding to test the boy's instincts, broke the rhythm. With a speed that seemed impossible for a creature his size, he feinted a frontal assault and then swung his massive blade in a low, sweeping arc aimed at Link's blind spot.
There was no time to think, no time to assume a stance or raise a shield. There was only instinct. And in that fraction of a second, Link's other half, the silent, shadow-born part of his soul, took over.
He did not dodge. He simply… vanished. His form seemed to dissolve into a flicker of shadow, and he reappeared a few feet away, his movements utterly silent, his sword already back in a ready position. It was a move of impossible speed and stealth, a ghost's step that defied the laws of physics as Korgon understood them.
The Goron froze, his training sword held in mid-air. He stared at Link, his fiery eyes wide with a stunned disbelief. "What… was that?" he rumbled, his voice losing its usual gruffness. He was a master of combat. He understood strength, speed, and skill. But that… that was something else entirely. It was magic. It was shadow.
Link could not explain. He simply lowered his sword and touched the leather pouch at his side, the one that held the Sheikah token.
Korgon's gaze followed the gesture. His mind churned, connecting the boy's impossible movement to the Deku Tree's cryptic words from his vision. A child of two worlds… born of the union of shadow and light. The Goron had focused entirely on forging the "light," the Hylian warrior. He had all but ignored the other, more mysterious half of the prophecy. He now understood that he was training only half a hero. He did not know how to train the boy's shadow-self, but a deep, new respect for it settled in his heart.
That evening, the atmosphere between them had changed. The harsh dynamic of master and student had softened into a quiet, profound camaraderie. As they sat by the forge's dying embers, Korgon reached into a special pouch and pulled out a piece of prime, iron-rich rock, a Goron delicacy. He heated it in the coals until it glowed a dull red, then chipped off a piece with a small hammer and offered it to Link on a piece of slate.
"Puts iron in the blood," the Goron grunted. It was a gesture of deep fellowship.
Link knew he could not eat it, but he understood the honor being offered. He picked up the still-warm rock, broke off a tiny, salt-like crystal with his knife, and placed it on his tongue. The taste was earthy and metallic, strange but not unpleasant. He looked at Korgon and gave a respectful nod. The Goron let out a low chuckle, a sound like stones tumbling down a hill. For the first time, they were not master and student. They were two warriors, sharing a meal.
After a long, comfortable silence, Korgon looked at Link, at the boy whose body he had hardened into steel, whose spirit had proven to be unbreakable. "Your body is strong," he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. "Stronger than any Hylian I have ever seen. But the Master Sword does not just test the body. It tests the heart's courage."
He pointed with his massive thumb towards the highest, most treacherous peak on the southern horizon, a jagged spire of rock that seemed to pierce the heavens. "Up there is an old proving ground. A place my ancestors called 'The Needle.' It is a place where young Gorons would test their mettle against the fury of the mountain itself. It is a trial of endurance, of will, and of courage. It is the final test of your strength."
He turned, his fiery eyes locking with Link's. "Go there. Reach the summit by dawn tomorrow. If you can do that… then we will see if you are truly worthy of the blade's legend."
Link looked at the intimidating, needle-like peak, a black silhouette against the star-dusted sky. His brutal physical training was over. His true trial was about to begin.