Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 40 - 39: Ashes Before Flame

Eron’s eyes blinked open to the dim glow of the fake sun in the illusory village sky. The old blacksmith’s hut remained unchanged, still made of weathered cobblestones, distant sounds of a wind chime, and that omnipresent scent of burnt iron and soot. Despite barely sleeping, he felt the adrenaline flooding his limbs. Today was the day he would attempt to forge armor—his next step.

Still shirtless from last night’s work, he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, I can do this," he mumbled to himself. "He said come at dawn and it’s dawn. Just... don’t screw this up."

As he reached the forge, the old man—still unnamed, still as old as ever—sat on a long workbench, arms crossed and unimpressed.

"You look like shit." the old man grunted.

"I didn’t sleep much." Eron said, trying to play it cool.

"Hmph. That’ll happen. Especially when you let your head get bloated from one decent sword." the old man growled. "Today we will see whether you’re actually worth anything or if last night was a fluke."

"I’m ready," Eron replied, he was still nervous but his voice was firm.

The old man gestured to a neatly laid-out pile of raw materials. Iron, reinforced leather, binding runes. "Build a chestplate. I have shown you how to, I won’t say anything else. Figure the rest of it out. If you think you’re worthy of learning my trade, show me your instincts."

Eron gulped. This wasn’t just a test, it was as if it were a battlefield.

"I... I’ll try."

He began his attempt.

He worked in complete silence. Every clang of his hammer echoed like thunder in his mind. His thoughts blurred into chaos.

The old man said nothing. Just watched. Judging.

’Step one: base plate. Easy. You’ve seen him do this.’

He worked. First, he prepped the iron sheets—hammering, shaping them over a mold. The metal resisted. Sweat drenched his brow. He had to restart three times just to get the curves right. Then came the leather. It was tougher than expected, stiff and dry. He tried soaking it, softening it with oils, just like he saw yesterday.

Eron bent the iron over the anvil, but it cracked from overheating. Sweat trickled down his neck. He tried again—this time, it warped. Too thin. The leather harness wouldn’t fit right. When he tried to carve the sides with chisels, they tore through the surface.

"No... no, that’s not how it should go," he muttered.

His hands were trembling, even though he was halfway through. The form of the chestpiece was wrong. It didn’t sit right. It was crooked and fragile.

He looked at the half-melted straps, the misaligned chestplate, and the awful balance of weight. The enchantment core didn’t even attach properly.

It wasn’t just a failure. It was garbage.

Trash.

The old man had watched the entire thing unfold. And as Eron’s hammer dropped in exhausted shame, the silence became unbearable.

"You think that’s armor?" the old man barked, walking up and slamming the abomination off the table. The scrap scattered.

"...You call this forging?" His voice was cold.

"I just—"

"This isn’t even scrap," the old man snapped, throwing the brokrn pieces into the dirt. "It’s shameful. I thought maybe, maybe you had something when I saw that blade yesterday. But this—"

"I—"

"You think because you made one fancy toy last night, you can just stroll into my craft?" the old man’s voice was venom. "That’s not armor. That’s a lump of failure."

Eron stood frozen.

"I wasted my time yesterday, last night was just you being lucky. You’re no blacksmith. You’re just a child with a hammer."

He walked away. No explanation. No teaching. Just disgust.

He walked toward the village center without another word, the echo of his footsteps striking louder than his voice.

Eron stood still for a long time.

His eyes stung. His fingers were raw. His heart pounded in his ears.

I failed.

He bent down, picked up the twisted piece of armor. No... I failed horribly.

Eron didn’t move. Not for a long while. The heat of the forge suddenly felt distant, cold.

He sat beside the ruined chestplate and stared at it. His reflection looked back from the warped metal—deformed, broken, weak.

"What am I doing here?"

The words kept replaying in his head. ’That’s not armor. That’s a lump of failure.’

Alex had believed in him. Rai too had trusted in him. And yet here he was. Not rising. Not growing. Just falling on his knees. Again.

His hands clenched into fists.

"I’m such a joke."

He sat on the floor, hugging his knees. The forge flickered beside him, casting long shadows on the wall. The illusionary village around him hummed with false life, but everything inside Eron was real—and right now, broken.

And then began the shift. The first shift in Eron’s life.

It was only hours later, as the fake night rolled in, that something inside him began to stir.

He glanced at the shattered armor piece again. For the first time, he didn’t see failure.

He saw why it failed.

The weight distribution was wrong—because he had followed sword logic, not armor structure. The enchantment lines weren’t flowing with the core—they were interrupting it. The shoulder guards didn’t curve with the chest—they worked against it.

He’d treated it like a sword.

Not like protection.

He stood up. Exhausted. Dirty. Eyes bloodshot. But something burned in his chest.

"I get it now," he whispered.

The path of a blacksmith wasn’t just about strength—it was about listening. About understanding the story of the material, the purpose of the weapon or armor, the soul within the creation.

The old man had let him fail.

To teach him what couldn’t be taught.

"I’m not giving up," Eron said aloud.

Not to prove himself to the old man.

But to honor the faith Rai and Alex had in him.

He dragged the broken armor to the side. Sat down. Started taking notes.

This time, he wasn’t going to swing blindly.

He was going to build like a blacksmith. Not like a warrior.