The cold, damp air of the forest seeped into every fiber of Eryan's body as he gasped, clutching his head. One moment, he had been walking home from his part-time job in the city; the next, he was here—surrounded by towering trees, the sun barely piercing through the thick canopy.
His thoughts raced, panic clawing at his mind. Where am I? How did I…?
A low growl echoed from the shadows. Eryan's pulse spiked, and instinctively, he crouched, scanning the underbrush. A pair of glowing eyes reflected his fear back at him. The creature lunged—a massive wolf-like beast, its fangs bared.
Eryan stumbled backward, tripping over exposed roots. His hands scraped against the rough ground. Desperation surged. "I… I don't know what to do!" he whispered.
And then… a strange sensation. His chest tightened as a deep voice resonated in his mind:
"Class unlocked: Blacksmith. Stats initializing… Strength: 15. Vitality: 20. Endurance: 18. Intelligence: 12. Special skill: Forge Mastery. Do you accept?"
Eryan froze. He blinked. Did he hear that? "I… I accept," he muttered, voice trembling.
A warmth spread through his arms and hands. The rough bark of the forest floor felt like silk against his palms. Suddenly, he felt stronger—more grounded, more… capable.
The wolf lunged again, and this time, Eryan didn't run. He flexed his fists, and instinctively, the earth beneath him shivered. A jagged, glowing hammer appeared in his hand. Metal radiated warmth as if alive.
With a roar, he swung. The impact was instantaneous, a shockwave that sent the beast flying into the trees. It yelped, struggling, but the hammer pulsed in his grip, glowing brighter. The wolf let out a final shriek before collapsing.
Eryan sank to his knees, panting. His mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. "I… I'm a… blacksmith? Here?"
A soft rustling drew his attention. From the shadows emerged a young woman, clad in leather armor, her sword sheathed at her hip. Her hair was dark, and her amber eyes scrutinized him with curiosity… and something else, a flicker of intrigue.
"You survived," she said, her voice low but sharp. "Not many humans last a single hour here."
Eryan scrambled to his feet, gripping his hammer like a lifeline. "I… I don't even know where 'here' is," he stammered.
She tilted her head. "This is Krelthar, the borderlands between kingdoms. Dangerous, unforgiving… and yet, full of opportunity for someone… resourceful." Her gaze lingered on his hands. "You're not just resourceful—you're different. That weapon… it chose you."
Eryan looked at the hammer. The metal gleamed, etched with runes he didn't understand. And yet, holding it, he felt power he never imagined.
"I… I don't know if I can fight," he admitted, his voice shaking. "I'm just… me."
The woman smirked. "You think this world cares who you are? Power is survival. And that," she gestured to the hammer, "is survival incarnate."
Days passed. Eryan followed her to a small village tucked between the mountains. The villagers eyed him warily, whispering about the human who appeared from the forest with a glowing weapon. But when he worked in the forge, crafting simple iron tools, whispers turned to awe.
His skill was uncanny. Metal bent to his will. Swords forged under his hands gleamed sharper than any the village had seen, axes felt balanced as if blessed, and armor molded perfectly to the wearer. Every creation seemed to hum with latent power.
It wasn't long before some of the village women began seeking his attention—not for labor, but for desire. One night, as Eryan repaired a sword by candlelight, a soft knock came at his door.
"May I… watch you work?" asked a woman, her cheeks flushed, eyes glimmering with an emotion he had never encountered so boldly before.
Eryan swallowed hard, the air thick with tension. He nodded. She stepped closer, the heat of her body warming him. "It's… mesmerizing," she whispered. Fingers traced the edge of the glowing sword he held.
The night became an exploration of heat and whispers, a mingling of desire and unspoken understanding. Every strike of the hammer mirrored a heartbeat, every spark against the anvil a pulse between them. For the first time, Eryan felt alive in a way the city never offered—power, danger, and intimacy intertwined.
Yet the world outside was unrelenting. Bandits raided nearby villages, and rumors of beasts—like the one in the forest—stirred fear. Eryan's abilities grew, but so did his awareness: strength alone was never enough. Strategy, cunning, and a willingness to cross lines he never thought he would… were necessary.
One evening, under a blood-red sunset, the woman who first found him in the forest returned. She carried a broken sword, charred and bent, the mark of a fierce battle.
"They're coming," she said bluntly. "The raiders—stronger than before. We need you."
Eryan's hands itched for the forge, for the hammer that had become an extension of his body. But he also understood now—this was no longer survival, no longer just forging tools. It was about claiming his place in a world that had no mercy.
He clenched his fist. Sparks flew from his fingertips, the metal in his pocket heating as if sensing his determination. "Then I fight. But I do it my way… and I forge my destiny."
The night descended, cold and unforgiving. Outside, shadows moved, hungry eyes gleaming in the darkness. Inside, Eryan prepared—hammer in hand, armor strapped, mind focused.
This world had thrown him into the fire, and he would not burn. He would forge.
And from the flames of this brutal, medieval world, a Blacksmith would rise.
Perfect! Here's Episode 1, Part 2 continuation (~1,500 words) of Forged by Fate, keeping the dark medieval, serious tone with violence and mature 18+ elements:
Episode 1: Awakening in the Forge – Part 2
The first battle arrived with the moon barely hanging in the sky, its silver light drowned by thick clouds that seemed to mirror Eryan's unease. The village, normally quiet at night, now trembled with the soft shuffle of footsteps and the distant clanging of metal. Shadows moved unnaturally, and the stench of blood and smoke wafted through the cold air.
Eryan gripped his hammer tighter. Each strike he had made in the forge, each weapon he had crafted, had prepared him—not just to create, but to destroy. The air itself seemed charged, humming against the aura of power he could feel coursing through him.
"They're here," whispered the woman from the forest, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. She stood beside him, twin daggers gleaming faintly. Her eyes were cold, calculating… and yet, there was a glimmer of something else—trust, perhaps, or desire.
Eryan nodded. His heart pounded, but not with fear. The strange power of the forge flowed through his veins, heat and force coiling within him. I'm not the same man who fell through the forest. I'm stronger. I am… Blacksmith.
The raiders came in waves, hulking men clad in mismatched armor, faces painted with cruel grins. Torches burned in their hands, illuminating weapons that had tasted blood before. They sneered at the villagers huddled behind barricades, but when they saw Eryan standing at the front—hammer in hand—they faltered.
He swung once. The hammer sang through the air, catching the first raider square in the chest. The man's scream tore through the night as he flew backward, his spine snapping under the force. A few villagers gasped, but others, emboldened by Eryan's display, seized their own weapons.
The clash was brutal. Metal rang against metal, screams and growls mingling in the chaos. Eryan moved with unnatural precision, hammer flashing like lightning. Each swing was calculated—every impact molding the battlefield, shaping it as he would shape iron in his forge.
A raider lunged from the side, a jagged sword aimed at his head. Eryan twisted, barely dodging, and swung his hammer with a ferocity he didn't know he possessed. The man's skull cracked beneath the force, eyes wide in disbelief before he collapsed in a heap of shattered bones.
Through the battle, he felt her near him—the woman from the forest. She moved with lethal grace, blades flashing and striking with deadly accuracy. Her leather armor was torn in places, sweat glistening on pale skin, yet her gaze never wavered from the chaos. At times, their eyes met across the battlefield, and in those fleeting moments, there was an unspoken acknowledgment—need, power, attraction.
Eryan's hands began to glow faintly as the hammer pulsed in response to his will. Sparks leapt into the air with each strike, igniting the wooden barricades around them. Flames licked the edges of the village houses, smoke curling upward. Some villagers screamed, others cheered.
A particularly massive raider broke through the line, swinging a heavy axe that could cleave a man in two. Eryan braced, hammer raised. The clash sent shockwaves through his arms, but he didn't flinch. He slammed the hammer down, a streak of molten light forming along the metal. The impact shattered the axe and sent the raider crashing into a stack of barrels, the sound of splintering wood echoing like thunder.
As the battle raged, Eryan noticed something strange. Every time he struck, the metal around him—swords, armor, even broken tools—seemed to resonate, vibrating in response to his Blacksmith's power. Sparks jumped across the ground, cutting arcs through the night like miniature lightning storms.
One raider, masked and small but quick, darted toward a villager clutching a child. Eryan's body moved before his mind could catch up. The hammer smashed into the ground near the raider's feet, sending a shockwave that hurled him into the air. The boy cried out, clutching his mother, while Eryan caught his gaze. There was awe there, and something darker—fear. Not of him, but of what he could do.
By the time the first wave fell, silence had begun to settle over the village, broken only by the crackling of fire and the moans of the injured. Eryan stood, chest heaving, hammer slick with blood and sweat. The power thrumming through him was intoxicating, a dark, addictive surge that whispered promises he couldn't yet name.
The woman approached, brushing soot from her hair, and for a brief moment, they shared a private smile amid the carnage. Her hand lingered on his arm. "You… were incredible," she murmured. There was fire in her eyes, but also something more personal, more intimate.
Eryan swallowed, aware of the heat of her touch, aware of the lingering tension. He didn't know what this meant—this connection, this attraction—but it was undeniable. The blood of the battle, the sweat, the heat—it made the night almost… charged.
Later, in the aftermath, as the villagers tended the wounded and buried the dead, Eryan returned to his forge. The hammer in his hands felt alive, pulsing with energy that only he could command. He worked in silence, shaping a new sword from the molten metal, each strike ringing out like a heartbeat.
The woman watched him, leaning against the doorway. "You shape more than metal," she said softly. "You shape fate."
Eryan didn't answer. The fire reflected in his eyes, and for the first time, he realized something terrifying and exhilarating: he was no longer a passive observer in this world. Every weapon he forged, every strike he landed, every life he spared—or took—was part of a path only he could walk.
And yet… there was more. A whisper of hunger in the darkness, a pull toward power he didn't yet understand. The hammer's glow seemed to thrum with anticipation, as if aware that the battles to come would demand not only skill but ruthlessness.
That night, as he finally allowed himself to rest, the woman curled beside him, her presence warm and familiar. They had survived the first trial together, blood and sweat mingling. Yet the darkness outside whispered of greater threats, of kingdoms in turmoil, and of beasts that hungered for flesh and fire.
Eryan closed his eyes, the hammer resting beside him. Tomorrow, he would rise stronger. Tomorrow, he would forge not only weapons, but destiny itself. And in the shadowed world of medieval violence, where life was cheap and power was everything, he would find a way to become a force no one could ignore.