Ancestral Lineage

Who is a blacksmith? Who is a forger? What is a forgery? What is blacksmithing?

And, who or what is a Dwarf?

Dwarves are often depicted as warriors, drunkards, or stubborn folk—but at their core, they are creators.Creation is the essence of their existence. From the first dwarf ever forged in the fires of the earth, every hammer strike, every carved rune, every mined gem was an echo of that origin.

Whether it be blacksmithing, invention, alchemy, magical formations, construction, mining, or refinement, dwarves are bound to the act of making. They do not merely shape the world—they give it permanence.

Over time, the dwarves divided into classifications, each embodying a different aspect of creation:

Earth Dwarves, depicted by their golden-brown ram horns. They thrived in the earth. You could say, they were the incarnation of miners and refiners, constructors, name it. Their power mostly related to earth, most awakening the Earth affinity or variants like rock, sand and even metal. The rarer ones awakened plant or crystal.

Then the Dwarf Nobles, known for their red ram horns. They were the flames of the dwarf race. One could say, they were the forgers, the blacksmiths, the inventors. They thrived in fire, not like dragons or fire elementals but in the act of creation. Their power was related to fire, most awakening the fire affinity or variants like lava or heat.

Then the once in a life Dwarf King, known for their black horns. They were the rulers of the dwarf race, having control over the machinations of their creations. They had control over black lightning which wasn't actually for fighting but for creating. They were the sparks, the batteries that powered the dwarf races as a whole. They were the alchemists, formation creators and a mix of the dwarf nobles and earth dwarves. That was why they were one. To them, the black lightning was just a secondary power as they wielded affinities like alchemy and transmutations or a very powerful version of earth and metal.

But above them all stood the origin of the dwarves. The first. The nameless one who began it all. The one who could not be classified, for classification was too narrow a prison for his existence. If the Dwarf King was said to embody a mixture of every craft, every class, every discipline, then the first dwarf was not a mixture at all. He was pure. Singular. Complete.

It was not that he learned creation—he was creation. To call him a blacksmith, a miner, an alchemist, or a builder would be to diminish him, for he was all of these things and yet none of them. The dwarves, in their endless variety, were but fragmented echoes of him. To look upon the Creator was to see the truth of their race—that they were not many, but one, drawn from his essence.

He wielded the power of creation itself, a force so vast that it lingered just beneath the heights of godhood. With every thought, forms could take shape. With every breath, substance bent to his will.

And on this day—the day the dwarves still whisper of in firelit halls—he set his hands to the crafting of his first artifact. Not merely a tool, nor a weapon, nor a symbol, but something greater: a work that would test the very limits of creation itself.

Yet there was a catch. He was no ordinary origin. He bore within him a second inheritance, darker, rarer, feared and worshipped in equal measure. He was a hybrid of the highest order. Not only the Creator, but the Blood Primogenitor. The pulse of creation ran alongside the hunger of blood, two eternal forces chained within one vessel.

Whether this union was a blessing or a curse, none could say. Perhaps his work would become the crown jewel of existence itself. Or perhaps, it would birth calamity everlasting.

Only the end result would tell.

The volcano roared like a living beast, its throat gurgling with molten fury. It churned and spat out purplish flames—flames so blisteringly hot that even the word "searing" felt like an insult to their wrath. They burned with a heat beyond mortal measure, a fire that could reduce steel to vapor and stone to dust. And yet, there sat Ethan—half-naked, scarred skin shimmering under the infernal light—as if the flames were no more than a warm bath.

His crimson hair floated in the updraft of heat, weightless and untamed, while his eyes glowed with unwavering focus. Every breath he drew seemed to pull the volcano's rage into himself, and every exhale pressed his will upon it. Across his arms, the dark blue alchemic symbols writhed and shifted, their color slowly bleeding into a blinding white, as though they were burning with the essence of creation itself.

The molten ground beneath him cracked and split outward in violent tremors. From the fissures, something impossible began to emerge—tools of craft forged not by hands but by the will of the volcano and the power of Ethan's soul. First came an anvil, rising like a monolith, its surface black as obsidian yet pulsing with veins of molten gold. It was massive, as broad as a tennis court, its edges glowing faintly as though it had been quenched in the blood of stars.

The air thickened as other tools followed in its wake—bellows that seemed carved from the breath of titans, tongs forged of shadow and flame, and chisels honed sharper than reason itself. Yet, curiously, there was one absence. No hammer.

The forge of gods and monsters had awakened, but without its heart.

The hammer was no ordinary tool to be summoned or forged from metal and fire. No, for Ethan knew well that a hammer was not simply an instrument of creation—it was the forge itself. The anvil, the fire, the bellows, all were mere stages. The hammer was the heart, the soul, the breath that dictated whether creation would endure or shatter into nothingness.

And so, he did not call for it from the earth, nor will it to rise from the volcano's veins. Instead, he turned inward. His hand brushed across the jagged crystalline horns that curved from his head—fragments of his being that pulsed with the condensed power of his essence, heritage, and blood. With every heartbeat, they thrummed with the resonance of his line: the Creator and the Blood Primogenitor bound in one.

He drew in a slow, steady breath, his lungs burning as if the flames themselves had entered him, and then—without hesitation—he broke one.

A crack echoed across the volcano, louder than stone splitting, sharper than a mountain collapsing. The pain was indescribable, a torrent that raced through marrow and memory alike, but Ethan did not waver. He held the crystalline shard in his hand, its light pulsing violently as though unwilling to be severed from its master. He whispered not words but intent, his blood dripping onto its surface.

The shard melted, reformed, and lengthened in his grip. It became a haft, then a head, then something more. It was not just a hammer. It was his hammer, a vessel carved from sacrifice, a tool that would obey no other hand but his. Its weight was absolute, heavier than mountains, yet it fit into his grasp as though it had always been waiting there.

When it was complete, the volcano itself seemed to bow. The flames bent inward, pulled toward the newborn hammer as if it were the core of all creation.

The real forge had been born—from horn, blood, and will.

...

[Back at the mansion]

"It has started," Barki said in a solemn tone, her eyes glowing in anticipation for what was to come very soon.

"His very first creation!" Harley whispered with excitement as she softly patted her bulging belly. 'Shush! Just wait to witness your father's awesomeness.''

"It seems I can't keep sitting now. Time to go prepare," Trevor said as his eyes glowed. Ethan has always been his rival without them saying it out loud. They were brothers first and foremost, but they were rivals who always wanted to surpass each other although now, the gap separating them was so wide it was funny.

But Trevor wasn't one to falter in the face of a challenge. He was the Blood Primogenitor after all. The pure one. Ethan was a hybrid, but he was the actual Blood Primogenitor.

'Apole, get ready to evolve. We are done holding back!' He said in his head as he waved to the others and made his way out, his white hair turning smoke-like for a moment.

"What was that just now?" Regnare asked in confusion as he stared at the back of his uncle. He had seen what had really happened. He had seen the smiling being with a skull-like face and crimson eyes that appeared above him.

"That is Apole. Trevor's spirit beast," Lamair said with a chuckle as he sipped on a soda.

"But Uncle Trevor control blood, right? He's the Vampire King after all!" Delphina said in confusion.

"True but your uncle is something more. We are all something more than what you see. Let me tell you a secret. Ethan, your father, was a human first and foremost before he became what he is now. That much you know. But he changed us. Trevor and I become new because of him. Trevor was also a human, but because of your father, he became a vampire. As a human, Trevor wielded the very rare affinity of Smoke and Apole represents his affinity as his spirit beast. I was a human who died and got resurrected as ghoul by your father. But my affinity is Puppeteering. Death magic is just a bonus from my evolution just as blood magic is for Trevor. And also, your father and Trevor awakened on the same day. In fact, they basically evolved at same time every single time until the first Primogenitor War where we battled the Wind Primogenitor," Lamair said with a nostalgic expression.

"Woah! So cool!"

"I know right? I guess it's time for me to also rank up. I can't let those two beat me. See ya!" Lamair said with a light chuckle as a black portal appeared beside him.

"No magic in the mansion!" Andriel literally screamed but he was already gone.

"Hahaha! They never change," Carmen laughed. A laugh which her children had never seen before, making them the most shocked. It was devoid of control, free and unhinged.

"She finally laughed, huh?" Clara grinned at Harley.

"She really did," Harley replied with a smile.