The sun hung low over Korvan's training fields, burning orange through a haze of dust and heat. The clang of steel rang sharply across the clearing as Seren's lance met Rogan's longsword again and again.
Each blow shook the ground.
Each swing left a trail of displaced air, like the wind itself feared touching him.
Rogan's movements were fast—too fast for his size. His arms, thick as oak trunks, moved with surprising speed, the blade slicing through the air like a guillotine. But his swings were wild, his stance broken. There was no flow, no balance, only pure, unchecked force.
Seren braced against another impact, sliding back several feet, her boots carving tracks in the dirt. She gritted her teeth.
"Too strong again!" she shouted, shifting her shield to deflect the next blow.
Kael, watching from the side, narrowed his eyes. He could read the rhythm of every fight—but Rogan's had none. "His strength's off the charts," he muttered. "But his form's chaos. He's just swinging, not striking."
Rogan charged again, roaring as his blade whistled through the air. Sparks flew when it collided with Seren's shield, echoing like thunder across the valley. Seren countered with a sharp thrust—Rogan blocked, his sheer power forcing her backward.
For a moment, Kael almost smiled. The raw potential was there, burning bright and untamed. But power without restraint was as dangerous to the wielder as to the enemy.
"Control your breathing!" Seren barked, sweat dripping down her neck. "Don't just throw your strength away!"
"I—I'm trying!" Rogan grunted, swinging again. "It just—happens!"
Then came the sound every blacksmith dreaded:
Crack.
Both paused mid-motion. The tip of Rogan's sword splintered. Another hit later, and the entire blade split in half. The top half spun away and buried itself in the dirt.
"Enough," Kael said firmly, raising a hand.
The air went still except for Rogan's ragged breathing. Seren lowered her shield, shaking the numbness from her arm. The ground beneath her was scarred with deep cuts and gouges from the force of their exchange.
Rogan stared at the broken blade, shame flickering in his eyes. "It… always happens," he said quietly. "Doesn't matter how new the sword is. Every time I swing, it cracks."
Kael crouched to inspect the weapon. The metal along the edge was chipped and warped, like it had been struck by an anvil instead of swung through air. "You're forcing too much power through your arms. The blade can't handle your strength."
Rogan gave a weak smile. "Alder told me that too. He said someone here could teach me control."
Seren sighed, leaning on her lance. "Well, Alder wasn't wrong. You've got the strength of a Gravios, but none of its patience."
Kael stood, rubbing his chin. "We can fix that—but not with sparring alone."
---
They returned to Maerin's longhouse as dusk bled across the horizon. The village chief sat at her table, polishing an old hammer. When she looked up, her sharp eyes immediately read their faces.
"So," she said, voice even, "how did the spar go?"
Kael let out a tired sigh and dropped into a chair. "Alder's right. He's got enough raw strength to level a boulder, but no control. Every swing, the sword breaks. I'm a mid-ranger—I can't teach that kind of precision. Seren's built for defense. We're stuck."
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "Agh, if Hunnt were here, he'd come up with something in five minutes."
Seren nodded in agreement. "Yeah. He'd probably turn it into some weird training exercise."
Maerin tapped the hammer against the table lightly, deep in thought. "Raw power, no control… every swing chips the blade…" she murmured. "That's a dangerous combination, but also a rare one."
A slow smirk tugged at her lips. "Actually," she said, "I may have a solution."
Kael looked up. "Really? What kind?"
Maerin leaned back. "Kael, do you remember my condition?"
Kael frowned, thinking. "Condition?—oh, right. You said all new members of the Eternal have to visit the forge and learn to repair or sharpen their own weapons."
As soon as he said it, realization dawned on him. "Wait… you mean blacksmithing?"
Maerin's smirk widened. "Exactly. You can't forge a perfect blade without control. You can't swing steel until you've learned what it takes to shape it."
Kael laughed softly. "You still have that wit in you, Chief. So… you want him to learn blacksmithing?"
"Not just learn," Maerin said. "Master the rhythm. Hammering teaches timing. Melting teaches patience. Shaping teaches restraint. He'll learn that brute strength means nothing without precision."
Seren tilted her head. "You think that'll fix his control?"
Maerin nodded. "A good blacksmith doesn't just hit metal. He listens to it. Every strike counts. That's how Hunnt learned to channel his will into his craft—and his weapon."
Seren's eyes widened. "Wait—Hunnt's a blacksmith?"
"A grandmaster," Maerin said, pride flickering across her features. "Why do you think those weapons he forged for you all held up against an Elder-class wyvern? You don't make that kind of work with luck—you make it with mastery."
Kael chuckled. "Yeah, sounds like him. Always building things stronger than they look."
Rogan stood quietly in the corner, wide-eyed, trying to take it all in. The thought of becoming a blacksmith startled him—it wasn't what he expected when he came here to train.
"But…" Maerin continued, turning toward him, "blacksmithing alone won't be enough. His strength will still overpower the craft unless we teach him restraint and endurance."
Seren perked up. "What about weight training? He could wear training weights while working the forge. That way he's strengthening control and stamina at the same time."
Kael snapped his fingers. "That's actually brilliant. If he learns to move and strike under load, he'll build natural restraint."
Maerin nodded approvingly. "Yes. Weighted forging—it'll build discipline faster than any spar."
She turned to Rogan. "From now on, you'll wear weighted gear while training. Bracers, greaves, chest plate—the whole set. And you'll learn blacksmithing at my forge every morning."
Rogan blinked. "W–weights and blacksmithing?"
Kael grinned. "Think of it this way. By the time we're done, you'll be so used to controlling your power that your blade won't break again."
Seren smirked. "You'll learn rhythm, balance, and patience. And when we spar next time…" she tapped her lance against the floor with a metallic clang, "I expect to see progress."
Rogan swallowed hard but nodded. "Y–Yes, ma'am. I'll do my best."
Maerin chuckled softly. "Good. Then it's settled. Training begins tomorrow at dawn. Let's see if you can swing a hammer without shattering it."
Kael leaned back in his chair and let out a short laugh. "Looks like you've got your hands full, Chief."
"I've trained worse," Maerin said with a grin. "Besides, Hunnt might be gone, but his lessons live on in this forge. And maybe, just maybe…"
She looked toward Rogan.
"…we'll make something worthy of his legacy."
Rogan straightened his back, determination sparking behind his eyes. For the first time since his expulsion from the Guild, the weight on his heart felt lighter.
Tomorrow, his real training would begin.
Not with a sword—
…but with fire, steel, and control.