I leaned back in my chair, the worn leather groaning in protest, and allowed myself a moment of profound, weary satisfaction.
The acquisition of fifteen goblins was a strategic boon of the highest order. Six new recruits for the Gutter-Guard, a number that would nearly double Gnar's effective fighting force once they were trained. Four new farmers, which meant our ambitious plans for the valley fields could actually be realized, freeing up human survivors for other tasks. Two blacksmith apprentices for Leo, and two woodworkers for Maria. It was a boost to our labor pool that I was extremely pleased with.
The true genius of the plan, the part that made my Scholar's mind hum with a quiet, predatory glee, was the synergy of it. These were not just bodies. They were goblins. Creatures with a natural, almost supernatural aptitude for mimicry and a desperate, ingrained hunger to please a stronger power. They would have to spend an indeterminate amount of time to gain the necessary skills, of course. The System wouldn't just grant them a Blacksmithing Vocation overnight. But their racial affinity for learning physical tasks, for developing a kind of muscle-memory competence, was far greater than a human trying to learn a craft that ran contrary to their own Vocation.
And being taught by someone like Leo or Maria? Someone whose very soul was aligned with their craft, who was literally filled with a near-endless patience and infectious joy when talking about the grain of a piece of wood or the proper quenching temperature of steel? It was a recipe for creating a foundation of skilled labor that was so solid, so efficient, that I was certainly going to abuse it down the road. I could already see it: a production line of goblin artisans, churning out the tools and weapons we would need to build our kingdom.
But that was a problem for future-Kale. Right now, present-Kale was focused on a single, demanding, and deeply fascinating task.
I rose from my desk and walked to the workbench that dominated one side of the room. There, resting on a bed of soft, cured hide, lay Elara's axe. The Orcish Greataxe. It looked like a sleeping predator, its dark, pitted iron seeming to drink the torchlight, its brutal, utilitarian form a testament to a culture that valued function over beauty. The air around it felt heavy, charged with the memory of the violence it had wrought.
This was not a task to be rushed. This was not a simple matter of hitting it with a hammer. Runic Scribing was an art form, a science, a conversation with the inanimate. I took a moment to center myself, pushing aside the endless logistical calculations of settlement management, the political complexities of our new alliances, the quiet, persistent ache of my own Soul-Scar. I needed to be a clean slate, a focused lens.
My tools were laid out beside the axe, a testament to Leo's burgeoning genius. A set of small, exquisitely balanced chisels, their tips forged from the purest iron he could smelt, their handles wrapped in smooth, dark leather. A small stone pot containing my own concoction: a thick, viscous ink made from finely crushed natural mana rocks suspended in boar tallow, a medium that could hold a magical charge. And finally, a soft, clean piece of deerskin for wiping away the excess, for polishing the final product.
I picked up the axe. The weight of it was immense, a solid, unforgiving reality in my hands. I closed my eyes, my fingers tracing the lines of the weapon, feeling for more than just the texture of the metal. I was searching for its soul. Every object forged with intent, especially a weapon, had a kind of internal architecture, a grain, a flow of energy. My Rune Scribe skill allowed me to perceive this, to see the object not as a solid mass, but as a confluence of purpose and potential. I was looking for the heart of the axe, the focal point of its being, the place where the rune would not just sit, but would be welcomed.
I found it. A spot on the flat of the blade, just below the haft, where the Orcish smith had folded the metal back on itself one too many times, creating a dense, complex knot of molecular structure. It was a point of immense, concentrated strength. That was where the word would live.
I took a deep breath, drawing my own mana from the cool, deep well within me. I dipped the tip of the finest chisel into the pot of runic ink, the thick, shimmering paste clinging to the metal. Then, I touched the chisel to the heart of the axe.
The process began.
It was not merely carving. It was a three-part act of creation, a symphony of physical effort, mental focus, and spiritual projection.
First, the physical. The chisel bit into the dark iron, the sound not a sharp clang, but a low, resonant hum, like a tuning fork struck against a mountain. My muscles protested, the act of forcing the sharp point through the dense, magically-attuned metal requiring a slow, steady, and immense pressure. Sweat beaded on my forehead, my breathing becoming a slow, controlled rhythm. Each line of the rune had to be perfect, the depth uniform, the curves precise. A single slip, a moment of lapsed concentration, and the entire inscription would be flawed, the magic either failing to take hold or, worse, becoming unstable and unpredictable.
Second, the mental. As I carved the physical shape of the rune, I had to hold its conceptual form, its perfect, platonic ideal, in my mind. The word was 'Cleave'. But what did that mean? It was not just 'cut'. It was not just 'chop'. I had to fill the word with its deepest, most absolute meaning. To cleave was to split asunder. To pass through opposition without pause. To render armor as if it were cloth, to treat bone as if it were water. I focused on this single, brutal concept, holding it in my mind with an iron will, pouring all of my intellectual understanding of the word into the lines I was carving.
Third, the magical. This was the most draining part. With every millimeter the chisel moved, a stream of my mana flowed from my body, down my arm, through the chisel, and into the groove it was creating. It was a physical sensation, a feeling of cold emptiness spreading from my core, a hollowing out of my own spiritual reserves. The runic ink acted as a conduit, a hungry medium that drank my power and infused it into the very structure of the steel. The rune was not just being carved onto the axe; it was being woven into its existance, powered by a piece of my own.
The air in the room grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and hot metal. The rune began to glow, a faint, angry, crimson light that pulsed in time with my own heartbeat. The axe vibrated in my hands, a low, resonant thrumming as its own dormant magical nature awakened, resisting and then slowly, grudgingly, accepting the new word being forced upon it.
I carved the final line. The last, perfect curve of the runic symbol. I lifted the chisel, the connection breaking with a faint, psychic snap.
The room fell silent. The crimson light of the rune flared, a sudden, brilliant nova that cast my shadow long and monstrous against the stone wall. It held for a long, breathless moment, a single, perfect, and utterly terrifying note of contained power. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the light receded, sinking back into the iron until all that was left was the symbol itself, a series of elegant, dangerous curves etched into the dark metal, glowing with the faint, sullen light of a banked fire.
I stumbled back, my legs suddenly weak, a wave of dizziness washing over me. I leaned against the workbench for support, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I checked my internal status.
[Mana: 45 / 320]
The inscription had consumed more than eighty percent of my total mana pool. The Reserve I had created within the axe was immense, enough to power its effect through a dozen battles, but the cost had been staggering.
I picked up the axe. It felt different. The raw, brutish weight was still there, but it was balanced now by a new, humming energy. It felt alive in my hands, a hungry, eager thing that yearned for violence. I focused my will, not on casting a spell, but on the rune itself, a simple, mental command. Awaken.
The crimson rune on the blade flared to life. The air around the axe head crackled with a barely visible distortion, a heat-haze of pure, destructive intent. I could feel the power thrumming up the haft, a low, hungry vibration that resonated in my bones. This was no longer just a piece of sharpened iron. It was a key, a tool designed to unlock the secret of invulnerability. It was a weapon that could cleave the world in two.
I deactivated the rune, the crimson light fading, the hungry hum receding. I took the soft deerskin and carefully, reverently, polished the blade, wiping away the excess ink, leaving only the clean, sharp, and now terrifyingly potent lines of the inscription.
The work was done. My gift to my Captain was complete. And I had a sudden, chilling thought.
What kind of words could I write on my own skin?