When the ring consumed the last of the Chrun’s Descendants’ exoskeletons, it returned to Daiden. He noticed it tap on his left arm, and he extended it on reflex. The ring circled around his wrist and slowly moved to his fingers, then the tips. It touched the index, the middle, and gently settled onto the ring finger. Daiden felt the ring in a perfect fit, now without its shimmer. He stared in bewilderment and shook his hand, but the ring refused to budge. With a helpless expression, he turned to Zane once more.

“You worry too much,” chided Zane, coldly. “All I did was give you a spatial ring. It’s to store items you might find during your travels.” He pointed at the ring on Daiden’s finger and added, “This is a little on the low end in terms of quality. But I believe it should suffice for you, forty items, not more.”

The Lord of Fire stroked his beard, in thought, and added, “Your Mioveroldian Knowledge Fragment should help you understand the ring’s functionality as well.”

Daiden lightened from the explanation. He calmed his heart from pounding against his chest and grinned excitedly. It meant something, the words from the Lord of Fire. He accepted every moment from his time within Mioverold, and in transition, moved from the logic that once restrained him. His eyes trembled around the corners, and he swiped open his Mioveroldian Page once more. He yearned to see it, repeatedly, immerse in it until the experience became a matter of normality. He heard a snap then, a simple flick with enough force to disperse his page.

“Stop acting like an idiot,” scolded Zane, again. “I don’t have much time left in Mutuba Village. Follow me to the smithy. You’re almost making me regret the bond.”

“He really is quite the character!” thought Daiden, nervously.

Daiden scratched the back of his head, apologized and followed. In a few steps, he lulled to a trance, in observation of the man in front of him. From the calloused hands and broad shoulders, to the heavy hammer and a bag of ash-coloured wooden logs, Zane reflected the presence of a strong blacksmith, perhaps more.

“Why do I get the feeling that he only recently became a blacksmith?” wondered Daiden. He deviated from the thought in remembrance of Zane’s titles. “No, no. I’m probably just as much of an idiot as he thinks I am.”

Daiden massaged the side of his arm and relaxed from the observation. His eyes wandered to the sides, in view of the village. He admired the rounded houses and small gardens, people in smiles, in a chatter. His feet followed to the centre of the village, to a larger, rounded structure – hot with the smell of iron and coke. He tilted his head higher, to the sight of a dark chimney and oddly clear, thick smoke.

“A few hundred years ago, we noticed our people suffer from the emission of black smoke and soot,” explained Zane, noticing Daiden’s curiosity. “We managed to grow a variant, the ash-coloured wood. It burns without causing us too much harm.”

“You speak about it as if it’s nothing,” stammered Daiden, in surprise. “What the Earthen Realm wouldn’t give for such a variant!”

“Our farmers are very intelligent,” said Zane, proudly. “Your worth here is often evaluated by the quality of your aeter, and anything detrimental is often fixed in haste. I both admire and laugh at the advancement.”

“Why laugh?” asked Daiden, almost immediately. He twitched with curiosity.

“You don’t see it? We’re immortals, cursed to live with neither serenity nor peace,” reminded Zane, with a grim expression. “Why bother sometimes?”

In that moment, Zane opened a large door, and said, “Well, that’s a discussion for another time.”

From the gap, the heat escaped with a vengeance. Daiden felt it pinch at his skin, pressuring him into a sweat. He trembled, in awe of the scene inside the smithy. In harmony, the blacksmiths moved with an iron purpose, some with hammers and some with bellows. The fire twisted and danced, melting metals without discrimination, all into a singular red-hot form.

Daiden snapped from amazement when Zane moved towards a bladesmith at work. He hurried to the latter’s side and gulped, shadowed by the presence of a large, rotund man, bald, and with a thick, black moustache. He smelt of iron and sweat, in dirty, brown clothes, and with a cracked hammer.

Without emotion, the bladesmith tossed a metal block into his furnace, pulled and hammered at it. He struck until the block thinned, and then dexterously folded over it to make it thicker once more. It resembled a linear, repetitive, almost mechanical process. But the effort moulded into charm, enough to bait and reel at Daiden’s attention. In time, the bladesmith settled to the shape of a sword, a little larger than a longsword. He stepped away, nodded and quenched the blade. The steam rose to prickle at his skin, but his expression held to transcendence. His moustache masked a smile, from when the blade hardened, and remained until he finished with the polish.

“You’ve improved,” remarked Zane, casually. “Keep at it, Kir.”

The bladesmith bowed repeatedly, blushing with embarrassment from the praise. He laughed, and then hurried away to another order.

“He’s not that different from you,” said Zane, suddenly. “You’re both the same, as far as I can tell anyway.”

Daiden’s heart swelled with pride. He blushed as well, and laughed even. He felt it, a sense of accomplishment from the bladesmith, Kir.

“You’re both idiots.”

Daiden misheard it the first time, but frowned when the Lord of Fire repeated his words.

“What do you even know about blacksmithing?” asked Zane, with a frown. “Only an idiot without knowledge can feel pride from what Kir just showed.”

“Why…why praise him then?” asked Daiden, in protest.

“I wasn’t lying,” said Zane, honestly. “He did improve. He was just abysmal before…”

Daiden bit his lip, without words.

“But before anything else, there are a couple of things for us to clear and discuss,” said Zane, without thought to Daiden’s state of mind. “Let’s start with your body; despite being an immortal, you’ll want to avoid lasting consequences from your injuries.”