Blacksmith Of The Apocalypse Novels & Stories

Ribs pressing against his skin like a washboard. The blacksmith was a one-eyed old man with a vicious temper who forged blades that never broke. Every soldier in the camp came to him for repairs. Rex crouched outside the smithy for three days, watching the old man work the iron. The metal in the furnace bloomed orange-red. The old man pulled it free with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck. Sparks burst with every hammer blow. Burn scars covered his hands, layered over each other like the bark of an ancient tree.

I didn’t expect the patch to come so soon. In the second month after the battle, the rooftop radio suddenly crackled to life with a crisp broadcast voice. "The Atlas Geothermal Initiative is now active. Surface temperatures will gradually recover. Rescue is on the way." Rhys and I just stared at each other. So this wasn’t a solo survival game after all. It was online, and the admins had finally logged in. A week later, a military helicopter landed in the open lot. Registration and verification went quickly. The officer in charge clapped me on the shoulder. "Turning the apocalypse into a warehouse operation! You’re one of a kind."

In response, Asmo unleashed unquenchable hellfire, engulfing the charging warriors in flames, their spectral forms consumed by the inferno. In the chaos and smoke arising from the burning bones, Satan seized the opportunity to launch a surprise attack, shrouding his movements in the veil of the smoldering battlefield. He lunged at Asmo, nearly delivering a fatal blow. However, Asmo, despite being on the brink of being stabbed, swiftly countered the attack, using his strength to block the assault and seize control of the situation.

"They're already waiting for you." The research center's lab was even more advanced than I imagined. One of the elderly men, wearing a white lab coat, was introduced to me as Professor Uriah Emerson. Before the apocalypse, he was the country‘s top virus researcher. He was holding my blood test report with trembling hands.

But after years of repeated pregnancies, my body was weak and fragile. He easily grabbed my neck and slowly crushed my windpipe. He told me that the daughter who had been sent away had already died of illness long ago. Everything went black before my eyes, and I violently coughed up blood and died. After my death, he threw my and my daughter's corpses into the wilderness to be devoured by hungry wolves. He then ceremoniously married Briar, who was five months pregnant. Damien was focused on getting sons to inherit the throne, but I learned that I had awakened the Creator Goddess bloodline after my death, and my daughters would have inherited ancient power to end this apocalypse.

Clutching the Beast Supreme Bone, he gathered all his strength and smashed it right into the ape's brow. The demon ape staggered as a crack split open between its brows. At the same moment, the light faded. Attwell sensed it. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it. "Young man, instead of running, you actually went on to attack!" Gideon ignored him. He pulled out the bronze, broken blade and jammed it into the crack in the ape's forehead. Then, with the Earthcore Flame in one hand and the netherflame in the other, he forced the crack open, aiming to grab the supreme core inside.

"Harl, give me the heaviest hammer in the Great Forge. The one your father used to break the first obsidian vein." ​Harl nodded, returning minutes later with a massive, rusted sledgehammer that smelled of sweat, oil, and ancient iron. ​I took the hammer in my silver hands. I didn't use my strength; I used the connection I had with the mountain. I felt the pulse of the survivors, the fear of the lunar exiles, and the stubbornness of the smiths. I channeled it all into a single, massive strike against the primary intake valve of the silver engine.

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.

Smoke billowed through the opening, and we ducked behind what little cover the cramped room offered: Hail behind a stone pillar, Lena beside an overturned table, me crouched behind a massive iron chest. Six figures pushed through the smoke, weapons raised. They wore mismatched armor cobbled together from scavenged materials, but their movements were disciplined. At their center stood Kade Blackthorn, looking like he'd walked straight out of the apocalypse and decided to become its poster boy. He wore a hood pulled low, but I could still see the calculating gleam in his eyes as they swept the room. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, and his mouth curved into that peculiar, cold smi