Demonic Dragon: Harem System

Kaelen snorted, turning his face back to the blade, as if he had no time for games. But the tightness of his hands on the sword betrayed that Strax's provocation had resonated somewhere within him.

The silence returned, heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the muffled sound of their breathing.

Strax, however, seemed in no hurry. He settled himself against a stone pillar, his posture relaxed, but his eyes fixed like those of a predator studying its prey.

"A blacksmith who hammers away sins, forges penances, and keeps secrets..." he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. "You're more interesting than I expected, Kaelen."

The old man didn't answer. He simply picked up the hammer and returned to his work.

CLANG.

The hammer rose and fell, each blow marked by the same solemn rhythm, a beat that filled the space as if it were the sound of an ancient heart that refused to stop.

Strax remained where he was, motionless against the stone pillar, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on the old man. There were no more immediate questions, only the burning curiosity that expanded within him. For Strax, it was like witnessing an ancient ritual, something beyond simple craftsmanship.

Kaelen no longer seemed to pay attention to the dragon's presence. He was absorbed in the steel. The incandescent metal glinted with each strike, scattering sparks that flew through the air like shooting stars.

CLANG.

The edge began to form.

CLANG.

The blade, once an amorphous block, stretched, took shape, acquired elegance.

CLANG.

Sweat dripped down the old man's face, mixing with the soot staining his skin, but his movements remained unwavering. Each blow was deliberate, precise, as if it had been silently rehearsed a thousand times.

Strax breathed deeply, absorbing the smell of burnt iron, old oil, and smoke. It all mingled with the stifling heat, creating a dense atmosphere. For him, it was almost pleasant, a distant reflection of the flames of his own essence.

Time seemed to stretch. The blade took shape before his eyes, slowly revealing the blacksmith's hidden intention. And Kaelen never hurried.

Finally, after a few more dips in the furnace and strikes on the anvil, the blade took full shape: long, elegant, clean-lined. Still crude, but undeniably beautiful.

Kaelen lifted it with both calloused hands, examining it against the firelight. His gray eyes reflected the reddish glow of the metal. He then walked to a workbench and carefully set it down, as if laying a child to rest.

Without a word, he removed a block of dark wood from a corner of the workshop. The wood seemed to have been saved for something special—hard, heavy, with a natural sheen that betrayed its rarity.

He sat on the worn bench, his tools surrounding him. A small pocketknife, files, thin ropes. His hands began to work with the same meticulous patience as before. The pocketknife glided, chipping away at the wood, gradually revealing the curve of the handle.

Strax didn't look away for a second. He watched the blacksmith's fingers move, firm yet delicate, as if shaping living flesh instead of dead wood.

Kaelen sanded, scraped, tested the fit, and returned to the cut. Each gesture seemed part of a cycle only he understood. The handle took on an anatomical shape, adapted not to any hand, but to a specific one.

The dragon noticed this detail and smiled to himself.

"A weapon made for someone special..." he murmured softly, but didn't expect an answer.

Kaelen ignored him.

When the handle was finally finished, he joined wood and steel together. He adjusted the fit, tapped it lightly with the small hammer to secure it, and then wrapped a leather band around the hilt. His fingers worked quickly but unhurriedly, tightening each turn until the handle was solid, without slack.

Strax tilted his head, noting the transition from rough to refined. The weapon already exuded purpose.

Kaelen didn't stop there. From the shelf, he took a polishing stone and a cloth. With repetitive movements, he began to slide the stone along the edge, removing impurities and aligning the cut. Tiny sparks still escaped from more stubborn spots, but little by little, the metallic sheen spread across the blade.

Then, with the oil-soaked cloth, he gently wiped the entire surface. The reflection that emerged was cold, silvery, almost ethereal. The sword seemed to absorb the light of the fire and return it silently, as if carrying within it a fragment of the forge itself.

Strax uncrossed his arms and took two steps forward, finally breaking the silence that had lasted so long. His voice echoed low, but heavy:

"Nice work."

Kaelen didn't answer. He simply continued polishing, as if those words were nothing more than the sound of the wind against the wall.

Strax narrowed his eyes, watching him finish the process. Every detail of the weapon seemed to be etched into his mind, and yet it wasn't the sword itself that drew him most, but the old man who had created it.

When Kaelen finally laid down the cloth and lifted the finished blade to examine it, the silence became absolute. Only the distant crackling of the fire persisted.

Strax took a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time, his voice sounded almost reverent.

"Tell me, why was such a sword forged so easily?"

Strax lifted his chin, letting his golden eyes lock with Kaelen's. The silence between them was heavy, like two mountain boulders staring at each other, unmoving, defying who would yield first.

But there was no answer.

The old man only held his gaze for a moment—steady, unwavering, as if he had faced far worse beasts and storms—and then looked away, returning to the blade he had just polished. With the calm of someone with nothing to prove, he rested his sword on the iron stand beside the anvil and began to put away his tools, one by one.

Strax let out a low sigh through his nose, which sounded more like a suppressed growl. He narrowed his eyes, and then a smile slowly formed on his lips, almost amused.

"Hmph." The sound was deep, laden with irony. "You really are grumpy."

Kaelen didn't react. The cloth still moved over the steel, spreading oil patiently, as if the dragon's speech were merely the crackling of another log in the furnace.

Strax leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees, like a predator studying its prey closely. "You know... it's unusual for someone to ignore my questions so completely." His voice was low, almost a menacing purr. "Usually, men are quick to speak. Some out of fear, others out of flattery. You... are neither."

The old man merely mumbled something indistinct, without looking up.

Strax chuckled softly, a deep sound that reverberated off the stone walls like muffled thunder. "Hah... really grumpy." He straightened, crossing his arms again, and let the silence reign for a few more seconds.

The fire crackled, illuminating the sweat and soot that covered the blacksmith's face. Kaelen seemed indifferent, but there was something in his posture—the way he held his sword, the way he avoided speaking more than necessary—that Strax recognized: he was someone who carried more past than he cared to share.

And that only made the old man all the more interesting.

Strax discreetly licked his teeth, the golden glow in his eyes sparking like embers about to flare.

"Well, Kaelen..." he murmured, his tone almost amused. "If you won't give me answers, I'll have to get them some other way."

But he didn't move. He just stood there, smiling sideways, studying the blacksmith as if he were contemplating an ancient riddle.