Chapter — The First Shot (Refined Version)The forge did not slow for him.
It roared the same way it always had—fire breathing through iron lungs, heat pressing against skin, metal ringing beneath hammer strikes that carried neither hesitation nor mercy. It did not care who entered, nor why. It only demanded one thing in return.
Work.
And if one failed to keep up—
It would make that painfully clear.
————-
Day OneDurnak did not assign him a station.
There was no formal introduction to tools, no careful explanation of process. Only a brief glance in his direction before the dwarf jerked his chin toward a cluttered corner of the forge.
"If you're going to stand there," he said, voice rough with disinterest, "make yourself useful."
That was all.
No more. No less.
Arin understood.
Respect, in a place like this, was not given. It was observed.
————-
It was Bardin who stepped in first.
Not out of kindness—more out of irritation.
"You'll ruin the metal if you keep staring at it like that," he muttered, grabbing a pair of tongs from Arin's hand and repositioning them. "Grip it here. Balance matters."
Arin adjusted immediately.
Bardin watched for a second longer, then gave a short nod.
"Better."
From there, instruction came in fragments.
How long to leave iron in the furnace before it turned the right shade—not bright yellow, not dull red, but something in between.
How to pour molten metal into a mold without trapping air.
How to let it cool—not too fast, not too slow.
How to feel resistance through tools rather than forcing through it.
Arin absorbed it quickly.
Not because it was simple.
But because it followed logic.
Process. Sequence. Outcome.
Different medium—
Same principle.
By midday, his movements had already lost their hesitation.
Not perfect.
But not clumsy either.
Enough that Bardin stopped correcting him every second.
————-
The weapon itself was never a single piece in his mind.
It had never been.
From the very beginning, it existed in parts—frame, grip, chamber, barrel—each with its own function, its own requirement, its own margin for error. The design he had brought was already separated, already structured.
What he needed now—
Was to make those parts real.
————
Durnak approached only once.
He said nothing while Arin worked.
Only extended a hand.
Arin passed him the partially formed frame.
The dwarf turned it slowly, weighing it in his palm, his single eye narrowing slightly as he examined the shaping.
Then, without warning, he tapped it sharply against the workbench.
The sound that followed was dull.
Heavy in the wrong way.
Durnak clicked his tongue.
"Too stiff."
Arin frowned slightly. "It holds."
"It resists," Durnak corrected, placing it back down. "And anything that resists too much…" A brief glance. "…breaks sooner than it should."
He walked away.
No further explanation.
————-
The rune work brought a different kind of challenge.
Not in design—
But in scale.
The diagrams Arin had drawn were precise, clear, and correct.
But they were not small.
And the weapon—
Had no room for excess.
"Give me that."
Vingolf's voice came from behind him.
Arin handed over the sheet without hesitation.
The old dwarf adjusted his glasses, then pulled out a small lens from his coat—a magnifying glass, worn from use.
He studied the diagram in silence.
Long enough that it almost felt deliberate.
"…You drew this yourself?"
Arin nodded, "Yes."
Vingolf gave a faint pause.
"…Hmph."
He did not question further.
Instead, Vingolf set the sheet aside and reached beneath the workbench, pulling out a peculiar instrument wrapped in cloth. He unfolded it with practiced care, revealing a layered glass apparatus—multiple small lenses fixed within a metal frame, each aligned to magnify the next.
He adjusted it over the work surface, angling it toward the prepared metal until the reflected light sharpened into clarity.
The rune surface beneath it expanded.
Lines that would have been invisible to the naked eye now stood clear and defined, every minute imperfection exposed without mercy.
Only then did he pick up a fine engraving stylus—far more delicate than the tools used for armor or blade work—and settled into position with steady, unhurried control.
"Watch carefully," he said.
The first line went down slowly.
Not because he lacked confidence.
Because he chose precision over speed.
Every curve mirrored the original.
Every intersection maintained its intent.
Only—
Smaller.
Tighter.
Contained.
Arin watched without blinking.
Not the rune—
The hand.
The control.
The discipline behind each movement.
"You're not modifying it," Arin said quietly.
Vingolf did not look up.
"If it works, it doesn't need changing."
A brief pause.
"It only needs to fit where it belongs."
The first attempt at assembly did not fail dramatically.
There was no explosion. No backlash.
The mechanism aligned.
The trigger responded.
The rune activated—
But the mana dispersed incorrectly.
The result was nothing more than a faint flicker.
Durnak glanced once from across the forge.
"Expected."
And returned to his work.
————-
LunchThey did not stop working because it was time to eat.
They stopped because Durnak said so.
And when he did—
Everything paused.
The three of them sat around a heavy wooden table near the back of the forge.
Bardin and Brokk had already started eating, large wooden mugs in hand, the scent of strong ale mixing with the lingering heat of the forge.
Vingolf placed a bowl in front of Arin.
Rice soup.
Simple.
Alongside it—
A massive roasted leg of a monster rooster.
Arin raised a brow slightly.
"…That's generous."
Before Vingolf could respond—
"It's not free."
Durnak didn't even look up from his drink.
"It'll be added to your cost."
A faint snort came from Brokk.
Arin allowed himself a small smile.
"Of course it will."
For a while, they ate in silence.
The kind that wasn't uncomfortable.
Just… natural.
Then Durnak spoke.
Not loudly.
But enough that it shifted the air around them.
"That design of yours."
He took a slow drink before continuing.
"…That's not something someone experiments into."
Arin didn't respond.
Durnak's gaze lifted.
Sharp and focused towards Arin.
"It's refined. Balanced. Thought through."
"Feels like something that's been tested. Improved. Passed down."
Silence settled for a moment.
"I'm not asking where you got it," Durnak added, voice quieter now.
"But understand this—"
He set the mug down.
"That kind of weapon… changes things."
Bardin glanced up.
Brokk stopped mid-bite.
Even Vingolf's gaze shifted slightly.
"For adventurers," Durnak continued, "range means survival."
Durnak took a deep breath.
"And anything that makes killing easier…"
His eye narrowed.
"…never stays unnoticed."
Arin met his gaze calmly.
"I understand."
And he did.
More than they realized.
———-
Day TwoBy the second day, the forge no longer treated him as an outsider.
It did not accept him—
But it stopped resisting him.
The structure improved.
Cleaner edges.
Better alignment.
Less waste.
"You're holding it like a hammer again."
Bardin's voice carried from the side.
Arin adjusted his grip without argument.
"…Better," Bardin muttered.
The rune work advanced further.
Vingolf corrected less.
Observed more.
"You rush this section," he said at one point, tapping lightly near a curve.
Arin leaned in.
Saw it.
A minor inconsistency.
Barely visible.
But real.
"…You're right."
———-
That evening they tested again.
This time, the reaction came.
A pulse.
A release.
A thin streak of mana shot forward—
Striking the far wall with enough force to leave a visible mark.
No one spoke immediately.
Brokk was the first to speak, the disbelief still clear in his voice.
"…It fired."
Bardin let out a low whistle, eyes fixed on the mark left behind on the far wall.
Durnak stepped forward without hurry and took the weapon from Arin's hand. He turned it once, weighing it, his gaze shifting briefly toward the impact point before returning to the mechanism itself.
"…Weak," he said at last.
There was no hesitation in the judgment.
Then his eyes flicked back toward the wall, narrowing just slightly.
"And don't fire at my walls again," he added, voice edged with annoyance. "I didn't build this place so you can start punching holes holes through it."
After a faint pause.
Durnak glanced once more at the weapon.
"…it works."
————
Day ThreeBy the third day, they were no longer building.
They were refining.
Balance adjusted.
Grip shaped.
Weight distributed more evenly.
The second rune within the barrel proved difficult.
Not in drawing—
But in behavior.
"It's destabilizing mid-flight," Arin said.
Vingolf nodded.
"Too forceful."
Durnak stepped in this time.
Without invitation.
He took the tool, adjusted the angle slightly, then handed it back.
"Force doesn't fight itself," he said.
"It follows direction."
That one correction—
Changed everything.
By the third day, they no longer pointed the weapon toward the forge walls.
Durnak had seen to that himself.
A thick wooden board had been set up at a distance behind the workshop—mounted on a simple stand, its surface marked with rough concentric circles burned into the wood. Not elegant, not decorative—just clear enough to serve its purpose.
"Shoot that," Durnak had said earlier, arms folded. "And try not to miss."
The next test was clean.
Arin steadied his grip, aligning the top ridge of the barrel with the center mark on the board, recalling Bardin's earlier correction about balance rather than force.
He pulled the trigger.
The rune within flickered to life.
Mana surged—compressed, shaped, released.
The shot tore forward with a sharp, controlled burst.
A brief streak of light cut through the air—
And struck the board dead on.
A solid impact followed, the wood splintering slightly around the point of contact.
Not wild.
Not scattered.
Focused.
The second shot followed.
Then the third.
Each one landed closer to the center than the last.
Behind him, Brokk let out a low, impressed sound.
"…Now that's more like it."
They continued testing well into the evening, repeating the process again and again until uncertainty gave way to quiet certainty.
By the end of it, the results were clear.
A single goblin-grade mana stone could sustain approximately sixty shots—each one consistent in output, stable in release, and reliable in performance.
Durnak lowered the weapon onto the table with deliberate care, setting it down as one would place something that had earned its weight.
He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulder before speaking.
"Come back tomorrow."
Arin's brows drew together just a fraction. "It works."
"It does," Durnak replied, his tone even. "But it isn't finished."
His gaze shifted briefly toward the grip, then along the body of the weapon, as if already seeing the refinements yet to be made.
"Polishing. Fitting. Final shaping."
Vingolf adjusted his glasses beside him, his voice quieter, but firm.
"A tool like this shouldn't leave the forge half-done."
Arin held their gaze for a moment, then gave a small nod.
He turned to leave.
But not before his eyes fell once more upon the weapon resting on the table.
Three days ago, it had existed only as lines on paper—an idea shaped by thought alone.
Now, it had weight. Form. Presence.
Something that could be held.
Something that could be used.
Something that could change things.
And tomorrow—
It would be his.