Daredevil Who Is The Blacksmith Novels & Stories

"I mean no harm, I just ask Miss Eliza to give me a chance!" A crowd began to gather around us, pointing and whispering. This was exactly the kind of scene I'd hoped to avoid. I peered through the carriage curtain for a better look at the man's face. Recognition dawned on me—it was Barrett Cole, the blacksmith from the Westmoor Market forge. My mind raced. Could his "master" be the one who broke our agreement? I had long suspected the forge was connected to the Lotus Moon Cult, and after selling that information to Alpha Daniel, I wanted nothing more to do with them. Was this some form of retaliation?

The bills for her mom’s meds weren’t gonna pay themselves. She’d heard the rumors about Damien Black. Everybody in the circuit had. The man who turned broken riders into something else. Something that won. Something that *belonged*. The barn door creaked open before she even knocked. He filled the frame—six-four easy, shoulders like a draft horse, black hair cropped short, a scar slicing through one dark eyebrow. His eyes dragged over her like he was already pricing her out. Black jeans, black shirt stretched across a chest that looked carved from fucking stone. Boots caked in dirt.

He places his hand on his shoulder and smiles unwilling to let him go. "Grandpa, I really need your help." Blake hangs his head, his eyes threatening to perk with tears. "What's going on Blake?" Blake's grandpa frowns, his voice going from a cheerful tone to a more melancholic tone. "Grandpa, those archives you told me to look over, you were right. You were right about all of them. There's a vampire by the name of Damian who is seeking revenge on our pack. But that's not the only thing I fear." He sits with his grandfather inside at the table.

These warriors were all extremely powerful. For a while, Regis’ group was at a disadvantage. Their warriors had died one after another at the hands of these people. If the current situation continued, Regis’s group would soon lose the war. “Who dares to jeopardize my White family?” At this moment of pressing urgency, an angry roar sounded. The blacksmith, one of the Munro Rangers, rushed to the battlefield in the dark of night at breakneck speed, with an iron blade in his hands. It just so happened that one of the ancient martial arts world warriors was about to slaughter his opponent, but that blacksmith had arrived before him.

The village blacksmith waited for the farmer to inspect the newly healed metal, accepted payment with a courtly bow, and watched the tractor growl away. Ancient though the equipment was, the blacksmith was even older, and more machine than man. Marcus Doug Douglas had played many roles throughout his long and rather productive life, including those of son, brother, husband, father, uncle, friend, industrialist, politician, strategist, artist, and for the last six decades, village blacksmith.

And because of this strike, the man with the bronze grimace mask was regarded as one of the most horrifying experts. If the commander of the Black-blood Dragon Mercenary Troop had known that his target would be this mysterious man, he would have fled immediately and wouldn't have chosen to question and fight. Unfortunately, it was too late for him to realize that now. Ding Hao held the Devil Saber in his hand. A burst of pure recoil power came from the handle of the saber.

The rival scrambled for cover, pulling his own weapon. “You think you can just take her?” Damien roared, voice echoing through the warehouse. He advanced through the gunfire, a predator unleashed. A bullet grazed his arm, but he didn’t slow. He tackled the last guard, slamming his head against concrete until it cracked, then turned the pistol on the rival. The man froze, gun trembling in his hand. “You don’t understand,” the blackmailer spat, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. “I have dead man’s switches. Videos auto-upload if I don’t check in”

Reiner stepped back and bowed respectfully. "Boss." Crain strained his neck to look at the newcomer. Despite his battered state, he could tell from the way the guards treated him that this man was incredibly powerful. Damien walked over and squatted down in front of Crain, looking him dead in the eye with a calm, dangerous gaze. "And who the hell are you?" Crain demanded, his voice shaking. Damien looked right back at him with an icy stare. "I'm not a public figure, so you probably haven't heard of me. I'm Damien Blackwood. But some people call me the Living Yama."

Sweat broke across his forehead. But he refused to scream. He refused to show weakness. His jaw clenched until it felt like bone would crack. “Sir,” a nurse said quietly, stepping forward. “Please, you’re going to open your stitches...” “Back away,” Damian snarled. The nurse froze. Everyone froze. This wasn’t the fragile man who had cried in the dark. This was Blackwell. The king of a blood empire. The man who didn’t beg. The man who didn’t wait.

"They won't wait around." Jax hefted his massive hammer, muscles bulging under his Blackthorn ink. "About time we settled this. You take the old man. Darius is mine. I've owed him a wall for years." We burst onto the upper landing, weapons ready. There they stood in the circular chamber, Victor with his family sword drawn, eyes hard but carrying that familiar weight. Darius smirked beside him, pistol half raised. "Damien," Victor said, voice low and steady. "You really came this far. Turning your back on blood for those rebels."