?The transition back to Earth was jarring. One moment, Dawn was standing looking out at the kingdom. The next, she was sitting on the edge of her bed in the dim light of her room.

  ?The silence of her apartment felt heavy, almost accusatory.

  ?With trembling hands, she reached for her phone and opened the Cosmo app. A notification was already waiting for her.

  ?Intervention Complete: Rank F

  ?Rewards Calculated...

  ?Resistance: Plus thirty

  ?Arcane: Plus thirty

  ?Dawn stared at the screen, her stomach churning. The massive boost to her stats was a direct result of the raw magical energy Mina had, it was like her last farewell. Most of her stats were now sitting comfortably in the eighties, but the numbers felt like a curse. She didn't feel like a "Legend." She felt like a mistake.

  ?Driven by a desperate need to stay busy and drown out the "what ifs," Dawn navigated to a different category: Restoration.

  ?"Something peaceful," she whispered to the empty room. "An island. Just some sun and water."

  ?She found a Rank F Restoration situation with an Island Biome description. She tapped it, but as her finger made contact, the text flickered. The word Island warped, letters stretching and reforming until it read Mountainous Region.

  ?Dawn frowned, pulling her hand back. "What?"

  ?She refreshed the app and tried again. The result was the same. Every time she hovered over the peaceful island, the app forced the mountain biome into its place. It wasn't a slow glitch; it was a deliberate override.

  ?"Fine," she snapped, her grief turning into a spark of irritation. "Mountains it is. Just get me out of here."

  ?She hit confirm.

  ?The Lobby was different this time. Usually, the holographic menus offered a buffet of races and abilities, but this time, the options was only one. Only one species was available: Orc. Only one ability was selectable: Fury.

  ?"Legend Phantom, loadout locked. Start situation?"

  ?"Confirm," Dawn muttered, not even bothering to argue with the machine.

  ?The white void didn't just dissolve; it erupted into a roar of heat and the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of hammers.

  ?Dawn wasn't just placed in the world; she was born into it. Years blurred by in a montage of fire and soot. She became Thraka, a broad-shouldered orc girl with skin the color of moss and hands that grew calloused before she reached her tenth winter. Her world was the Great Forge of the Stone-Spire clan, a massive mountain stronghold where the heartbeat of the tribe was the strike of the anvil.

  ?Her father, a mountain of muscle named Grogmar, was the clan’s master of "Fangs"—the weapons. Her mother, Uza, was the master of "Shells"—the armor.

  ?"A blade is only as good as the arm that swings it, and the eyes that see its flaws," Grogmar would grunt, his voice like grinding gravel.

  ?Under his watchful eye, Thraka learned the language of metal. She learned how to fold steel, how to judge the heat of the forge by the color of the glow, and how to swing a sledgehammer until her shoulders felt like they were made of lead. She didn't just craft; she trained. Grogmar made her test every spear and polearm she finished, drilling her in the basics of their reach and weight.

  ?By her eighteenth year, Thraka was a fixture at the forge, but her work lacked the "soul" Grogmar looked for.

  ?"It is a tool, Thraka," he said, tossing a dagger she had spent all day on back onto the scrap pile. "But it is a crude tool. It has no balance. No edge."

  ?Thraka sighed, picking up a lopsided iron shortsword she had just quenched. She was frustrated. She knew it was bad, but she didn't know how bad. She wished she could see its details the way she saw her own stats on the app. She stared at the blade, concentrating with a sudden, sharp intent.

  ?I wish I could just inspect this thing, she thought.

  ?Suddenly, a small pane of translucent text hovered just above the metal.

  ?Item: Iron Shortsword

  Rank: F, Crude Quality

  Quality: Poor

  Note: The blade is overheated and brittle near the hilt. Likely to shatter on impact.

  ?Thraka nearly dropped the sword. Her eyes darted around the forge, but the other orcs were busy with their own work. No one else seemed to see the floating HUD.

  ?Inspect, she thought again, looking at her father’s personal great axe leaning against the wall.

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  ?Item: Grogmar's Splitter

  Rank: C, Superior quality

  Note: Infused with minor fire essence. A masterpiece of orcish smithing.

  ?A grin spread across her green face. It was a cheat code. She had a direct line to the flaws in her craft.

  ?Over the next few months, Thraka became obsessed. She used the internal command to catch her mistakes before the metal even cooled. Every time a weapon came out as "F-Rank Crude," she threw it back into the furnace and started over.

  ?Grogmar watched her with growing curiosity. "You are focused, daughter. Good. You will need that focus for the Smithing Tournament. The War Chieftain is looking for an apprentice. The winner gets his personal instruction in the arts of war."

  ?Thraka’s heart hammered against her ribs. The War Chieftain was a master of every weapon known to the orcs. If she won, she could finish Xander's list nearly in a single go.

  ?One afternoon, after a week of grueling work on a long-reaching spear, Thraka pulled the weapon from the oil. She held her breath and thought the command.

  ?Item: Weighted Boar Spear

  Rank: D Refined Quality

  Note: Well-balanced and sturdy. A reliable weapon for a true warrior.

  ?"Yes!" she cheered, pumping her fist. It wasn't F-rank. She had finally broken through.

  ?She marched over to Grogmar and handed him the spear. He took it, his massive hand wrapping around the shaft. He spun it once, testing the weight, then slammed the butt of the spear into the stone floor. It didn't vibrate; it didn't flex. It stood solid.

  ?Grogmar gave a slow, deep nod of approval. "It has a soul, Thraka. You are ready for the tournament."

  ?The morning of the tournament, the air in the Stone-Spire stronghold didn’t just feel heavy—it felt electric. The Great Forge, usually a rhythmic cycle of work, had been transformed. The central plaza, a massive bowl carved directly into the heart of the mountain, was lined with rows forges and primitive, heavy-timbered benches. Each forge had a matching weapon rack.

  ?Thraka walked beside Grogmar, her moss-green skin slick with a nervous sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the fires. In her hands, she carried the Weighted Boar Spear. It was the best thing she had ever made, a "D-Rank Refined" masterpiece that she had poured her entire focus into. She felt the weight of it, the balance she had perfected, and for a moment, she felt like a contender.

  ?Then she saw the others.

  ?The plaza was swarming with young orcs, their tusks polished and their leather armor reinforced with heavy iron plates. But it wasn't the orcs that caught her eye—it was their steel.

  ?Thraka slowed her pace, her eyes darting from weapon to weapon. Inspect, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  ?Item: Twin-Barbed Great Axe

  Rank: C, Superior Quality

  Note: Expertly weighted for maximum cleave. Balanced for a high-strength user.

  ?She blinked, moving her gaze to a jagged curved sword held by a hulking orc with a facial scar.

  ?Item: Serrated Falchion

  Rank: C, Superior Quality

  Note: Infused with cooling salts to prevent overheating during prolonged combat.

  ?Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through her. She looked at her boar spear—the "D-Rank" weapon she had been so proud of—and suddenly it looked like a toothpick. Grogmar had told her it had a "soul," but compared to the C-Rank gear surrounding her, it was basic. Common.

  ?He underestimated them, she realized, her grip tightening on the spear’s shaft until her knuckles turned a lighter shade of green. Or he overestimated me.

  ?She looked at her father, but the mountain of an orc was staring toward the high tower at the end of the plaza, his face a mask of stoic pride. He didn't notice the C-Rank blades. He didn't see the looming disaster.

  ?The crowd’s low rumble died instantly as a massive shadow fell over the plaza. Above them, on a balcony carved to look like the maw of a dragon, a figure stepped forward.

  ?This was the War Chieftain. He was older than Grogmar, his skin a dark, weathered grey, almost the color of the mountain itself. He wore no armor on his torso, only a heavy mantle made from the hide of a Sovereign-class frost bear. Every inch of his chest was a map of white scars—records of a thousand battles survived.

  ?"Young fangs of the Stone-Spire!" his voice boomed, a deep, guttural roar that vibrated in Thraka’s very bones. "You stand in the heart of our world. You were born in the smoke, tempered in the fire, and hardened by the strike of the hammer!"

  ?A roar went up from the young orcs, a chorus of war cries and the rhythmic clashing of steel against shields. Thraka didn't join them. She was too busy observing. She thought of Xander. She thought of the goal he had set for her: a year of focused training in every weapon to become a well-rounded warrior.

  ?If she failed here, she wouldn't get the War Chieftain’s instruction. She wouldn't get the "Master" level training she needed to satisfy the lessons Xander demanded.

  ?"Today," the Chieftain continued, his golden eyes sweeping over the crowd like a predator, "you do not just compete for glory. You fight for the future of our clan. The most promising among you—the ones who show the spirit of the mountain and the edge of the blade—will become my personal apprentices. You will learn the arts of war from the one who broke the High Elf legions! You will be the ones I train to replace me!"

  ?The crowd erupted again, but Thraka felt a surge of anxiety. How could she compete with these other orcs. Their weapons are a whole rank higher than my best work.

  ?She looked at her D-Rank spear. It was outclassed by the metal, but she had something the other orcs didn't. She had the system and a way to better check her work.

  ?"The tournament begins!" the Chieftain yelled, throwing his hand down. "Prove your metal, or be cast into the scrap pile! Head to the forges! Use the metal ignots you need. You have three days to craft a weapon to submit. The top ten will move on to the next round."

  ?The first round was underway as crowd of young orcs found a forge to begin their work. Grogmar watches as Thraka settles into a forge and begins working. Thraka starts looking at the forge. Her eyes squint a little as she begins to notice, this forge looks much nicer than the one she used at home. Her father never let Thraka use his personal forge. Instead she used the spare. Thraka then picked up on of the metal ingots. Without even inspecting it, she could tell it was higher quality metal. But her dad was suppose to be a well respected blacksmith. Why didn't he have better resources? Her eyes scanned the onlookers for the familiar face of Grogmar. She finally fines him. He's standing, staring at Thraka. As if he already knew the quality would be much better than she was use to. Thraka a little confused, picks up her hammer and begins creating her rough blank.

  The rhythmic clang of her hammer against the high-grade steel felt different—the metal resisted, then yielded with a musical resonance her old scrap never possessed. Each strike sent a jolt of clarity up her arms. Thraka realized this wasn’t just a competition; it was the first time she wasn’t fighting against the flaws of her materials.

  ?With the superior ingots and the upgrade of her forge, the three-day limit felt less like a deadline and more like a countdown to her ascension. She wouldn't just make a weapon; she would forge the key to her training. Her father’s silent stare wasn't just pride—it was a challenge to see if she could finally master the fire and prove herself.