The rhythmic ring of the hammer striking the anvil echoed throughout the forge, blending with the hissing breath of exhaling tongues of flame.
Cracks punctuated the air as hot iron cooled in a large vat of water.
The air was heavy with the sharp scent of burnt oil, hot iron, and sweat.
Sparks flew from the heated metal, but I paid them no mind, completely focused on the work.
Despite the process’s inherent simplicity, blacksmithing had drawn me in in a surprising way.
It was an elementary task, yet elegant and beautiful in its own right.
I was fascinated by the gradual transformation of a heap of metal into something new and perfect.
It didn’t even matter what it was: simple blades and hammers, advanced weaponry like plasma pistols, or even full-scale power armor.
I simply loved to create.
It was during these moments that images most often flickered in my mind—shadowy shapes resembling memories of a distant and lost past.
Immersing myself fully in the process, it felt as though I were remembering bygone days when I worked on something similar.
Something far more advanced, yet still connected to the creation of something great—perhaps even eternal—from metal.
A final strike on the glowing piece of metal finally gave it the shape I wanted.
Neither too thick nor too thin; a perfect size without flaws.
Grabbing the piece with tongs, I plunged it into the icy water, instantly filling the forge with a small cloud of steam.
The last pauldron was finished; finally, I could rest.
Working on the entire suit of armor had been a long endeavor even for me, leaving a faint shadow of fatigue.
Despite the thousands of ways to technologically improve the process—optimizing and accelerating it by orders of magnitude—those on Karaashi preferred to work in the most elementary fashion.
This wasn’t due to a prejudice against technology, however; it was simple practicality.
Most of their tools were masterpieces of high-quality craftsmanship, capable of functioning without repair for thousands of years, passed down from generation to generation in near-perfect condition.
The catch was that they possessed such complex internal components that if a breakdown did occur, no one could fix it.
Therefore, the blacksmiths were only useful for light repairs on armor stripped of circuitry, or for creating basic household utensils.
They couldn’t be done away with entirely, but no one wanted to overcomplicate the process, seeing no need for it.
At least, not until I arrived.
I already had several ideas on how to change and improve everything, but resources were required.
I needed more efficient power sources, high-grade components to automate certain processes, and rare metals to create something entirely new.
But obtaining them wouldn’t be easy.
“Finished already? I see it is a worthy piece of work,” said one of my blacksmithing teachers, nodding with satisfaction.
“However, Dorogan is convening the council to discuss the next expedition to the Black Lands, and he requests your presence. Uthor is already there, and judging by how actively they are debating, they’ve found something else to disagree on.”
Saying nothing, I simply nodded and began to wipe my hands.
Removing my smithing apron, I squared my shoulders and stretched after the long hours of labor.
Over the past year and a half, I had grown at an extreme rate, already reaching a height of almost seven foots.
Long training sessions under the mentorship of local warriors and work in the forge had also transformed my body, turning it into a finely tuned machine.
Great strength filled my arms, now corded with muscles compared to which steel seemed no stronger than paper.
My stone-like torso, broad shoulders, and powerful back stood out—I pushed myself hard in training, and my body felt as though it were burning with barely restrained, inhuman power.
Despite being shorter than all the giants, few could match me in raw strength, save for the greatest defenders of the mountain.
I could lift ten foots giants above my head with one hand and feel no significant weight.
And considering that almost no one could keep up with me in combat, there remained only one individual I had yet to defeat.
And the strangest, most daunting part?
My growth hadn’t stopped.
Every day I became slightly taller and stronger, and there was no sign of the process slowing down.
Uthor already joked about it, predicting I would be the tallest among them in a few years.
However, this wasn’t as pleasant as it might seem.
Because of such rapid physical changes, I had to eat for three—and that by giant standards.
Since the most popular foods on the mountain were various cave-grown mushrooms, roots, and rare animals raised within the fortress, I had to consume them by the kilogram every day.
Furthermore, this was the reason I had to settle for light mail armor on steel straps—any other armor became too small within a week or simply tore apart.
Even so, I had to forge myself new gear every couple of months.
Such a peculiarity couldn’t help but draw a certain type of attention.
While at first, the Keepers of the Peak treated me as a mere child who had miraculously ended up among them, their attitude shifted sharply once my “strangeness” manifested.
I began to be seen as a sort of chosen one, literally descended from the heavens.
They provided the best teachers, gave me unlimited access to food and all necessary resources for development.
It seemed ideal, yet there was one problem—such a role always demands justification…
Leaving the forge, I walked with a long stride toward the center of the rebuilt fortress.
The stone corridors were devoid of color or decoration; only rare glowing runes adorned the grey rooms.
The giants disliked excess, adhering to a philosophy of grim practicality.
Anything that served no purpose was not permitted to clutter their home.
Stepping forward, I entered a wide chamber, spacious even for the tallest giants.
A circular hall, in the center of which stood a massive stone table surrounded by the twelve elders—the circle of the most influential and ancient figures of the Karaashi Peak.
Six sages and six warriors, led by Uthor and Dorogan, the eldest representatives of their respective paths.
If my mentor Uthor embodied wisdom, the leader of the warriors was cold fury made flesh.
Twice my height, his entire body was encased in power armor etched with various runes.
His face was marred by coarse scars, and his left eye was missing entirely.
On his belt, unlike the other warriors, hung not a staff, but a two-meter blade that looked more like sharpened rebar.
Yet, I had seen with my own eyes that he wielded it with incredible mastery.
In a year and a half, I had many teachers, and constant battles had become a routine part of life, but I spent the most time training under Dorogan’s supervision.
Uthor passed on all the knowledge their people had accumulated over millennia, though I was often capable of reading their books myself.
Mastering the language, I dived headlong into their endless vault of knowledge—a giant library with tens of thousands of records of the past.
Stone tablets, ancient paper books, digital tablets, miniature computers, and simple crystals containing recorded information—I absorbed them in torrents, only occasionally meeting my mentor to discuss what I had learned.
From military tactics and fortress construction to philosophy, local history, engineering, and blacksmithing.
But Dorogan always demanded a personal presence.
He taught me the art of war using weapons of all kinds and varieties until I reached perfection in their use.
My mind could memorize any movement the moment I saw it, but the giant wouldn’t stop until I began not just to copy the attacks, but to improve them, adapting them to myself.
I had fought hundreds, if not thousands, of bouts with him over the last year and a half, crossing blades every day.
And not once had I been able to win.
“…You took too long to get here. The task is incredibly important, so you should have hurried,” Dorogan said in a harsh, incredibly low voice.
“I am glad to see you, Ferrus*. We were just about to discuss something related to you,” Uthor greeted me in a neutral tone.
Yes, they had given me an amusing name.
In the local tongue, it had many meanings, mostly denoting something like “unbreakable” or “source of strength,” but in one of the other dialects hidden in my head, it meant “iron.” Given my obviously unusual connection to metal, it was somewhat fitting.
“I have arrived and am ready to listen,” I replied as calmly as possible.
“We were discussing a new expedition to the Black Lands to gather more resources for the monastery’s development. Our generators are gradually depleting and need replacement. The tools and life-support systems will remain functional for many years, but such a vital matter must be addressed as soon as possible,” my mentor explained calmly, resuming the stroking of his long grey beard.
“…And since you are no longer a pathetic weakling and can fight even better than the other warriors, we propose that you join us. You need to see the world around you and face enemies who won’t hold back their strikes as we do,” Dorogan concluded coldly, his gaze piercing through me.
I did not flinch under his heavy stare; I only grunted.
It was expected.
There were about three hundred giants in the temple, only a third of whom were warriors.
Since the threat of attacks from cyber-zombies, digitized wraiths, and other mechanical monsters remained high, it was too dangerous to send many warriors on such a mission.
Moreover, it was obvious they were interested in my technical abilities.
Local craftsmen could only perform superficial inspections, meaning the chances of bringing back junk or overly exotic technology were too high.
I, however, would only need a single glance to understand the workings of even the most peculiar machine.
“I see no problem. When do we leave?” I replied with my usual brevity.
I had no love for long conversations or the weaving of word-webs.
Deeds speak louder than words regardless.
“Tomorrow morning, when the Iron Winds subside and a gap appears before the next steel storm,” the leader of the Karaashi warriors replied just as quickly.
“But be prepared: we are heading to the Black Peak, directly into the ruins of a former city. There, the problem won’t be pathetic zombies, but the true horrors of the ancient era—the ones who became the new kings of the world during the Long Night.”
Again, I said nothing and simply nodded.
Why waste time when everything was clear?
It was far more important to deal with the primary issue—preparing for the upcoming expedition.
Over the last year and a half, my personal collection had grown to include many things useful for such a journey.
A man whose brain constantly itches with the urge to create something is rarely caught truly unprepared…
.
.
.
The moment I stepped onto the dead sandy tundra, distant images of black metallic pyramids and tall monoliths, shimmering with a toxic bright green glow, caught my eye.
The air shimmered slightly near them, and a faint hum arose in my head just by looking at them.
Though my mind could decipher any machine with a glance, it also cautiously whispered that I should not approach this place yet.
I felt that it held great secrets for which I was not yet ready.
Turning my head, I stepped away from the ancient structures and toward the distant mountains that did not belong to our range.
The mountains there were much smaller, yet they bore traces of former life.
Ruined buildings, abandoned vehicles, and rusting hunks of steel left everywhere.
My mind suggested that the latter had once been shells, which made seeing tens of thousands of them scattered across the earth so unusual.
Nevertheless, I moved forward, carefully searching for any hint of functional technology.
In one hand, I held a storm staff given to me by Uthor, while on my belt hung a collection of diverse grenades with different functions, alongside a relatively small plasma pistol I had made quite recently.
Secured to my back were a laser rifle and a special bag protected by a magnetic lock.
Everything had been created by me personally from the scrap stored in the temple, yet in functionality, they were hardly inferior to the giants’ best weapons.
The variety, however, definitely offered more options.
“…Be careful; Mecharachnids may be hiding amidst this junk. Most of them guard the labyrinths of the black pyramids, but many of these creatures have nested here as well. They hide in the ground and emerge only when life appears. Quite troublesome monsters—incredibly fast, they always attack in groups, tearing flesh right before your eyes. Every trip, someone gets wounded,” Dorogan spat out the words before moving forward cautiously.
Right now, our group—excluding him and myself—consisted of nine other warriors.
It was somewhat amusing to hear such warnings from giants armed to the teeth, but they always treated any chance of losing their own with maximum caution.
They reproduced incredibly rarely—literally once every few centuries, if not millennia—and thus every life was considered a most precious gift.
“…But bypassing this place is even more dangerous. The pyramids to the west bring only death, and to the east, the chance of ending up right in the middle of Subliminate territories is too high. We are already taking an incredible risk passing along the border of their lands. And believe me, there is nothing worse than meeting those damned assimilators,” the warrior leader continued to explain.
Obviously, he was doing this solely for my benefit, as everyone else was an experienced warrior who had likely walked this path many times.
The giants’ patronizing attitude was amusing at times, but I tried not to dwell on it.
Stepping forward, I carefully monitored the ground, ready to repel a threat at any moment.
Intuition suggested the silence wouldn’t last long, and the machines of the ancient era would make themselves known…
though I wasn’t entirely sure if it wasn’t just a simple desire to study walking robots capable of existing for thousands of years without repair while actively hunting living beings.
We moved quietly through the sea of discarded shells, maintaining absolute silence and focus.
And the enemy did not keep us waiting.
A tremor gave the machine away.
Virtually imperceptible to a normal person, for the massive giants, it was an invisible sign of the coming threat.
A slight tremor of the sand, a barely noticeable movement of metal scraps, and most importantly, the Call.
I could hear how the hungry metal yearned to meet new prey, to strip away all the flesh and drink the blood.
Why?
A machine needs no reason—it simply follows its program.
With a lightning-fast motion, I drew the pistol from my belt and aimed it at the spot where the metal screamed the loudest.
The other giants instantly understood what was happening, preparing for the battle.
They leveled their staves at the ground, while Dorogan drew his colossally huge blade in one fluid motion.
The world froze as we waited.
One second passed, then another, as we stared intently at the ground, weapons at the ready.
No one intended to get distracted or question me—everyone here was a professional and trusted each other with their lives.
Even mine.
Another second.
Another.
And then…
The weapons flared as suddenly as the first enemies appeared.
Unusually bright streams of lightning struck mechanical spiders with long, thin legs and large chelicerae that had burst from the earth.
Their silvery chitin consisted of an amazing metal, constantly shifting and barely maintaining its form.
They seemed more like living liquid draped over the parts of a former insect than a full-fledged robot.
However, their design didn’t save them when a dozen lightning bolts flashed and struck them instantly.
The complex machines shuddered upon meeting the ion burst, then began to emit an unusually loud crackling.
Their limbs twitched and flailed in all directions, but within a few seconds, they ceased all movement.
The silvery liquid metal slowly slid off them, revealing an iron skeleton vaguely resembling a spider.
Yet even that simply fell dead a moment later.
We remained in combat readiness for a while longer, watching the movement of every grain of sand, but soon returned to our usual formation.
The threat was neutralized, and stopping for too long would only lead to trouble.
Dorogan signaled for us to move on.
I paused for only a moment, briefly studying the rather primitive frame of the mechanical spiders and taking a sample of the liquid metal in a special container.
Now this technology was very interesting…
A fun lore fact—the name Ferrus Manus was given to him by his kin on Medusa, but it isn’t as obvious as it seems.
While in High Gothic it means “Iron Hands,” what the natives meant (who certainly didn’t know the language of the Imperium) is unclear.
Given that Ferrus himself—who for a time went by the nickname “The Flesh”—didn’t care, we will likely never know the answer.