Igrath Mawforge stood before the roaring forge, the molten light reflecting in his eyes like two burning coals. The Maw of Creation breathed around him, its heartbeat the steady rhythm of fire that surged and curled within its iron throat. He lifted a handful of coal and poured it into the furnace, feeding the flames as he had done uncountable times before. The swirling heat was familiar, comforting even, and it framed the thoughts drifting through his mind.
He was one of the Thirteen Hammers of the World, a title he had earned long ago when even the gods themselves had bowed their heads before his creations. He had not forged simple weapons but wonders, relics carried only by the mightiest beings alive. Igrath took pride in what he was, and the Maw of Creation had been his home for longer than he could remember. The years had blurred together into an endless chain of sparks and metal, and he no longer knew when he had first settled here or why he had remained. He had simply continued to create.
Igrath had seen many beings attempt to claim the smithy. Some had failed, some had died, and a rare handful had proven themselves worthy enough to command him for a time. That was the nature of the Maw. Only strength earned its loyalty, and Igrath had always respected that principle.
Now, however, he had a new master, a high blood and princess of the old line. It had been a very long time since he had last stood before one.
Igrath himself was born a high blood, although he had abandoned his claim to the upper tiers of demon society ages ago. Politics had always disgusted him. Endless scheming, pointless feuds, pride without craftsmanship. He had turned his back on the throne and chosen the anvil instead. Let others fight for crowns. He preferred to create something.
Even so, the memories of Hell were still carved deeply into his being. Not the lesser circles, but the true Hell, the deepest circle where even gods were afraid to walk. That was the realm that had forged him. That was where the Malveris Dominion stood, the only kingdom strong enough to survive in that place. Led by true high bloods, they waged war against creation itself without rest. It was his birthplace, a land of fire and violence where he had been shaped as much as any blade he would later forge.
As he worked the bellows and watched the flames breathe, Igrath found himself wondering how a high blooded princess could roam the mortal plane. Such a thing should have been impossible. Were the old contracts broken? Had the gates opened? Had war begun again while he was buried in his work? A true high blood walking among mortals was not something that creation would ignore. It would stir reactions from Hell, from the higher planes, and from those who slept beneath the world.
He frowned and wiped molten sparks from his apron. His body was made to withstand impossible temperatures, yet even he felt a restless tension hanging in the air. Something was shifting.
He was exempt from the ancient agreements because the title of a legendary smith granted him free passage through every plane. His craft had earned him that privilege. But a princess should never have been able to set foot in the mortal realm unless something far greater had changed.
The thought pushed him to strike the anvil once with his hammer. The sound rang through the smithy like a heartbeat, steady and heavy.
Perhaps the Malveris Dominion had finally shifted. Perhaps the council that had clung too tightly to peace had grown a spine at last. The treaty with creation had always been a shameful mark on demon honor. Even Igrath, who had renounced his throne, had never respected it.
Other circles of Hell had their own kingdoms and societies, and no scholar could ever count the true number of demons scattered across the layers. If the Dominion ever united them again, creation would tremble. They would be strong enough to challenge the upper planes of creation, he was sure of it.
He shook his head and sighed. “I drift again,” he muttered softly. “Sentimental old fool.”
It had simply been too long since he last saw home.
The fire crackled in response, glowing brighter for a moment. He stared into the heart of the furnace, the memories stirring like slow embers.
“Lilithia Nocturne,” he murmured, letting the name roll across his tongue like a coal shifting in the fire. It was unfamiliar to him, yet the presence behind it carried a weight he could not mistake. She was a true high blood, a princess born of the old lineage, young in appearance yet already powerful enough to claim dominion over a forge that had slept untouched for centuries. By every law etched into the contracts of the realms, she should never have walked the mortal world. She should have been bound to the deeper circles, governed by ancient pacts older than most stars. And yet she stood beneath mortal skies.
He fed the flames again and let the heat wash over his skin.
“Curious,” he said quietly. “Most curious.”
He had pledged loyalty to her, and that vow carried weight. Most mortals who managed to claim him survived no longer than twenty to fifty years before death or misfortune took them, and when they were gone, he simply returned to waiting for another worthy soul. But a high blooded demoness did not truly age as mortals did. If she was not slain, she would not wither or fade. Demons did not age, and they did not die of time.
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He adjusted the coals, letting the forge roar with renewed strength. The thought settled heavily in his mind.
“Most curious indeed,” he said once more as he lifted his hammer.
While he was still deep in his thoughts, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy door of the smithy. The sound cut through the hum of the flames, and Igrath paused for a moment before lowering his hammer. He turned toward the entrance, listening to the faint nervous breathing on the other side.
He walked to the door at a calm, steady pace, opened it, and looked down at the mortal standing in front of him. It was one of the humans who served the Princess. Because of that, he did not kill the intruder immediately for disturbing him. The mortal was a young woman, and she met his gaze without flinching, which he found mildly interesting. Then she bowed.
Igrath was almost pleased. At least she had manners, even if she had interrupted him.
“What do you want,” he asked, his voice rumbling.
The woman straightened and looked up at him. There was no fear in her eyes, only a strangely calm presence that seemed out of place in a fragile mortal.
“Lord Igrath, the Princess told us to report to you when anything happens. And since the Princess is still in Tiara and we do not know when she will return, we thought it would be better to inform you that we have a visitor.”
Igrath processed the words slowly. Of course, he was also a high blooded demon, and in the absence of the Princess he was naturally the one in charge. It made sense. Still, he could not help the familiar irritation that stirred within him. It always caught up to him eventually. No matter where he was, or how he tried to disappear into his craft, duty like this always found him again, even after all these years.
He sighed inwardly, although his chest barely moved. He had sworn loyalty to Lilithia Nocturne this morning, and a vow like that bound far more than his hammer. Taking care of minor inconveniences came with the oath.
“A visitor,” he repeated, making a dissatisfied sound.
The woman nodded quickly. “Yes. The visitor discovered our base and demanded to speak with someone in charge. And since we have a little uncertainty about who exactly should do that, I thought it would be better if Lord Igrath handled the matter.”
So, mortals were disorganized, he thought. That was not surprising. Perhaps he should set a structure in place for the Princess as well, because it would spare them trouble later.
He lifted his hammer onto his shoulder with one hand, the metal as light as a stick in his grasp.
“Bring me to the visitor, mortal,” he said.
The woman bowed again and stepped aside, gesturing respectfully for him to follow.
Igrath followed the woman across the grass, leaving the glow of the forge behind. She led him away from his smithy and past the mansion of the Princess, which stood beside it like a silent watchtower. While they walked, he glanced at the trees surrounding the lake. The forest was thick and full of life, and the water reflected the sky too peacefully for his taste. He snorted quietly. He hoped the Princess would burn some of it down eventually, because the place would be far more comfortable with fewer trees and more fire.
They reached a clearing where another gothic style house stood. It was the one the mortal cultists had claimed for themselves. In front of it, a small group of robed mortals stood gathered around a tall stranger with black hair and hollow eyes. He wore a dark mantle and some kind of armor beneath it, but Igrath recognized at one glance that it was barely functional. The metal was too thin, the bindings too loose, and the entire design was one step above garbage.
When the two of them approached the clearing, the stranger and the cultists all turned toward them. One of the robed mortals, Sevrin, reacted immediately. He dropped to one knee and shouted loudly, “The Princess’s chosen is coming. Lower your heads.”
Igrath found the respect acceptable enough. The woman beside him, however, sighed and hushed the cultist. “Stop this, Sevrin. We do not have time for that,” she said in a firm but tired voice.
She then turned toward the visitor and gestured politely. “This is Lord Igrath Mawdrath. He will hear you out.”
The visitor’s eyes widened when he finally understood what was standing before him. His expression shifted from shock to fascination, but he did not look away in fear. Instead he bowed quickly and spoke with hurried respect.
“Excuse my sudden appearance, mighty one. My name is Cale. I was on my way to Tiara, and I usually rest at this lake when I travel through the Forgotten Woods. I did not know that followers of Catacrum had an enclave here.”
Igrath paused and looked at the woman beside him. “Catacrum,” he repeated slowly.
She cleared her throat. “The fallen city of Catacrum is the last great necropolis on the continent of Pangrea, my lord. It was the final major city to fall during the Ecclesia’s Great Heresy War against all evil. People say there is still some kind of organized group in the catacombs.”
Igrath gave a low rumble of acknowledgment and turned his gaze back to Cale.
The man continued speaking quickly, as if afraid to lose the opportunity. “I am a [Shadowstalker] of the Order of Dawn. I was tasked to make contact with an elf in Tiara who supposedly leads a guild that declares itself part of the old Empire of Xares. I was also told to locate a new cultist cell that appeared yesterday. By pure chance I believe I have found what I was searching here.”
Igrath studied him in silence for a moment. “Assuming you found what you were looking for,” he said finally, “what do you want from us.”
Cale lifted his gaze again. There was something intense in his eyes now, a mixture of hope and fanatic determination.
“If the news were real,” he said slowly, “and if the Empire of Xares is truly not gone, then we want to join the war. Because if the Empire has returned, then there is hope again.”
The clearing grew quiet. Even the cultists exchanged uncertain glances.
Cale did not look away. “If a new war is coming, then the Order of Dawn wants to step out of the shadows again. We have been hiding for far too long.”
Igrath’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the mortal. So, the Princess was indeed a warbringer in the mortal realm. He wondered if this was part of her plan, to ignite conflict among humans so that, when the gates of Hell opened again, no one would notice until it was already too late because everyone would be too distracted looking elsewhere. The thought amused him, and a low rumble rose from his chest as he began to chuckle.
“Puny human,” he said, “tell me more about your order, and I shall decide if you are worthy of an audience with the Princess.”
How is the ranking system in Xantia working?
-
Strength:
Even after reaching level 999, players can continue accumulating SP, which means there is theoretically no limit to growth. This potential for endless progression is reflected in the strength ranking. (calculated from level plus accumulated SP)
-
Wealth:
Every asset a person currently owns—including items, personal NPCs, property, and so on—is counted toward their total wealth. It functions similarly to how asset value is calculated in games like EVE Online.
-
Influence:
This measures the impact a player has within the world of Xantia. It’s more transient in nature and is typically gauged by how effectively someone can influence NPCs. For instance:
-
How is romance handled in the story? Also, does it include LGBTQ+ romance and sex scenes, or is it exclusively heterosexual when romance occurs?
*cough* Lily) will hold hands or something more will be hinted at later, but the horny police will arrest anyone who expects too much. Keep your hands to yourself!
Is this a villain or an anti-villain story? (Spoilers ahead for the next few chapters.)
a cataclysm-level being meant to restore the world’s balance. Everything she touches is somehow going to shit, and not in a good way. Some things have slipped a bit out of her control. And yes, I’m aware it’s a bit tedious how Lily is currently realising her own flaws while, at the same time, seemingly ignoring them. But we’re nearing the end of that phase in the next few chapters. She’ll have one final realisation and then try to stick to it with someone else’s help.
TL;DR: Lily will return to her anti-villain role in the next arc, but for the people of the new world she will still be seen as villainous.
What are my insperations?
Patreon. Or you could leave a short review, rating, or comment to let me know what you think!