Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

The king's decree was clear: every contestant would be provided with raw materials and tools at the competition grounds. Yet smiths were free to bring their own if they wished—anvils engraved with family crests, hammers tempered by fathers and grandfathers, chisels worn smooth by decades of use.

Howen Veyle, though, traveled light. He carried only the hammer he trusted most, its head blackened by years of fire, its grip worn perfectly to the shape of his hand. Along with it, he brought a few spare clothes, a small pouch of coins, and little else. Everything he truly needed, he trusted would be waiting for him in Eldoria.

The road from Blackthorn to the capital was long and unforgiving. Blackthorn was a poor, rugged region, its paths little more than muddy veins cutting through stubborn hills and scattered farms. With no coin to hire his own wagon, Howen paid for space on merchant carts and the occasional traveler's carriage. Some days he rode beside crates of salted fish, their brine soaking through the boards. Other days he perched on barrels of ale, grinning as every rut in the road jostled him. When the way grew too steep, he climbed down without complaint, trudging along on foot beside oxen and horses.

If the hardships troubled him, he never showed it. His booming laugh often carried down the road, startling oxen and drawing smiles from weary companions.

"One hammer and two strong arms—that's all a man needs!" he would declare, and even the most sour-faced merchant found it hard not to grin at his cheer.

At last, one carriage jolted to a stop before towering gates. Eldoria loomed beyond, its walls stretching skyward, its banners snapping proudly in the breeze.

The merchant beside him tugged his reins, then turned to Howen with a grin. "Here we are—Eldoria at last. Show the guards your travel pass and you're free to enter. I'll be delayed with inspections, taxes, and permits for my goods, so this is where we part ways. Good luck with your competition, smith. May fortune favor your hammer."

Howen swung down from the cart with his pack and his hammer strapped to his back. He gave the man a firm nod and a wide grin. "Thanks for the ride, friend. Then until we meet again."

Howen strode toward the city gates, where a long line of merchants, travelers, and smiths pressed forward under the watchful eyes of guards. The soldiers stood tall in gleaming breastplates, halberds in hand, their faces stern beneath polished helms. Every wagon was halted, every crate pried open, every paper scrutinized.

From his belt pouch, Howen drew a stiff slip of parchment stamped with the crimson seal of the crown—his travel pass. The paper had been folded and unfolded too many times on the road, the edges softening, but the seal remained sharp and unmistakable.

In Keldoria, common folk carried no permanent identification. For most, such things were unnecessary luxuries. Farmers rarely strayed beyond their fields, artisans seldom left the towns where they apprenticed, and even merchants often walked the same trade routes their fathers had before them. To maintain records of every citizen would cost the crown more than it was worth—the burden outweighed the benefit.

For those who did wander beyond their home region, however, the law required a temporary travel pass. The system was simple yet effective. At the nearest registry office, a clerk would seat the traveler, dip his quill, and record the basics: name, place of birth, intended destination, and a description of the bearer's features—height, build, hair, eyes, scars if any.

There were no sketches or portraits. Such things were too slow, too costly, and without modern tools or lenses, hopelessly impractical. Instead, after the clerk finished the description, he would press a magic seal into the parchment. Each registry kept its own enchanted stamp, unique and difficult to imitate. The faint shimmer left by the spell marked the pass as authentic.

Forgery was possible, of course, but costly. To attempt it meant committing a crime punishable by death if discovered, and few forgers possessed both the skill and resources to replicate the stamps without flaw. Smugglers and spies still tried, but the system ensured their work was dangerous and expensive rather than easy.

Nor was Keldoria alone in this practice. Across the continent, neighboring kingdoms followed the same method. Without it, roads would drown in nameless wanderers, smugglers would pass unchecked, and city gates would never know who entered or who left.

The guard took Howen's pass with a gloved hand. His eyes flicked from parchment to man—brown hair indeed, cropped short, green eyes clear and alert, a hammer strapped boldly across his back. The soldier's brow twitched, as if amused at the lone smith carrying little more than a single tool when wagons of others rattled past with whole forges in tow.

The guard grunted, then pressed the parchment back into Howen's hand. "Welcome to Eldoria. Next!"

Howen tucked the pass into his belt pouch and stepped forward, crossing beneath the towering white stone gates. The moment he emerged on the other side, the city hit him like a hammer to the chest.

The air was alive—thick with the scent of roasting meats and spiced wine, mingled with horse sweat and the sharp tang of burning coal. Streets broad enough to swallow Blackthorn's entire market square bustled with life. Hawkers shouted over one another, wagons creaked under heavy loads, and bright banners snapped in the breeze above shopfronts. From somewhere deeper in the city, bells rang out, their tones clashing with the chatter of voices in a dozen different accents and dialects.

Howen paused for a moment, taking in the vibrant cityscape so unlike the quiet region he had left behind.

But he wasn't here for wonder or leisure. His purpose was clear: The Grand Blacksmithing Competition of Keldoria

Because he had relied on merchants' carriages, stopping wherever their trade demanded, his journey had been long and uneven and took him more than three week to get to Eldoria. Now, with only two days until the opening of the competition, he had no time to waste. He would need to find lodging, see the grounds, and perhaps even glimpse the smiths he would soon face.

Excitement surged through him at the thought. Masters blacksmith across Keldoria. And foreigners too, men and women with tools and techniques he had never seen.

How grinned, the weight of his hammer a familiar comfort against his back. "Forty gold coins," he muttered under his breath. "and the chance to show them what a Blackthorn region smith can do. Let's see who I'll be crossing hammers with."

And with that, Howen Veyle pushed deeper into the capital, ready to carve his name.