The next morning, the disciples returned to the forge.
Their armor still felt new—like breathing in someone else's rhythm, only to realize it had become their own.
But Altan's summons had been clear. "Your armor protects. Your weapon speaks."
Daalo was waiting. Less grumpy than usual. Which meant something was either very right—or very wrong.
"Thought you were warriors, not statues," he barked. "Come on. Time to meet the other half of your soul."
They followed him down a winding stair veined with cooled magma and whisperstone. The lower vault was smaller, circular, and oddly quiet. No avatars. Just glyph-marked pedestals and a central dais where weapons rested—not as tools of war, but as living extensions of who they had become.
Bruga approached first. His war axe stood in a pedestal of blackstone, flames softly breathing along the edge.
Daalo gestured. "Pyrebite. Core-charged with emberstone, vented spine. Stores your rage like steam in a kettle."
Bruga lifted it, grunting approval. The weapon pulsed. Heavy, eager. Hungry.
Then Daalo motioned behind him—where a separate rack cradled two smaller axes, their edges shaped like crescent teeth.
Bruga squinted. "More?"
Altan folded his arms. "Dual hatchets. Daalo made them on my request."
Bruga furrowed his brow. "Why would I need these? I've got a blade that could split a canyon."
Altan didn't blink. "Maybe you'll need backup axes."
Then, a pause. "Also… for making matchsticks."
Bruga groaned. "I forgot. I haven't carved a single one in six years…"
Altan raised an eyebrow. "You've got a quota to fill."
Bruga grimaced, taking the hatchets with visible reluctance. "Fine. But if I start whittling mid-battle, you'll know who to blame."
Kael's weapon shimmered as he neared it: a fan of seven slender, air-sharpened blades—each a whisper of death.
"Whisperdraw," Daalo said. "Seven blades. The eighth is hidden. It chooses when to be drawn."
But beside the harness, another weapon waited—a single short sword, light and curved, sheathed in translucent windskin.
Kael tilted his head. "This… wasn't requested."
Altan replied, "It was given. One blade for command. One for mastery."
Kael ran a finger along the short sword's hilt. "A strategist with two voices, then."
"Or one who learns to speak in silence," Daalo added.
Ryoku's weapon sat waiting in balanced stillness: a two-handed longsword with no ornament, only precision. He stepped forward, silent.
"Kensho," Daalo said. "Forged for repetition. Strikes remembered. Patterns ingrained."
Ryoku bowed—but then noticed a smaller blade laid beside it. A short sword, same steel, but thinner.
Altan explained. "Resolve doesn't mean rigidity. You'll need speed when strength falters."
Ryoku accepted both blades, murmuring his mantra: "Strike. Breathe. Repeat."
Wen Tu had expected a staff—but what he received was something ancient and new. A war staff, crowned with bronze rings that chimed faintly with movement. Barksteel and root-fiber bound the shaft. The tip shifted slightly, like it was waiting to grow.
"Verdance," Daalo explained. "Heals. Protects. Amplifies. Staff of blessing and bluntness."
Wen Tu twirled it. The rings chimed—like laughter.
He raised an eyebrow. "Rings? Really? I spent half my life dodging abbots and incense just to not be that monk."
Altan nodded. "And the glyphs woven through will allow group resonance. Field healing. Qi shielding."
Wen Tu lowered the staff, suddenly more serious. "So… I'm the healer now?"
"You always were," Altan replied. "Now your weapon remembers it too."
Then Altan's voice sharpened, quieter but commanding. "But if you want to master it—you'll need to learn silence."
Wen Tu frowned. "Silence?"
Altan gestured to the rings. "Part of your training will be moving without making them sing. No chime. No sway. Total stillness under pressure."
Wen Tu blinked. "That's impossible."
Altan's gaze didn't waver. "Then it will serve you well."
Nyzekh was last. A single pedestal waited for him—black as sorrow, silent as space. Twin sabers floated above it. Not curved like scimitars, nor straight like longswords—but somewhere between. Their edges bent light. Their surfaces rippled with void-thread.
"Eclipsed Fang," Daalo named them. "Two blades. Both yours. They do not clash—they mirror."
Nyzekh took them silently. As he lifted them, shadows clung to the blades, then fell away like breath.
"They're… quiet," he said.
Daalo grunted. "They should be. Black-forged. Meant to cut through thought before sound."
Altan stepped forward. "And their strength lies not in what they strike, but what they make you leave behind."
Nyzekh nodded once. He didn't need more words.
As the five stood, fully armed, another memory returned—of the avatar who had taken their measurements without speaking. Fingers pressed to wrists, hips, fingers, palms. Every line of their body studied, not just for armor—but for the blades they were meant to carry. Every weapon fit perfectly in their grasp. It hadn't just been forged for them. It had been grown around them.
Altan stood before them now. All five. Armored. Armed.
"You have your names. Your armor. And now, your weapons. These are not prizes. They are promises. To the wind. To the earth. To fire, metal, and silence."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"Master them. Not for glory. Not for show. But because what comes next will demand more than strength. It will demand knowing when not to use it."
Daalo snorted. "Well said. Get out of my forge before you all start crying on the hilts."
But even he didn't hide the glint of pride in his eyes.
As they turned to leave, their weapons hummed against their backs. Not just tools. But truths.
The forge behind them roared again.
Hammer. Flame. Silence.
And the rhythm continued.