Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The High Orc moved. It was fast, unnervingly so. It closed the distance in a blur, its halberd a silver streak aimed not at Nero’s body, but at the flaming wings on his back—a tactical strike to ground its aerial opponent. Nero was forced to dismiss the wings, rolling forward under the swing. He came up inside the halberd’s reach, his sword aiming for the orc’s ribs.

Clang!

The orc had anticipated this. It twisted the halberd, using the metal-shod butt to block Nero’s thrust. Sparks flew where fire met steel. The force of the block was immense, jarring Nero’s arm. This creature was strong.

They broke apart, circling each other. The High Orc feinted a high thrust, then dropped low, sweeping the halberd’s shaft at Nero’s legs. Nero leaped over it, and in mid-air, he thrust his palm forward.

”Fire Blast!” A concentrated ball of fire shot out.

The High Orc didn’t dodge. It swung its halberd in a perfect arc, the blade cutting through the fireball and dissipating it into a harmless shower of embers.

”Weak!” it roared.

It pressed the attack, its halberd becoming a whirlwind of deadly precision. Thrust, sweep, chop. It was a master of its weapon, forcing Nero on the defensive. Nero parried and dodged, the ringing of steel against his flaming sword a constant staccato. He was being pushed back, toward the rocky outcrop.

He needed to break its rhythm. As the orc committed to a powerful overhead chop, Nero met it not with a block, but with a fiery explosion.

”Flame Repulse!” A dome of concussive flame erupted from his body. It didn’t harm the orc much, but the shockwave threw it off balance, its chop going wide and biting deep into the ground.

This was his chance. Nero’s sword flared brighter than ever.

”Scarlet Dragon’s Bite!” He thrust his sword forward, and a colossal, serpentine head of pure fire roared forth from the blade, its maw open wide to consume the orc.

The High Orc, snarling, ripped its halberd from the earth and crossed its arms, bracing itself. A faint, earthen-brown aura—the hint of its own elemental law—shimmered around it. The dragon of fire slammed into it.

The world turned orange and red. When the flames cleared, the High Orc was still standing, its armor scorched and smoking, one of its arms hanging limp and burned. But it was alive. And it was furious.

With a final, desperate roar, it charged, halberd held like a lance, putting all its remaining strength into one killing blow.

Nero was ready. He didn’t meet the charge. He sidestepped with flawless timing, and as the orc passed him, his sword moved in a single, fluid, horizontal arc. The Law of Fire was so concentrated on the edge it was almost invisible.

The High Orc took two more steps before its torso slid cleanly from its legs, both halves hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Nero stood panting, the flame on his sword dying down. That had been a real fight. He could feel the battle-high singing in his blood, and deep within his heart, the second core pulsed, feeling fuller, closer to awakening. The High Orc’s cunning and power had been the perfect whetstone. He looked toward the deepest, darkest part of the forest. The rulers of this world, the grey-skinned chieftains, were waiting.

After observing the dead high orc soul, more cracks appeared on the last black chain sealing the golden star, two more and it would be unlocked.

’’I wonder what the others are doing.’’ Nero wondered as he set out again to continue his hunt.

°°°

While Nero waged his solitary war in a pocket dimension and Khione rested in her chambers, the main estate of the Leclair family settled into the deep quiet of evening. For most, the day was over. But for Adam, the night held a different kind of promise.

He found his way to a part of the estate few others ever visited: the private forges. As a guest of Lux’s family, he had been granted access, and he intended to use it. A dwarf, even one who was a prince and a knight, was first and foremost a creator. The urge to shape metal, to wrestle beauty and function from raw ore, was a fundamental need in his blood.

The forge he rented was a spacious, stone-walled chamber, dominated by a massive, enchanted furnace that glowed with a steady, contained heat. The air was cool and still, smelling of old stone, cold ash, and metal. Racks of tools—hammers, tongs, punches, and fullers—lined the walls, each one meticulously maintained. This was his sanctuary.

He entered, the heavy iron door closing with a solid, satisfying thud that sealed out the world.

’’I missed this feeling. I’m back baby.’’

He shrugged off his outer tunic, leaving him in a simple, sturdy leather apron over his clothes. With a practiced hand, he activated the forge. Runes along its base flared to life, and a deep, resonant hum filled the room as the magical core within ignited. A clean, intense heat began to radiate from the maw of the furnace, pushing back the evening’s chill.

Adam stood before the tool rack, his calloused fingers trailing over the handles. He selected a heavy, well-balanced forging hammer. Its familiar weight was a comfort. Tonight, his goal was not a weapon. It was a piece of armor. Not the hard, unyielding plate he usually crafted for himself, but something different: a shirt of soft armor, flexible yet incredibly durable. He had an idea for its intended wearer, but for now, the creation itself was the focus.

He began by selecting his materials. From a storage bin, he pulled out ingots of a peculiar, silvery-grey metal known as Mithril, known for its legendary strength and feather-light weight. To this, he added a measure of a dark, granular substance—Adamantite dust, for unbreakable resilience. The final ingredient was the most unusual: a spool of thread spun from the silk of a Phase-Spider, a material that was naturally resistant to piercing impacts and could channel prana.

The first stage was the most physically demanding. He placed the Mithril ingots into the heart of the forge with a long pair of tongs. He watched, his eyes narrowed against the glare, as the stubborn metal slowly yielded, turning from dull grey to a brilliant, shimmering orange. When the color was perfect, he pulled the glowing ingot out and laid it on the heavy steel anvil.

Then, the music began.

The first strike of his hammer was a declaration. CLANG!

A shower of brilliant orange sparks erupted into the air. He worked with a rhythm that was both powerful and precise. Each blow was not mere brute force; it was a conversation with the metal. He turned and folded it, his hammer falling in a steady, hypnotic beat—CLANG... turn... CLANG... turn... CLANG. He was driving out impurities, aligning the internal grain of the metal, and beginning the process of infusing it with the Adamantite dust he sprinkled over it, which was hammered into the very matrix of the Mithril.

Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped down his temples, sizzling on the anvil. His muscles corded and bunched with each swing, but his breathing remained even, his focus absolute. This was the foundation. A single flaw here would compromise the entire piece.

After what felt like an hour of continuous, rhythmic work, the metal had been transformed from a thick ingot into a long, thin, and perfectly even sheet, now cooled to a dull grey. But the real magic was just beginning.

He took the sheet to a different station, where he used a set of incredibly fine chisels and a small, precise hammer. Under his skilled hands, he began to carve a network of infinitesimally small channels and runes into the surface of the metal. This was not decoration. This was the circulatory system of the armor, the paths through which protective prana would flow once the piece was completed. His Law of Earth granted him an innate understanding of structure and flow, and he applied that knowledge now, etching patterns that reinforced the material on a fundamental level and would allow it to flex without cracking.

Next came the weaving. He cut the inscribed Mithril sheet into thousands of tiny, interlocking rings. Using magnifying lenses and tools as fine as needles, he began the painstaking process of linking them together with the Phase-Spider silk. Each ring was connected to four others, the incredibly strong silk threading through the microscopic channels he had carved. It was work that demanded the patience of a mountain and the delicate touch of a master jeweler. For hours, the only sounds were the gentle click of rings settling into place and the soft hiss of the forge.

As he worked, he began to hum a low, resonant Dwarven lay, a song of earth and stone and the fire that shapes them. The tune seemed to seep into the metal, into the very air of the forge. A faint, earthy brown glow—the manifestation of his own prana and his Law of Earth—began to emanate from his hands and wash over the growing mesh of mail. He was not just building it; he was imbuing it, weaving his own steadfast nature and defensive intent into every single link.

Dawn was still hours away when he held the finished piece up. It was a shirt of chainmail, but unlike any other. It was silvery-grey and surprisingly light, lying over his hands like a heavy cloth. The rings were so fine and tightly woven it was almost silky to the touch, yet he knew it could turn the blade of a master swordsman and dissipate the force of a crushing blow. It was a masterpiece of defensive smithing, a perfect fusion of dwarven craftsmanship, magical materials, and the will of its creator.

He set the finished armor down on a clean workbench. The forge was still warm, and the scent of hot metal and ozone hung in the air. His body ached with a deep, satisfying fatigue. He looked at his work, and a grunt of approval, the highest praise from a dwarf, escaped his lips. The night had been a success. He had answered the call in his blood, and in doing so, he had created something of true, lasting value.