Dawn was no longer a beginning; it was a deadline. The gentle rhythm of Link's training, the slow, patient forging of a foundation, was shattered. In its place was a frantic, desperate race against a future he had already seen in the blackest corners of his sleep.
Korgon was relentless. He was no longer a teacher; he was a crucible, his forge the instrument of a brutal and accelerated purification. The time for lessons was over. This was a trial by fire.
"Again!" the Goron's voice roared, a sound that was now a constant echo in Link's world. He was not just hammering scrap metal. Korgon had set up a series of anvils, and Link had to move between them, striking each with a precise, powerful blow in an impossibly fast rhythm. It was not a test of strength, but of focus under the most extreme pressure. Every time his rhythm faltered, every time a blow landed with less than its full, focused force, Korgon would roar again. "Your mother's life depends on that strike! Is that the best you can do? Again!"
The boy was gone. The quiet, observant child had been burned away, leaving behind a core of cold, determined fury. He did not feel the screaming protest of his muscles. He did not feel the searing heat of the forge. He felt only the vision. The image of his father's defiant last stand was the force behind his hammer. The memory of his mother's silent dissolution was the focus that narrowed his world to the glowing steel before him.
For three days, they worked. They were three days of hell.
The first day was a trial of the body. The hauling of rocks was no longer a lesson in patience; it was a race against the sun, Korgon demanding a great wall be built before dusk. The work at the great bellows was a test of will, Link pumping until black spots danced in his vision, his lungs burning, driven only by his master's relentless roars. Korgon was pushing his physical body to its absolute breaking point, stripping away every ounce of his energy, forcing him to find a deeper well of strength he did not know he possessed.
The second day was a trial of the blade. The spars were no longer lessons; they were battles. Korgon came at him with a controlled but terrifying ferocity, his massive training sword a blur of iron. He forced Link to rely on pure instinct, giving him no time to think, no time to plan.
"You're thinking like a Hylian!" Korgon bellowed, his blow forcing Link to his knees. "Your father is dead! Thinking did not save him! Only instinct will save you! Get up!" The words were cruel, a calculated, brutal tool designed to shatter Link's reliance on the neat, ordered patterns of his previous training.
Link rose, his face a mask of grim focus, and met the next attack. He was being broken down, his fear and his rage hammered and folded into the core of his being, just like the steel on the anvil.
The third day was a trial of the shadow. Korgon, now fully aware of the other half of Link's soul, had devised a new test. He hung a dozen rusted iron plates from the ceiling of the darkest, deepest part of the forge cave, each with a small, specific target painted on it.
"The shadow does not announce its arrival," the Goron rumbled from the entrance, blocking out the light. "It is a whisper. A ghost. Your Hylian half is the hammer. Your other half must be the silence before the strike. Go. Touch every target. But if I hear a single footstep, a single clang of steel on steel… you fail."
Link entered the darkness. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the part of himself he had never understood. He let the silence of his own spirit merge with the darkness of the cave. He moved. It was the ghost-step from his spar, but now it was a conscious, controlled act. He flowed through the hanging maze of metal, a shadow within a shadow. His blade was a whisper, its tip kissing each target with a deadly, silent precision. He emerged back into the light minutes later, having made not a single sound.
On the fourth day, he broke.
He was on the edge of collapse, his body a single, screaming nerve, his mind worn thin by lack of sleep and relentless pressure. They were sparring again, and his exhaustion was finally winning. His blocks were slow, his dodges clumsy. Korgon, relentless, pressed his advantage. With a powerful twist, the Goron disarmed him, sending his father's sword skittering across the stone floor.
Link stood there, defenseless, his chest heaving.
"Is that all?" Korgon's voice was a low, dangerous growl of disappointment. "Is this the hero who will save his home? The shadow has already won. Your hope is as weak as your arm."
Something inside Link snapped. The rage, the grief, the terror he had been using as fuel finally burned away, leaving behind not emptiness, but a core of absolute, terrifying calm. The frantic desperation was gone. The fear was gone. He was no longer trying to be a Goron. He was no longer trying to be a Hylian knight. He just was.
He moved. His feet did not shuffle; they flowed. He used the ghost-step, his Sheikah half, to appear beside his fallen sword, his hand closing around its hilt. He rose, his stance no longer a rigid imitation of Korgon's, but a perfect, fluid fusion. It was low and solid, rooted to the earth like a Goron, but held with a relaxed, vibrant readiness that was purely Hylian.
He came at Korgon, and for the first time, the Goron was forced onto the defensive. Link did not try to meet the Goron's overwhelming power. He flowed around him, a silent, deadly current of green and silver. His blade was a flicker, not aiming for a killing blow, but for the joints in Korgon's rocky hide, forcing the massive creature to turn and block. He was a whisper of shadow and a flash of steel, his two halves finally united in a single, deadly dance.
The spar ended in a perfect stalemate. Korgon's massive training blade was stopped inches from Link's face, held at bay by the crossed guards of Link's own sword. And the tip of Link's blade rested with absolute stillness in the small, vulnerable gap in Korgon's rocky hide, just below his throat.
For a long moment, they stood frozen, master and student, the only sound the ragged drawing of their breaths.
Slowly, with a sound like grinding continents, Korgon lowered his weapon. A look of grim, profound, and utter satisfaction was carved on his stony face. "The fire has burned away the impurities," he rumbled, his voice low with something that sounded like pride. "The blade is forged."
He knew the boy was not an invincible warrior. He was still a child. But the raw material had been given its true shape. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.
Korgon looked out at the sun, which was beginning its descent. "The vision you saw… it is a possible future, not a certain one. Time flows differently for spirits and their shadows. The attack is coming. Soon. But you may still have a day. One day to claim your weapon."
He turned and placed a heavy hand on Link's shoulder, the gesture now one of an equal. "Rest now. Eat. Meditate. Find the quiet center you just discovered. For tomorrow at dawn, you will not climb the Needle for practice. You will climb the sacred path to the Temple of Courage."
He looked into the boy's exhausted, but now perfectly calm, eyes.
"Tomorrow, you face the judgment of the Master Sword."