Berserk Blacksmith Novels & Stories

I barked, waving my hand dismissively toward the heavy iron doors. They did not say another word, filing out of the room in hurried silence. Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, I stood up and walked down the spiraling stone stairs into the dark, sweltering heat of the castle's underground armory. The sharp, bitter scent of molten metal, coal dust, and hot ash filled my lungs as the master blacksmith looked up from his glowing anvil, setting his heavy iron hammer aside. "Alpha," the master blacksmith greeted respectfully, wiping thick black soot and sweat from his forehead with a rag. "What do you require from the forge today?"

I grumble as I feel the anger build inside of me against people who treat anyone within our Kingdom in that way. “Sir!” I can see a body moving across my patio and into the living room just as the barrier is triggered. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, but I wanted you to have these before the creatures came. I just finished the last one. I hope I have enough for everyone within the house.” The blacksmith, Bruce, states as he places down a large item wrapped with leather on my coffee table and begins unrolling it.

"We don't need a smithy. Brandur says there is something called a 'Home Depot' where supplies are to be had already created." "Hmmm…yes, I remember something about that." Birger pulled at his beard in thought. "I definitely think I would like to travel to visit this place. Truly, things here are miraculous, are they not?" Erik had opened his mouth to respond when his eyes suddenly widened in fear. He grappled instinctively for his weapon on his back but he realized with dread it wasn't there. They had all quit carrying their large broadswords in this place. "Wolf!" he choked out.

They were huddled together around the campfire, looking up at the shattered sky with expressions of profound, unscripted terror. "Look at the Blacksmith," Marcus whispered, pointing. Standing near the anvil was a massive, bearded NPC named Brog. In the base game, Brog existed solely to repair player armor for a small f*e of copper coins. His only line of dialogue was, "Steel wins battles, but gold wins wars. Need repairs?" Brog was not offering repairs. He was holding his heavy forging hammer in a two-handed combat grip. He was pacing furiously back and forth, muttering to himself, his pixelated face contorted in a very real expression of panic.

Gabriella asked. “The blacksmith isn't an abyss demon, so your new alpha aura won't affect him. His power may seem a lot like that of an abyss demon, but he's far from one,” Margret replied. ~Present~ “Hey,” Gabriella said as she stepped forward. The blacksmith stood quietly, staring directly at Gabriella. Black smoke rose from his body into the air, and small sparks flew out in random directions. “Something is wrong here,” Derren said. “What do you mean?” Angela asked.

Yet one day, they would be her subjects. The blacksmith stood dutifully at the anvil, his massive frame silhouetted against fire. His ashen, both by colour and the ashes of the coal, made some sense as to why his hair was tied back. Revealing a face lined with soot and scars. His arms, corded with decades of labour, swung a huge hammer, as though it were weightless, in a rhythm that seemed to shake the very ground. Sparks leapt like dying stars around him, but he didn't once flinch. This forge, like all forges, was run by the Wingless.

"It's nothing worth your worry, go back to the exhibition room." Instead of starting a debate with her mum, she turned to the stout man with grey eyes in addition to Gustav's mustache. His name and occupation were inscribed on his badge, "Jeremy," She called, "I presume you are Rodriguez's replacement?" "Eloïse." The boiling point attained late teen ignored her mum. "Are you aware of what just occurred back there?" The man said nothing. "Don't you know your job anymore or am I supposed to teach you?"

They held no value in my eyes, unworthy of even a bronze coin from my pocket. However, I did have a dedicated blacksmith village that had pledged their allegiance to me long ago. Currently, they reside in the City of Light alongside Iris. Iris managed the core business and had expanded her ventures to include weapons and armor shops as part of her business endeavors. Indeed, while I couldn't recruit those local blacksmiths, my requirement wasn't for new weapon or armor creations. Rather, I sought skilled artisans for repairs and servicing—a crucial need in times of war. These exceptional craftsmen, blacksmiths, and armor makers were invaluable assets in any conflict.

He doesn’t look like the guards—his silhouette is taller, broader, cloaked in soot and silver. A blacksmith, I assume. His hands are calloused, his movements quick but calculated. He approaches the forge with confidence, tools clinking at his belt, and when he sees me—his eyes lock onto mine. There’s something strange about his gaze. Not cruel, but… pitying. Gentle.

They exploded. BOOM. Dust and debris rained down. A figure stepped through the smoke. He was massive. He wore armor made of blackened steel that seemed to absorb the torchlight. On his back was a greatsword the size of a grown man. His face was scarred, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He wasn't a hero. He didn't glow. He looked like a walking war crime. The Mercenary. The Black Wolf. Vespera didn't stand up. She sipped her tea.