Wolf stepped fully inside the blacksmith's forge—and the world seemed to slam shut around him.
The hydraulic hammer crashed down again.
Bang—!
The sound wasn't just loud; it was physical. It struck his ribs, rattled his teeth, and crawled up his spine like an electric current. Each impact came with a metallic recoil that vibrated through the floor plates beneath his boots, a brutal, mechanical heartbeat that ruled the space.
White steam erupted from the ventilation shafts overhead, rolling down in thick, roiling sheets.
For a moment, the forge became nothing but heat, pressure, and noise—until the steam thinned, and Wolf's eyes caught the amber glow of the furnace deeper within. It pulsed like a half-buried sun, light bending through layers of smoke and dust.
As he looked past the haze, he saw him.
An old blacksmith, standing unflinching beside a press that hummed with restrained violence. With a pair of long tongs, the man drew out a blade—so thin it seemed impossible it could exist at all. It flexed like paper in the heated air, yet the way the press recoiled from it told another story entirely.
That thing…Wolf's pupils narrowed. Stronger than diamond. Folded beyond common metallurgy.
Before he could step closer, a sharp voice snapped across the forge.
"Hey!"
One of the younger blacksmiths turned toward him, eyes wide, sweat streaking down his soot-smeared face.
"You—don't touch that sheet of iron," the boy barked, pointing sharply.
"Even if it looks smooth, it has thousands of hidden folds. Grip it at the wrong angle and your fingers will be gone before your nerves even scream."
Wolf turned his head slowly.
He met the young man's gaze—not coldly, not challengingly. Just aware.
He gave a small nod, an acknowledgment more than an apology, then turned away without a word and continued forward.
His footsteps were steady as he approached the old blacksmith.
"Old man," Wolf said, voice calm but deliberate, cutting cleanly through the forge's thunder.
"The Armani would like you to lend a hand. Right now."
The old blacksmith didn't look back.
The press hissed once more—then fell silent.
Only then did the man straighten. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and worn, like steel dragged across stone.
"Follow me."
No hesitation. No questions.
He turned and walked toward the far wall. Wolf followed, his senses tight, tracking every shift in pressure, every subtle change in sound.
The old man raised his hammer and struck the wall—not randomly, but precisely, tapping specific points in a rhythm too deliberate to be coincidence.
Clang. Clang—clang. Claaang.
The wall split open.
Metal plates folded inward with a low, controlled whine, reshaping themselves into a spiral staircase, descending into darkness—or perhaps rising into something hidden above.
Before stepping onto it, the old blacksmith finally turned—not to Wolf, but to the forge.
"Keep up the hard work."
Every blacksmith present froze, then bowed deeply.
"Yes, sir!"
Only then did the old man glance at Wolf.
His right eye burned a sharp, natural green. His left was something else entirely—a mechanical magnifying lens, faintly glowing as internal optics adjusted, clicking softly as it focused.
The gaze lingered—measuring, dissecting.
Then he raised one hand in a short, commanding gesture.
Follow.
They descended.
As soon as they reached the bottom, the staircase folded back into the wall, sealing them inside.
The space that opened before Wolf was spherical, its curved walls polished smooth, absorbing sound so completely that the forge above might as well have been another world.
The silence here was profound—so deep that Wolf could hear the faint hum of plasma waves circulating within a hidden furnace system.
At the center of the chamber floated an anvil.
Suspended in midair, rotating slowly, its surface etched with layers of microscopic runes and mechanical grooves—each line a testament to centuries of refinement.
The old blacksmith stood before it and spoke without turning.
"Solina already informed me about you, young man."
The anvil drifted forward, stopping directly in front of Wolf, as if acknowledging his presence.
Only now, this close, could Wolf truly see the man.
A thin, stern face—skin weathered into a coppery hue from decades of standing too close to plasma heat. Despite his age, the muscles beneath that skin were tight, dense, coiled like steel wire under tension.
From the shoulder down, his right arm was no longer flesh—a matte-black hydraulic limb, compact and brutally efficient, faint pistons whispering with restrained power.
He wore an apron over a deep burgundy tunic woven with steel-thread fibers. The left sleeve extended fully to the wrist, meticulously pleated. The right side was cut short, leaving room for the mechanical arm.
At his waist sat a utility cinch—a thick steel belt of interlocked chains, slotted with tools of every imaginable purpose.
So this is him, Wolf thought. Master Zen… or rather—Zenji Armani.
The blood brother of Solina's father. Her uncle.
The shadow who cut himself away from the House Armani to become a blacksmith, not out of abandonment—but protection. When his forge was unknown, when his name faded from noble ledgers, House Vento eventually gave up the hunt—believing him dead, or worse, disloyal.
10 years ago, when the massacre came, Zenji learned of it too late.
Still, he ran.
Through smoke and ash, through ruins already cooling beneath the night sky. And as if by some cruel mercy—or divine mockery—he arrived after Ferrante and Vento had left.
That was when he found her.
Solina.
She was alive.
He had taken her into his arms, soot-stained and shaking, and from that day forward, raised her not as a remnant of a fallen house—but as his own child.
Zenji did not move at first.
His left eye whirred softly, internal lenses rotating, contracting, expanding—focus shifting in precise, mechanical increments. A faint click-click echoed in the spherical chamber as data aligned, depth recalculated, Wolf's posture, breath, micro-movements dissected and reassembled into meaning.
"Solina," Zenji said at last, his voice low, restrained, carrying the weight of iron that had cooled but never softened, "might see something in you. Might even really believe in you."
The mechanical eye stopped rotating. Locked.
"But you will not have that from me."
He turned fully now, standing square before Wolf, the floating anvil humming faintly between them.
"Tell me," Zenji continued, each word deliberate, "what is your true purpose behind all of this?"
For a heartbeat, Wolf said nothing.
The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, until even the plasma's hum seemed to hold its breath.
Wolf's gaze met Zenji's—deep, unreadable—then slid aside, drifting toward the curved wall, toward nothing in particular. When his eyes returned, his voice followed.
Resonant. Airy and yet… not entirely there, as though it echoed from somewhere far beyond the room.
"My true purpose," Wolf said slowly, "is far larger than this blacksmith shop."
He took a step, the faint scrape of his boot sounding obscenely loud in the silence.
"Larger than this kingdom."
Another step.
"Helping Solina rebuild her House," he continued, "is only one necessary step along that path."
He stopped.
"But despite that," his tone steadied, grounded now, "I promise you this—I will help her with everything I have."
A pause.
"It is part of the deal."
Zenji's expression did not soften. Not even slightly.
"You are still dodging my question," he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"For her to tell you about me at all, she must trust you deeply. Enough to believe you would truly help her."
The mechanical eye adjusted again.
"Why."
Wolf stared at him—then laughed.
A low chuckle at first, spilling out like breath released after long restraint. Then it grew.
"Hah…"
He stepped closer.
"Hahah…"
Closer still—until he was within arm's reach.
"Hahahaha!"
Before Zenji could react, Wolf placed both hands firmly on the old man's shoulders. The grip wasn't violent—but it was undeniable.
Solid. Present. Real.
Wolf leaned in, eyes level with Zenji's.
"The audacity," he said softly, laughter still curling at the edges of his voice, "for you to say that."
He released Zenji and turned away, arms stretching wide as if embracing the entire chamber.
"Look at this," Wolf said, gesturing broadly. "Look at all these resources. All this opportunity."
He swept one arm upward, toward where the forge lay above.
"A castle, laid out before a House."
Then he turned back—slowly—and locked eyes with Zenji.
"But it was all for nothing, wasn't it?"
His voice sharpened.
"You lack ambition."
Wolf raised a finger and pointed straight at Zenji.
"You fear you won't be able to protect her."
The finger trembled—not from weakness, but from restrained force.
"You lack a vision that goes beyond simply maintaining stability."
The pointing hand lowered. Wolf clasped it behind his back, posture straightening, his presence swelling.
"Without ambition," he continued, voice deepening, "you are no different from a walking corpse."
He took one measured step forward.
"Old man… you possess the caliber of a titan. Treasures amassed over a lifetime. Skill that bends metal and fate alike."
His eyes narrowed.
"And yet you carry only the heart of a lowly tomb keeper."
The words landed like hammer blows.
"You cling to the shards of the past as if they were sacred relics," Wolf went on, each sentence colder than the last, "yet you lack the spine to sow the seeds of the future upon a field of blood."
A breath.
"You are not the one to lead Solina back to the summit."
Another step closer.
"You are nothing but an aged tiger—cowering at the mere sound of thunder."
Zenji froze.
His gaze went unfocused, staring through Wolf rather than at him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the sound loud in the chamber's silence.
Wolf had not merely spoken.
He had peeled him open.
Every fear Zenji had buried beneath discipline and restraint clawed its way to the surface.
He saw it all—his unimaginable wealth, his isolation, the careful distance he kept from allies and enemies alike. No networks. No factions. No web of trust strong enough to rebuild a fallen House.
Too risky, he had always told himself.
One mistake, one misplaced ally—and House Vento would dig until they struck bone.
Even when Solina spoke of rebuilding Armani, Zenji had smiled, encouraged her… but never truly believed it possible.
Now, standing before Wolf, his heart was no longer steady.
It was racing.
Fast enough that, for a terrifying moment, he felt young again.
And through the mist that seemed to cling to Wolf's presence, Zenji saw it—
A golden light, faint yet undeniable, leaking through the cracks.
That alone was enough.
Zenji drew in a long breath, then another, forcing his racing pulse back under control. When he lifted his head again, the fear remained—but it was no longer alone.
Resolve stood beside it.
"What," Zenji asked quietly, his voice steadier now, "do you need me to do."
Wolf slowly raised both arms, palms open, shoulders loosening as if the tension in the room had never existed. A warm, almost disarming smile spread across his face.
"Hahah," he let out lightly, the sound easy, human. "I heard from Solina that you've been exporting your weapons to other kingdoms and empires."
Zenji's mechanical eye whirred once, then stilled.
"Yes," he replied, voice steady. "Profit is only one reason. Information is the other. Trade routes, military preferences, shifts in doctrine—metal speaks if you know how to listen."
"Exactly," Wolf said immediately, nodding with approval. "Good job."
Zenji's brow furrowed slightly at the praise.
"That," Wolf continued, lowering his arms and stepping closer to the floating anvil, "is precisely what I want you to keep doing."
He lifted one finger.
"But this time—with purpose."
Zenji waited, silent.
"When your exports head toward the Quinthall Kingdom," Wolf said, his tone sharpening.
"Do your caravans pass a sandy region near Axion's boundary? An ordinary desert—at least on the surface."
Zenji's eyes narrowed. "You mean the glass-shard field."
"Right," Wolf said. "The place filled with fragmented metal and vitrified sand."
Zenji nodded slowly.
"The sunlight reflects endlessly there. Extreme heat. Blinding glare. Skin burns within minutes. No one stays long—most routes detour around it."
"Good," Wolf said softly. "That's why no one notices it."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if the desert itself might overhear.
"There will be a moment," Wolf continued, "when the air above the ground begins to vibrate. Not shimmer—vibrate but like heat haze folding inward."
Zenji's mechanical eye rotated, recalibrating as if replaying memories.
"At that moment," Wolf said, "a solar focal point forms. A temporary void. Barely there."
Zenji frowned. "A void… in open air?"
"Yes," Wolf replied. "Your people must wait until they see it."
He raised his hand, fingers curling slightly.
"Then, one of them must condense the metallic elements in the air—into their palm. Compress it. Focus it with spell"
Zenji's jaw tightened. "And then?"
"They slap it down," Wolf said simply, "onto the void—precisely when their reflection overlaps with the focal point."
Zenji inhaled sharply.
"And the moment of contact," Wolf continued, eyes gleaming faintly, "that void will turn into a mercury-like liquid—for less than a second."
He snapped his fingers.
"They must dive through it. Like jumping into water. Before it reverts back."
Silence fell.
Zenji stared at Wolf. "And inside?"
Wolf's smile returned—thin, knowing.
"A colossal hall," he said. "Endless walls of polished metal. On stone platforms—chrome skeletons, seated in meditation."
Zenji felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"The moment your people touch them," Wolf said, "the skeletons will rise."
"A trial," Zenji muttered.
"A challenge," Wolf corrected. "I'll teach your people how to win."
Zenji looked up sharply.
"Upon victory," Wolf went on, "they'll find what I call the Core of the Vanguard. Collect them. Do not use them."
Zenji opened his mouth, then stopped.
Wolf's gaze drifted, inward now.
They'll learn soon enough.They won't understand the value yet.
But once they hold the Core of the Vanguard, they'll see. Those cores contain the literal spirits and the combat muscle memory of the greatest generals and warriors of history. One touch, and you don't just see their wars—you inherit their reflexes.
Outwardly, Wolf continued calmly.
"When the skeleton is disturbed," he said, "ether condenses the mercury in the air. It forms a replica of the warrior who owned that core."
Zenji stiffened. "A living opponent?"
"A perfect one," Wolf replied. "Same abilities. Same instincts. It even copies fighting techniques in real time."
He tilted his head, amused.
"Your people will gang up on them. Beat them down one by one. That works—sometimes."
Zenji grimaced. "Sometimes."
Wolf's expression darkened slightly.
Among those thousands of skeletons lies the founder of the Quinthall Kingdom himself. From the memories of Hyung-woo that I possess... no one has ever defeated him. Simply because he lived too short a life! Such a waste of potential!
The insult slipped out before Wolf could stop himself.
"Tch," he muttered. "Pathetic."
Zenji stared, unsure whether to react.
Wolf shook his head as if insulting a ghost.
"To ensure they don't get slaughtered, I've developed a technique specifically for this: Frictionless Flow. It's a style built on managing inertia and embracing controlled chaos. Movement without resistance. Force without waste."
In Hyung-woo's memory, the origin of this knowledge was a mystery—someone just sold the info to the Ventilogia Empire. But looking at the science of that Solar Focal Point? It's too advanced for this world's current understanding. It smells like outsider knowledge.
Wolf's eyes burned with a new fire.
If there is someone else out there like me, I must meet them. He declared it.
Zenji stared at Wolf, his face a mask of visible confusion and skepticism.
He shifted his weight, his voice cautious. "How much of that is actually the truth, Wolf?"
"No lies, and certainly no rumors," Wolf replied instantly, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Zenji's shoulder.
"Believe me. If we pull this off, the strength of our group won't just improve. It will strengthen our people immensely."
Zenji closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded once.
"Understood," he said. "My people are already on standby. When we return to the surface."
Wolf's brow lifted slightly. "Oh?"
He smiled. "That keep up the hard work earlier—was that a signal code?"
Zenji's expression flickered with surprise. Just for a second.
"Yes," he admitted.
"It means finish current tasks and go home. But for those I trust—those already contacted—they remain and await further orders."
"I see," Wolf said. "Then why not inform them of the change now?"
He gestured lightly toward the staircase above.
"I'll explain the rest to them myself. Face to face."
Zenji studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded.