Demonic Dragon: Harem System

The old man remained silent for a few moments, still holding the newly cooled blade in one hand. Water dripped down the incandescent surface, making small popping sounds as it met the still-hot metal. His gaze never wavered from Strax, fixed, as if trying to probe the golden intruder to the very depths of his soul.

His breathing was calm, controlled, but there was something heavy in the air.

He then returned his gaze to the sword, as if it were easier to converse with steel than with a stranger. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, marked by the weight of years:

"Names... they are chains. They bind you to things that no longer matter."

Strax maintained the same patient gaze, without moving a muscle. Only the golden glow in his irises betrayed the intensity of his attention.

"Even so," the dragon replied, in a grave, almost respectful tone, "every fire has a source. And every blacksmith, a name."

The old man snorted, but not humorously. It was more like the weary sigh of someone who had heard too much over the course of his life. He turned to the side, placing the blade on an iron stand, and only then did he speak, as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

"Kaelen."

The name echoed through the space like a hammer blow, reverberating off the walls and fading into the soft hiss of the forge.

Strax tested the sound in his mouth, almost tasting it. "Kaelen..."

The blacksmith returned his gaze to the blade, as if there were nothing more to add. His calloused hands slid over the incomplete weapon, feeling every mark left by the hammer. It was the gesture of someone conversing with the steel, understanding its silent language.

Strax tilted his head slightly, observing intently. "You forge as if you were praying," he commented, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. "As if each blow were a prayer... or a lament."

Kaelen paused for a moment. The silence that followed was even heavier, as if that sentence had touched a raw nerve. His fingers closed around the hilt of the blade, and he lifted it again, returning it to the furnace.

"Perhaps that's it," he said harshly, almost to himself. "Every blow, a sin. Every blade, a penance."

Strax smiled quietly, but his eyes burned with an intense glow. He didn't answer immediately; he simply took a step closer, allowing the heat of the forge to bathe his body. The heat that would make ordinary men recoil was only a familiar whisper to him.

"So you are an iron priest," he finally said, his voice low, deep, almost a restrained roar. "A priest who prays by striking steel until it screams."

Kaelen didn't answer. He simply withdrew the metal from the fire again, glowing red, spitting sparks as if it had absorbed the soul of the flames. He placed it on the anvil.

CLANG.

Strax stood there, motionless, watching. Now, however, there was something different in his gaze: respect.

"Kaelen," the dragon repeated, as if burning the name into himself. "That name isn't a chain. It's a forge."

The old man didn't turn, didn't thank him, didn't accept the compliment. He continued striking the iron, each blow rhythmic like a tired heart that still refuses to stop.

And Strax, for the first time in a long time, simply fell silent. Because in that moment, he knew he was before someone who needed no titles, no dragons, no empires to be eternal.

The silence stretched, heavy, filled only by the sound of the hammer and the deep breathing of the fire.

Strax merely murmured, almost like a promise, the words that no one but Kaelen could hear:

"I like your name."

And the old man, though he wasn't looking, let out a short, dry grunt, as if recognizing the sincerity behind those words. Strax continues to question who this sword is for, and the old man simply says it doesn't matter, and Strax says, "Come on, don't be so grumpy."

Kaelen held the hammer raised for several seconds, as if time had frozen in the space between one blow and the next. His eyes, half-closed by the heat and smoke, remained fixed on the still-hot blade on the anvil. He took his time—each strike was measured, each silence calculated.

Strax, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, observing the metallic glint that seemed to pulse like a newborn heart. The dragon narrowed his golden eyes, absorbing every detail. Then, his voice broke the silence, deep, almost amused:

"Who is this sword for, Kaelen?"

The hammer came down.

CLANG.

The sound echoed through the workshop, a dry thunder that drowned out the question. Kaelen didn't answer. He just let his arm retreat and raised the hammer again, his gaze fixed on the metal as if Strax were made of wind.

Strax smirked, showing the tip of a canine. There was no irritation in his tone, only insistent curiosity. He took another step, letting the light from the forge illuminate his skin to an almost unearthly gold.

"For who?" he repeated, his voice a distant roar.

Kaelen sighed, a harsh sound that came from between clenched teeth. Only then did he answer, without looking at him:

"Never mind."

Another blow.

CLANG.

Strax raised his eyebrows, his smile widening, almost challenging. He crossed his arms over his chest, as if enjoying the game.

"Come on," he said, his tone low, but full of humor and provocation. "Don't be so grumpy."

Kaelen paused. The hammer hung in the air for a moment, his arm rigid, his muscles tense like ropes about to snap. The blacksmith then slowly lowered the tool, resting it against the anvil. He turned his face toward Strax, and for the first time since the beginning, he truly looked him in the eye.

His eyes, a weathered gray, held no fear, but held the firmness of a mountain.

"What if it's for someone you wouldn't want to meet?" he retorted hoarsely, each word spat like burning coals.

Strax tilted his head to the side, the glow in his golden eyes intensifying. Instead of being annoyed, he chuckled softly, a deep sound that vibrated through the space like the rolling of rocks in an avalanche.

"In that case... I'd like to know even more."