Pushing open the door, Ludger stepped inside the forge, and instantly understood where the pile outside had come from.

The interior glowed with the deep orange of a fully awakened furnace, heat rolling through the air thick enough to sting the skin. The place smelled of scorched metal, hot oil, and froststeel dust. Sparks hissed quietly inside the anvil pit. Steam curled from cooling troughs. And in the center of it all, Raukor stood like a living statue, broad shoulders illuminated by the firelight, mane swaying with every slow, measured breath.

He was staring down at a curved froststeel knife held between two massive fingers.

A beautiful piece, at first glance. The curvature was elegant, the edge clean, the balance seemingly perfect. Most blacksmiths would’ve polished it and called it a masterpiece. But Raukor didn’t see a masterpiece. His amber eyes were narrowed, the fur around them twitching with displeasure as he examined every millimeter with a predator’s intensity. Then, without hesitation, he shoved the knife back into the furnace.

Ludger watched as the metal softened, glowing bright white with heat. Raukor let it melt into a semi-liquid state, expression tightening in dissatisfaction. Whatever he’d found wrong with it, whatever tiny detail he’d deemed unacceptable, was enough to condemn the entire piece. Once the blue glow began to fade, just a fraction, just enough, he pulled the molten mass out with tongs, studied it again…

…and threw it into the scrap pile with a force that made the walls vibrate.

Ludger crossed his arms. “You’ve been working early.”

Raukor grunted, already grabbing a new bar of froststeel, as if melting half a dozen weapons before dawn was perfectly normal.

Ludger stepped closer, eyeing the ruined remains on the floor, then the no-nonsense expression on the beastman’s face. “You’re certainly efficient at wasting froststeel,” he said, voice flat. “Did you lose your edge or something?”

Raukor froze mid-motion. Slowly, his head turned toward Ludger. Not angry, but with the same expression one might give a cub who had bitten a lightning rune and asked why it hurt. A mix of disbelief and the faintest hint of pride that someone dared insult him.

“No,” Raukor rumbled, voice low and gravelly. “I did not lose my edge.”

He jabbed a thumb at the molten lump hissing in the cooling trough.

“That did.”

He turned back to the furnace, mane brushing the air like a lion preparing for battle.

“And I do not tolerate weak metal.”

Ludger lingered near the forge, arms crossed, watching Raukor work through several more iterations of the same frustrating cycle: craft, examine, melt, reforge, discard. He didn’t rush. He didn’t swear. He didn’t even seem annoyed. The beastman simply moved with unwavering focus, correcting microscopic imperfections only he could detect. Every swing of the hammer was steady. Every adjustment was precise. Every decision was final.

After a few minutes, the pattern clicked in Ludger’s mind. Raukor wasn’t wasting froststeel. He was refusing to create anything less than perfect.

Every failed blade in the pile wasn’t a failure in Raukor’s eyes, just a material that didn’t deserve to become a weapon under his name. No wonder Torvares had such faith in him. The forearm and shin guards Ludger wore had always felt unnaturally balanced, sturdy without excess weight. They were tools crafted by someone who rejected “good enough” with violent prejudice.

A perfectionist, through and through.Which was fine. Admirable even. But maybe a little less fine when the Lionsguard was funding the mountain of ruined froststeel outside. Part of Ludger wanted to say exactly that, something about budgets, resource management, maybe a gentle reminder that froststeel wasn’t unlimited. But he also knew better.

Raukor wasn’t the type who responded well to “be less good at your job.” So Ludger swallowed the comment, choosing instead to focus on why he had come here. He waited until Raukor set down his hammer, sparks dying on the anvil, before stepping closer.

“When do the lessons start?” Ludger asked.

Raukor blinked, genuinely surprised. “Lessons?”

“Yeah,” Ludger said. “You said you’d teach me a bit.”

Raukor tilted his head. “Can you not learn by watching?”

Ludger resisted the urge to sigh. “I can learn some things by watching. But forging has too many steps that don’t translate through observation alone. Differences in pressure, temperature, mana channeling, you know that.”

The beastman scratched his mane, thoughtful. Ludger pressed a little further.

“A few explanations as to why you’re doing each step would do the trick,” he said. “Just enough so I understand what you’re correcting, not just how you’re correcting it.”

Raukor grunted, half acceptance, half confusion at the request, and finally nodded.

“Very well. I will explain. But only if you keep up.”

He grabbed a new froststeel ingot, the muscles in his arms bunching under the fur.

“This,” Raukor said, “is the start.”

Ludger stepped forward. And the first lesson began.

Raukor selected several of the discarded froststeel fragments from a nearby tray, small shards, half-formed blades, curled slivers of metal, and brought them to the furnace. Ludger followed closely, watching the beastman’s every move.

“These,” Raukor said, placing the pieces into a shallow metal bowl, “are still usable. Froststeel is stubborn. It clings to its nature even after failure.” His deep voice carried a steady cadence, each word shaped like the hammer strokes he used. “Most metals behave the same in forging. Heat, fold, shape, cool. Repeat until the desired form holds. But magic ores?” He shook his head. “Magic ores demand respect.”

Ludger leaned in as Raukor slid the bowl into the forge’s mouth. The flame licked the metal, but not enough to melt it into liquid. Instead, the froststeel began to glow with a pale, icy blue light, soft at first, then brightening as the heat coaxed the mana inside into motion.

“Mundane metals,” Raukor continued, “can be broken down completely. Melted until they are liquid, stripped of their impurities, and reforged from base form. But magic ores like froststeel change if you do that.”

He reached in with thick, rune-lined tongs and lifted one of the fragments out. The piece glowed, smooth as wet glass, but cold mist curled off it despite the heat. Raukor held it up for Ludger to see.

“This ore is born from mana. Frost mana specifically. It is the hardening and crystallization of cold itself. If you reduce it to formless liquid, you break apart the mana structure too thoroughly.” He squeezed the tongs, and the metal gave a faint crackle. “It loses its glow. Its cohesion. Its nature.”

Ludger frowned. “But you melted that knife you made earlier.”

Raukor snorted. “Melted, yes. Completely broken down? No. I never let the core structure dissolve. I heat it until the metal softens and the faults reveal themselves.” He turned the tongs so Ludger could see faint lines emerging on the metal’s surface, tiny fractures, uneven mana channels, imperfections that were invisible when cooled. “This is the moment you correct the shape. When the mana flow is visible.”

He brought the metal back over the anvil and tapped it lightly with the hammer. Not enough to shape it, just enough to show the resonance. The froststeel hummed, the glow shifting with each strike.

“See here,” Raukor said, pointing with one clawed finger. “If I had melted it too far, this glow would fade. The temperature must stay below the point where frost mana dissipates. Otherwise, you are no longer forging froststeel, you are forging useless scrap.”

Ludger nodded slowly, absorbing each detail.

“So you can’t start over,” he said. “Once you ruin a piece beyond that threshold, it’s done.”

“Yes,” Raukor said, “but that threshold is wide, for those who know the limits. Most forges in the Empire melt froststeel too aggressively. They treat it like steel infused with magic instead of magic that hardened into steel.”

He lowered the glowing fragment back into the forge with almost reverent care. “This is why froststeel weapons vary so much in quality. Those who do not understand the ore only shape the body. They never shape the mana.”

Ludger rubbed his chin. “Makes sense why you throw away so many pieces.”

Raukor let out a low, pleased rumble. “Perfection or nothing. A weapon that fails its wielder is a crime.”

The beastman gestured toward a workstation. “Come closer. Watch how the glow shifts as the mana settles. If you are to learn forging, you must learn to see this before you ever strike the metal.”

Ludger stepped forward, eyes narrowing on the shimmering froststeel.

The lesson had only just begun, and already he understood why Raukor had demanded so much froststeel. This wasn’t forging metal. This was forging mana itself.

Ludger stayed in the forge for the rest of the day, eyes fixed on Raukor’s every movement. He watched how the beastman heated the metal, how he tapped it to read its resonance, how he froze it momentarily to harden the mana inside, then reheated it just enough to correct the flow. He watched Raukor reject piece after piece with mechanical ruthlessness. He absorbed the rhythm, the logic, the tiny cues in color and glow and sound that signaled success or failure.

But he never received a single notification.

No Class unlocked.

No Forging Apprentice acquired.

No Skill gained

.

Not even a hint.

By the time the sun had shifted to late afternoon, Ludger realized something. Raukor had never finished a weapon all day. He had never allowed any piece to reach the final stage. He corrected, melted, corrected again, and threw away anything with the slightest imperfection. Ludger was learning the theory of perfection, but he hadn’t witnessed a complete forging process, not even once.

Maybe that was why the System didn’t acknowledge anything. No completed foundation, no class.

Or maybe Raukor simply hadn’t explained anything “basic.” He was teaching the way a master taught another master, through observation, through instinct, through nuance. Except Ludger was still standing at the threshold, not stepping through it. Eventually, when Raukor began melting a sixth blade in thirty minutes, Ludger decided to ask.

“Is there anything I can do with my magic,” he said, stepping closer, “to decrease the chances of failure? Something that stabilizes the froststeel or guides the mana flow?”

Raukor paused mid-swing. The hammer hovered above the glowing ore. The beastman turned just enough for one amber eye to study Ludger.

“That depends,” Raukor said slowly, “on whether you can wield the four elements.”

Ludger blinked. “I can.”

Raukor’s brows lifted. He took a slow step back, giving Ludger space in the center of the forge. “All four?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

There wasn’t a hint of disbelief in Raukor’s voice, just a craftsman evaluating a tool before deciding its worth. The beastman crossed his arms and nodded toward the open floor.

“Use the elements,” Raukor said. “One by one. Then use them in combination. Show me fire, earth, water, and wind. Show me how you control them. And show me how fast you can shift from one to the next.”

Ludger exhaled, centering his mana.

If Raukor wanted a demonstration, he would get one.

Wind gathered at Ludger’s fingertips first, sharp, cutting, swirling in controlled rings. Then he shifted instantly to fire, conjuring a precise flame no larger than a candlelight but bright as a forge spark. He followed it with earth, raising a small, perfectly shaped stone disc from the floor. And finally, he drew water from the air itself, condensing it into a thin, floating ribbon that danced around his fingers.

Then, without warning—,  cycled through all four again. Faster. Smoother. Elements flowing, fading, and igniting with no visible delay.

Raukor’s eyes narrowed, not in distrust, but interest. Deep interest.

“So,” the beastman rumbled, mane shifting as he leaned forward, “you really do hold all four.”

He nodded once. Slowly.

“This changes everything.”

Ludger straightened.

“Good,” Raukor said. “Now I can teach you properly.”

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