One month and five days had passed since Fornos Dag left the mainland behind. His journey had taken him across contested waters, secret channels, and forgotten ports until he arrived at the ragged, untamed edge of the Fifth Continent.
It was a place spoken of rarely and only in hushed, cautionary tones—a land where treaties died young, where borders were suggestions and diplomacy was an afterthought. Ravaged by years of petty wars and failed colonization, the Fifth Continent was not just neglected—it was deliberately forgotten.
And that made it perfect.
Here, beyond the reach of noble eyes and merchant whispers, Fornos would begin construction of his second arm—not a single golem, not a fortress, but a force. He would raise soldiers. Disposable, obedient, deniable. Tools to be used, redirected, and sacrificed as needed.
He stood on the edge of a silent harbor, surrounded by fog, salt, and silence. The air was thick with moisture, clinging to his cloak like sweat. Waves lapped against the black stone dock, and beyond that, the inland forest loomed like a sleeping beast—thick, ancient, and filled with secrets no one cared to remember.
Fornos wore a black mask that obscured the lower half of his face. His hands, gloved and still, rested behind his back. The copper ring on his finger glowed faintly, resonating with the object still hidden behind layers of cloth.
A slow, rhythmic rumble approached.
"You took your time, Prowler," Fornos said flatly as the sound of wheels grinding over damp stone echoed down the harbor road.
A figure approached with a casual gait—hooded, limping slightly, his cloak stitched together from mismatched leather and weather-beaten cloth. His face was mostly hidden behind a patchwork mask of bones and copper.
"Hauling a whole golem ain't easy, Black Mask," Prowler replied, voice rough like chewed gravel. "Plus, we had to pick up the other items. Had to cut a deal with a few wrong kinds of people. Fun times."
"Where is the cargo?" Fornos asked, stepping forward.
Prowler turned and made a quick signal with two fingers raised and twisted—a call for his men. From behind a rock outcropping, four silhouettes emerged. Two of them pushed a reinforced cart. Atop it, the familiar shape of a 20-foot golem—Kindling—stood inert, wrapped in thick canvas and cloaks that barely disguised its rough, skeletal form. Next to it sat a heavy black crate, reinforced with steel bands and bearing no markings.
Fornos watched them silently as the golem was wheeled close.
"Perfect." He stepped forward and raised his right hand. The copper ring gleamed as a thin pulse of mana rippled outward. In response, the golem twitched once, then groaned as it stood upright with a hiss of compressed pressure. The cloth shifted slightly, revealing a brief glimpse of dented armor and exposed cabling beneath.
Its movements were awkward but precise. Despite its crude construction, the codex and control system allowed it enough coordination for basic labor and defense.
"What about the other stuff?" Fornos asked without looking at Prowler.
"Right here." Prowler moved to the crate and pried it open just slightly, revealing the contents inside—but not enough to catch the light. Fornos only nodded. He already knew what he'd asked for. And if even half of it survived transport, the operation could begin ahead of schedule.
"Good."
Fornos reached into his coat and retrieved a polished gem—blue and threaded with a thin silver filament at its core. He tossed it to Prowler, who caught it deftly with one hand and bit down on it. The gem hummed softly.
"Real." Prowler nodded. "You're consistent, I'll give you that."
Fornos then turned to Kindling. "Pick up the crate."
The golem responded immediately, its long arms reaching out with cautious precision. It lifted the heavy crate with minimal strain and cradled it close to its chest, then turned to face the tree line beyond the harbor.
Fornos said nothing more. He stepped into the mist, letting the weight of the forest absorb him. The golem followed, silent and steady, disappearing with him between the trees.
Prowler watched them go, standing still on the empty dock.
He scratched at the edge of his mask and muttered to himself, "What kind of man comes here to build?"
Behind him, his men began loading the now-empty cart, preparing for the trip back to their coastal hideout. None of them asked questions. Prowler had trained them well: don't pry, don't linger.
The forest closed in around Fornos and Kindling like a curtain of green and shadow. The further they walked, the more the sound of waves faded, replaced by the soft crunch of leaves and distant caws of carrion birds.
Eventually, they reached a clearing surrounded by natural stone walls—half-crushed ruins overtaken by moss and vine. A forgotten outpost? A failed settlement? Fornos didn't care. What mattered was that the terrain would hide them, the land was flat enough to work, and the canopy blocked out any eyes from above.
Kindling gently placed the crate down in the center of the clearing. Fornos crouched and opened it fully.
He examined the contents briefly. The materials were here. Enough codex parts to begin design replication. Alloy fragments for framework. Mana-dampened restraints. And more—tools, diagrams, test-cubes.
He closed the crate and stood.
"This is where it begins."
Not just for Kindling. Not just for Brassheart. This was where he would craft Soldiers.
The name was intentional. These would not be like other golems—personalized, sacred, preserved. These would be faceless, uniform, and utterly loyal to one master. They would be pawns for deployment, not champions. Mass-produced, semi-autonomous, and destructible.
He would experiment first—refining the balance of cost and efficiency. Not every golem needed a soul. Some needed only purpose.
Kindling stood nearby, humming slightly from its core. The thing had proven surprisingly reliable despite its wretched appearance. Fornos looked up at it.
"You're ugly," he said with no venom. "But you'll be useful."
The golem made no response. It simply stood, awaiting orders.
Fornos removed his mask and inhaled deeply. The air here was damp, but clean—untainted by the politics and perfumes of city-states.
He would need more materials. He would need laborers, or something like them. And eventually, he'd need to test the prototypes in battle conditions.
But that would come later.
For now, this clearing, this continent, this forgotten corner of the world—this was the forge.
And Fornos Dag was ready to burn everything that wasn't useful.