Days blended into each other like strokes on a whetstone, rough and repetitive. But for Kalem, they were essential. The chaos of the frontlines had momentarily quieted, the monstrous waves seeming to pause—as if even the abyss itself was regrouping. This lull gave him space, not for rest, but for something more important.
Refinement.
Each morning began the same: the chill air before sunrise, the crackle of the first forge flames, and the dull clank of metal as Kalem arranged his tools. The smithy, though humble compared to Briar's workshop back in the capital, was well-equipped. Functional. It was enough.
He placed the crimson spear on the anvil first. Its haft still bore the scorched marks from prolonged use, and the lightning-enchantment crystal had started to dim.
"Too much draw, not enough insulation," Kalem muttered, studying the etched rune channels along its spine. He pulled out a vial of wyrmglass resin and a fresh shard of charged amber, twisting the materials into a reinforced socket near the base of the spearhead. The new crystal pulsed once—brighter, sharper.
Satisfied, he re-inscribed the rune pathways, allowing for segmented activation. No longer would the enchantment burn out from constant use. Now, it would pulse in bursts—amplified and deliberate.
"That takes care of you."
Next came the whip.
Kalem uncoiled it across the table. Unlike the others, it wasn't a weapon he used often. But when he did, it demanded precision. The chain-links had been sharpened and laced with small enchantment glyphs—now flickering erratically.
He sighed.
"You've been neglected."
He replaced several of the links with newer, weight-balanced ones forged from an alloy with better enchantment absorption. Then, he added a small ignition rune to the base.
"Strike, ignite, retract."
A single flick of his wrist sent the whip sailing through the air. At the apex of its curve, it burst into a thin, fiery arc before snapping back, leaving a charred gash in the testing post behind him.
Kalem nodded.
"Better."
Hours passed. Between enchantment etchings and field testing, he kept himself busy. Other soldiers would come and go—some watching from a distance, a few even bringing their own gear for repair or improvement. Word had spread quickly: the pseudo with the red sword was also a smith. Some of the older soldiers gave him space. Others gave him requests.
He only accepted a few, mostly for those who had fought nearby.
Respect was earned, after all.
By midday, Kalem stood before the resonance blade. This one, unlike the others, was strange. Not due to its power, but how it reacted to him. It wasn't made for raw destruction—it responded to sound, frequency, and intent. The hilt had begun to vibrate slightly in his grip over the past few uses.
"Needs tuning," he whispered.
Using a tuning fork etched with calibration runes, he struck the blade lightly, then again, noting the echo. Too sharp—off by a fraction. The edge was fine, but the resonance core had slipped out of alignment. He adjusted the runic prism embedded in the crossguard, gently nudging it until the vibration evened out.
He swung it once, and the blade sang—not audibly, but in a low, vibrating hum that seemed to ripple through the air like invisible waves.
Perfect.
With each weapon refined, Kalem's presence grew. Not just in the smithy, but on the battlefield. Every dusk, he took his arsenal outside the walls to test—some soldiers followed, watching him cleave stone outcroppings or create miniature storms with spear-thrusts.
But Kalem didn't do it for recognition.
This was preparation.
Because even in the silence, the abyss never truly slept.
On the fifth day, the wind shifted.
Kalem stood by the cliff-side where he often trained with Onyx nearby, grazing calmly with a war harness still strapped to his massive shoulders.
Kalem sat cross-legged with the fire sword across his lap. Its enchantment was stable, but he wanted more from it. The flame it produced could incinerate enemies, sure—but it lacked nuance. It wasn't efficient.
He drew a new pattern beside it on the dirt.
"Flame channeling," he muttered, carving a spiral rune and adding a split path toward the tip of the blade. "Focus it… let it build in the hilt, not vent immediately."
Onyx snorted nearby.
"Yeah, yeah. You want more fire too?" Kalem smirked.
The bull gave a heavy exhale in response.
Kalem placed the newly etched ruby core into the hilt and sealed the housing. When he ignited the blade this time, it didn't spew fire like before. It built pressure. Flame gathered at the base of the blade—controlled, pulsing outward only when the swing reached peak velocity.
He tested it on a line of armored targets scavenged from battlefield scrap.
One swing.
The fire didn't erupt.
It exploded forward like a blade of pure combustion—melting through the first two targets and scorching the third in a single controlled arc.
"That's more like it."
By nightfall, Kalem returned to the smithy one last time. The work was nearing completion. He cleaned the tools, wiped sweat from his brow, and pulled out a fresh blank—a new weapon not yet shaped.
Something else was coming. He could feel it in the air. The abyss had been too quiet. The monsters he'd fought in recent weeks weren't just mindless—many had shown signs of coordination, aggression beyond instinct.
He stared at the blank metal before him, considering.
"A contingency. For the worst-case scenario."
He didn't know what it would be yet.
But when it came… he'd be ready.
And with that thought, Kalem finally stepped outside to where Onyx waited patiently.
The wind picked up, carrying the faint, acrid scent of smoke and abyssal rot from beyond the mountains.
Kalem strapped the fire sword to his back, the spear at his side, and the whip coiled around his belt.
Everything was sharper.
Stronger.
More dangerous.
The calm was ending.
And the storm was coming.