Demonic Dragon: Harem System

The silence between them seemed heavier than the air itself, broken only by the deep sound of the old man's breathing and the crackling of the live fire within the forge. The man, his gaze hardened, held Strax's presence for a few more seconds before turning away without a word, as if his decision had already been made. He walked with firm steps to the blazing furnace, where the incandescent heart of the iron roared like a beast trapped in flames.

With an iron hook, he pulled out a thick block of metal, reddish, almost white at the end, spitting sparks that flew like embers into the air. Heat spread through the narrow space, hitting Strax like a palpable wave. He didn't move, didn't blink, just followed the gesture with attentive golden eyes.

"Go away." The old man's voice echoed lowly, without turning his face. It was a command, not a request.

Strax remained motionless, shadows dancing over his body, cast by the firelight. His lips curved in a subtle, predatory smile, but he said nothing. He merely inclined his head, as if silently accepting the order—and simultaneously rejecting it.

The man snorted softly, irritated by his visitor's stubbornness, and dragged the metal toward the anvil. The sound was deafening: CLANG! The iron block met the cold surface of the anvil violently, releasing cracks and a small burst of sparks that lit up the workshop like golden fireworks. The heat grew even more intense, rippling in the air like mirages in the middle of the desert.

"I told you to go away," the old man repeated, without looking back, already lifting the heavy hammer with a calloused, steady hand.

Strax finally answered, his voice low as the rumble of distant thunder. "I'm just watching."

The hammer descended.

CLANG.

The sound reverberated off the stone walls, echoing like trapped thunder. The metal creaked under the impact, changing shape, stretching. Sparks flew in all directions, some grazing Strax's bare arm, who didn't even blink. On the contrary, he seemed to savor every spark that burned in the air.

CLANG.

The old man breathed deeply, each beat rhythmic like the beat of an immortal heart. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but there was no hesitation in his movements. Hammer after hammer, he shaped the iron with absurd precision, as if each blow were the result of a thousand years of experience condensed into a single instant.

Strax took a step closer, his eyes shining brighter. There were no words now, only the predatory silence of someone watching a rival or an equal.

The hammer came down again.

CLANG.

The metal stretched even further, taking the shape of a blade.

CLANG.

The rhythm was constant, but never weak. Each blow seemed to carry a piece of the man's life, as if the heat of the forge were an extension of his soul.

CLANG.

The smell of burning iron mingled with sweat and fire, creating a stifling atmosphere, but Strax breathed deeply, absorbing it all, as if the hot air were nourishment for something inside him.

CLANG.

The old man didn't speak. He didn't look at Strax. It was as if he had accepted that the golden beast would remain there until the end, and decided to ignore him with the same firmness with which he shaped the metal.

And Strax, in turn, didn't interfere. He simply watched, as if each movement were a riddle to be deciphered.

Time lost its meaning. The hammer rose and fell, the iron changed, becoming a blade. The process was slow, repetitive, but there was an almost ritualistic solemnity. Each blow seemed to carry an invisible weight, as if the old man were striking against something greater than the metal itself—against fate, against memory, against the very passage of time.

At one point, the blacksmith lifted the half-formed block and plunged it into a barrel of cold water. The sound was deafening, a roar of steam that filled the space with a dense mist. Strax remained motionless, his golden eyes fixed, now seeing the man's silhouette emerging from the smoke like an ancient shadow.

The iron was placed back in the fire, sucking heat until it glowed again. And again it was placed on the anvil.

CLANG.

CLANG.

CLANG.

Strax felt something different now. It wasn't just technique, it wasn't just practice. It was soul. The old man wasn't just forging iron—he was forging himself with every blow. It was as if the hammer were his breath, and the anvil, his heart.

And this fascinated the dragon.

For a moment, Strax remembered his own existence. The fire within, the eternal flame that shaped dragons. The man before him, though human, had found a way to transform fire into eternity. It wasn't cultivation as he knew it, it wasn't magic... it was pure essence.

When the blade finally took shape, long and deadly, the old man stopped. His shoulders heaved, his breathing slow but steady. He lifted the blade and gazed at it against the reflection of the forge, his tired eyes shining with restrained pride.

Strax said nothing, just stared at him with that predatory gaze, as if he had just witnessed a sacred ritual.

The blacksmith, without looking at him, spoke softly, his voice hoarse and charged with meaning: "I told you to go away."

Strax smiled. Not a wide, mocking smile, but something small and dangerous. "And I said... I was just watching."

The old man snorted, but didn't insist. He simply placed the blade back in the fire, as if the conversation were irrelevant compared to what truly mattered: the metal.

Strax didn't leave. He stayed. Motionless, silent, like a golden shadow watching every gesture, absorbing every detail, as if that old man were more precious than any buried treasure.

The silence burned as hotly as the forge fire.

Strax, motionless, kept his eyes fixed on the glowing blade as the old man dipped it back into the barrel of water. Steam rose in dense waves, covering them like a suffocating mist. The hiss echoed like the roar of a sleeping dragon—and Strax couldn't help but notice the similarity.

As the smoke began to clear, the blacksmith raised the unfinished weapon, and for the first time, his tired eyes met Strax's. It was a quick, hard look, full of distrust. There was no fear, but there was no welcome either. Only the firmness of a man who had spent too much time alone, answerable to no one.

Strax broke the silence with a low, deep, almost solemn voice:

"What is your name?"