The ruins were older than Jerusalem itself.
Osman led Lucien through the twisted forest until the trees gave way to crumbling stone walls covered in moss and vines that glowed faintly in the dim light. Arches rose from the earth like the ribs of some ancient beast, and at the center stood what might have once been a temple... its roof long collapsed, its pillars broken but still standing.
"What is this place?" Lucien asked, his voice hoarse.
"I don't know," Osman replied, setting him down gently near a low wall. "It was here when I arrived. Older than the city. Older than the Dome, that's a certainty." He gestured around. "The Shadow Knights don't patrol this far. They fear it, I think. Or they fear leaving the city..."
Lucien leaned back against the stone, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. Every muscle screamed. Every bone ached. Blood had dried in dark streaks across his arms and face.
"Rest," Osman said. "I'll bring water."
He disappeared into the shadows, moving with that eerie silence despite his size.
Lucien closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
When he woke, pale light filtered through the broken roof above. How much time had passed, he couldn't tell... few hours, maybe days. Time felt wrong here, stretched thin and unstable.
A clay bowl sat beside him, filled with clear water. Nearby, something that looked like dried meat rested on a flat stone.
Osman sat a few meters away, watching him with those yellow eyes.
"You've been asleep for two days," the werewolf said.
Lucien tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced through his ribs. "Two days?"
"Your body needed it." Osman gestured to the water. "Drink. It's clean. From a spring deeper in the forest."
Lucien drank, the cool water soothing his parched throat. Then he ate, slowly, each bite bringing a little more strength back to his limbs.
As he ate, his eyes wandered around the ruins. Scattered throughout were... things. Objects. Pieces of metal, shards of crystal, chunks of stone that gleamed with faint inner light.
"What are all these?" Lucien asked.
Osman followed his gaze. "Things I've collected over the years. Materials from this world. Some were once part of the city. Others... I found in the wilderness." He stood and walked to a pile near one of the pillars. "I didn't know what to do with them. But I kept them. Just in case."
Lucien's instincts stirred. He pushed himself up, wincing, and approached the pile.
His hand hovered over a piece of dark metal... almost black, shot through with veins of deep blue that vibrated faintly.
Appraisal.
A translucent window appeared.
[Material: Crystalsteel]
Rarity: Rare (A-Class)
Properties: High durability. Excellent mana conductivity. Naturally resonates with shadow-aligned energies.
Origin: Corrupted ore from the dimensional rift.
Note: "A material born from darkness. Handle with care."
Lucien's breath caught.
He moved to another piece... a shard of metal that gleamed with a soft, warm light, almost like captured sunlight.
Appraisal.
[Material: Lightfire Iron]
Rarity: Rare (A-Class)
Properties: Moderate durability. Exceptional sharpness retention. Naturally resists corruption.
Origin: Purified remnants of Old Jerusalem.
Note: "A fragment of what was lost. A memory of light."
Lucien stared at the materials, his mind racing.
"Osman," he said quietly. "Do you have tools? A forge?"
The werewolf tilted his head. "There's an old workshop near the back of the ruins. The anvil is cracked, and the forge is cold... but it's still there."
Lucien turned to face him. "Then I need to work."
Osman's ears twitched. "You're a smith?"
"Yes." Lucien looked down at his empty hands, at the broken sword hilt still tucked into his belt. "And if I'm going to survive here... I need weapons."
Week One: Failure
The forge took three days to repair. The bellows were torn, the chimney half-collapsed. Lucien and Osman worked together, scavenging materials from the ruins, patching holes, rebuilding what had been lost to time.
When the first flames finally roared to life, Lucien felt something settle in his chest. The heat. The light. The familiar rhythm of hammer on steel.
This feeling, I remember.
He started with the Crystalsteel, attempting to forge a dagger.
The first attempt shattered during quenching.
The second warped beyond use.
The third cracked along the spine before he could even finish shaping it.
Each failure stung. But with each failure, he learned.
The Crystalsteel was temperamental, reactive. It needed patience. Control. A steady hand and a clear mind.
But Lucien's mind was anything but clear.
At night, when the forge cooled and Osman kept watch, Lucien sat alone in the darkness and tried to remember.
Who were the Shadow Knights, who could they be...?
The thought haunted him.
Osman had said there were twelve. That they'd arrived after the Dome's creation. That they controlled everything.
And the one who had captured him... that pale blue eye, the fighting style, the voice.
I know you.
But the memory wouldn't come. Like everything else, it was buried beneath layers of fog, locked away by something he couldn't reach.
The system, he thought. It took my memories. But why?
He clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath his skin.
Worse still was the growing certainty that the Shadow Knights weren't just monsters. They were Templars. Brothers he had once fought beside. Friends he had trusted.
And now he would have to kill them.
The thought made him sick.
What happened to us? What did we become?
Week Two: Progress
The fourth dagger held.
Lucien quenched it carefully, watching the Crystalsteel hiss and steam. When he pulled it free, the blade gleamed darkly, veins of blue light pulsing along its length.
But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
He whispered his Ancestral Vow as he began the final shaping.
"Let this blade pierce the darkness. Let it strike where sight fails. Let it be my will made steel."
The hammer fell. Again. Again. Again.
With each strike, mana flowed from his core into the metal, binding intent to form. The blade responded, its inner light growing stronger, sharper.
A notification flickered.
[Blacksmith Level Up]
Level 10 → Level 11
New Skill Unlocked: [Mana Infusion (Passive)]
Effect: Weapons forged by the host now retain a small percentage of infused mana, increasing overall effectiveness.
Lucien barely registered it. He was lost in the work now, the rhythm, the heat, the dance of creation.
When the dagger was finally complete, he held it up to the light.
Appraisal.
[Item: Imperium (Unique)]
Rarity: A-Class
Durability: 100%
Passive Attribute: Mana Conductivity +20%
Infused Skill: [ ]
Note: "A blade born of will and shadow. Its true power awaits discovery."
Lucien smiled faintly.
One down.
Week Three: Mastery
The sword was harder.
Lightfire Iron resisted him at every turn. It didn't want to be shaped. It wanted to remain pure, untouched, untainted.
But Lucien was stubborn.
He failed seven times before he understood.
The iron didn't resist corruption... it rejected force.
So he stopped forcing it.
Instead, he worked with it. Gentle strikes. Patient heat. A rhythm that felt less like hammering and more like... conversation.
And slowly, the blade took shape.
As he forged, he whispered another vow.
"Let this blade cut through despair. Let it be the edge that ends all darkness. Let it be my final strike."
The metal sang.
Light poured from the blade as he quenched it, bright enough to banish the shadows in the workshop. Osman, watching from the doorway, shielded his eyes.
When the light faded, Lucien held the finished sword.
It was beautiful. Slender, perfectly balanced, its edge gleaming like captured sunlight. The hilt was wrapped in leather salvaged from his old armor, and the crossguard bore the faint outline of a cross... his cross.
[Blacksmith Level Up]
Level 11 → Level 12
Level 12 → Level 13
Level 13 → Level 14
[Skill Evolved: Forge Inheritance → Forge Legacy (SS-Rank)]
Effect: The host can now infuse multiple layers of intent into a single creation. Weapons forged with this skill carry the legacy of the wielder's purpose.
Lucien exhaled shakily, the notifications fading.
He activated Appraisal one last time.
[Item: Edge of the End (Unique)]
Rarity: S-Class
Durability: 100%
Passive Attribute: Corruption Resistance +30%, Attack Speed +15%
Infused Skill: [ ]
Note: "The final blade. The last light. Forged to sever despair itself."
Lucien sheathed the sword carefully, the blade sliding into a makeshift scabbard he'd crafted from salvaged wood and leather.
For the first time in weeks, he felt... ready.
Week Four: Healing
Osman had not been idle.
The werewolf had scoured the forest, returning each day with plants, roots, and fungi that glowed faintly in the dark. Some he crushed into paste. Others he brewed into bitter tea.
"Drink," he would say, handing Lucien a clay cup filled with something that smelled like earth and rot.
"It tastes like death," Lucien muttered.
"It keeps you from meeting it," Osman replied.
The medicine worked. Slowly but surely, Lucien's wounds closed. His strength returned. The exhaustion that had clung to him like a shroud finally lifted.
He trained in the mornings, testing his new weapons, relearning his body's limits. Osman watched, occasionally offering advice where to step, how to pivot, when to strike.
"You fight like a knight," Osman observed one day.
"I am a knight," Lucien replied.
"Were," Osman corrected. "This world doesn't care what you were."
Lucien met his gaze. "Then I'll make it remember."
Day Twenty-Eight
The sun... or what passed for it here... hung low in the bruised sky. Lucien stood at the edge of the ruins, Edge of the End strapped to his back, Imperium sheathed at his hip.
Osman approached, his white fur catching the dim light.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Lucien turned to face him. For the first time in weeks, there was no hesitation in his eyes. No doubt. Only resolve.
He smiled faintly.
"Rentrons a la maison, mon ami."
Osman's ears twitched, and something that might have been a grin crossed his muzzle.
"Then let's go home."