Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

The next morning, Howen rose before dawn, shouldering his hammer and joining the stream of smiths flowing through Eldoria's streets. The closer they came to the competition grounds, the thicker the crowd grew. Wagons rattled under the weight of tool chests and spare anvils. Apprentices carried bellows and buckets, their faces flushed with nerves. Masters walked in proud silence, cloaks stitched with guild emblems trailing behind them. Even travelers with no hammer to their name followed along, drawn by the promise of spectacle, eager to see history forged in fire.

When the gates finally opened, Howen stepped inside—and stopped dead in his tracks.

The competition grounds had been utterly remade. What had once been a broad field now stretched out in perfect order: three hundred and fifty open-air workshops, each one a forge in miniature.

Long rows extended across the field like a great chessboard, every station marked with a painted number and divided by sturdy timber partitions chest-high. Enough space was left between them for overseers to walk and judges to inspect, yet close enough that the clang of hammers would soon rise in a deafening chorus.

Each workshop had been prepared down to the last detail. A forge pit sat ready, coal already piled high and bellows oiled to work smoothly. An anvil rested on a stone block, its horn polished to a dull gleam. Quenching troughs filled with clean water reflected the pale morning light, and beside them, wooden racks held neatly arranged tools—tongs, chisels, punches, files, hammers of varying weight. Every edge gleamed as though freshly sharpened.

Bundles of raw material were stacked at the side of each stall: bars of wrought iron, small bags of charcoal and other necessary material. They looked less like ingots and more like promises waiting to be struck into reality.

But it wasn't just the rows of workshops that stole Howen's breath. Encircling the field rose tiers of wooden stands, stretching higher than any barn he had ever seen in Blackthorn. Row upon row of benches climbed skyward, built to hold hundreds of spectators—nobles in shimmering silks, merchants heavy with coin purses, and common folk eager for a glimpse of glory. Banners bearing the stag of Keldoria and the emblems of guilds hung limp in the early breeze, awaiting the roar of voices that would soon shake the very timbers.

For now, the stands remained empty. The only sounds were the creak of freshly built timber, the whistle of the morning wind through the banners, and the low rumble of hundreds of smiths arriving, their voices blending into a steady hum of anticipation.

As Howen wandered between the rows of forges, he noticed small clusters forming—smiths leaning close, whispering in hushed but eager tones. Curiosity tugged at him, and he drifted toward one such group, pretending to study the nearby tools while letting their words reach his ears.

It didn't take long for the names to surface.

"Master Garrick Ironhand," one man murmured with awe. "The pride of Ironhearth. They say he once forged a warhammer so heavy only knights in full plate could lift it—and yet it never dulled after a hundred battles."

"And Doran Flamewright," another added quickly, almost as if refusing to let Garrick's name stand alone. "Master of the Royal Forge! His breastplates turned aside arrows at the Border Skirmish. They call him the Flame of Eldoria, the man who tempers steel as though the fire itself obeys him."

The group nodded, faces taut with a mix of respect and dread. Among the countless masters of the realm, those two shone brightest, their fame spanning all of Keldoria.

Howen, however, felt only confusion. The names meant nothing to him. In Blackthorn, news traveled poorly. Only the most pressing matters of war or harvest ever reached his region. Tales of famed smiths and their legendary works rarely crossed the hills, and so he listened with wide eyes, realizing just how small and isolated his corner of the world truly was.

As the murmurs deepened, another sound cut across the air—the heavy groan of the great gates swinging wide. Conversation faltered. Dozens of heads turned toward the entrance.

The figure who stepped into the arena was no ordinary contender. Draped in a dark cloak trimmed with silver, flanked by guards in polished mail, the man's presence alone carried the weight of command.

It was none other than the King of Keldoria—Arthur Tesla.

Howen's chest tightened as silence swept across the field. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as the king strode forward, climbing onto a raised platform overlooking the sea of forges. His gaze swept across the smiths—hundreds of men and women, masters and apprentices alike—measuring them as if they were steel waiting to be struck.

When he spoke, his voice carried clearly, firm and unshakable.

"Smiths of Keldoria—and beyond," Arthur began, his voice rolling across the grounds like the toll of a great bell. "Today, you stand not as farmers' sons, nor guild masters, nor humble apprentices. You stand as craftsmen, called here to prove your worth before crown and kingdom."

The silence deepened. Even the banners hanging high above the stands seemed to still, as if listening. Every word struck the crowd like the steady beat of a hammer, sinking deep into their hearts.

"The rules are simple," Arthur continued. "You will be given all that you require: forges, fuel, water, wrought iron, and more. From these, you will shape a single weapon—a sword." His eyes sharpened, a faint glint catching in the torchlight. "Not a trinket, not a showpiece, but a blade fit for battle. A sword that may one day decide the fate of men on the field, that may guard a life or end one."

He let the words hang, the weight of them pressing down like an unseen anvil. Then, in the quiet that followed, he spoke again, steady and firm.

"You will have five days. At the end, your work will be judged on strength, durability, sharpness, and craftsmanship. A sword that shatters under pressure will shame its maker. A sword that endures, that strikes true, will carry its maker's name into history."

Excitement rippled through the gathered smiths—whispers, clenched fists, eager grins—only to be silenced when Arthur lifted his hand.

"To keep this fair," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the crowd, "each of you will be assigned a number. Tomorrow, when the competition begins, you will report to the forge marked with that number. Today, three hundred and fifty stations stand ready." His lips curved into a faint smile, edged with iron. "And yet only three hundred and thirty-nine of you stand here. Fewer contenders, but no less a challenge."

Murmurs swept across the field. Some smiths smirked at the thinning odds. Others glanced about, trying to guess who had not arrived—and whether it made their own chances brighter.

Arthur pressed on, his words hammering away doubt. "You are free, for the rest of this day, to inspect your stations. Each has the same tools by default. But you may change them as you wish—bring your own hammers, swap your tongs, or set your forge in order as your craft demands. When the sun rises tomorrow, no more changes will be allowed. Then the real trial begins."

His final words rang sharp, like steel drawn from a sheath.

"Prepare yourselves well. In five days' time, this field will decide who among you rises above the rest. Now—go, and let the fires be ready."

The king's words hung in the air like sparks before a flame, and only when he turned and departed did the murmurs rise again—excited, anxious, determined.

Howen clenched his hammer's grip, his grin spreading wide. "Five days, one sword, and a chance to prove Blackthorn's worth… Forge gods, let's see how hot this fire burns."