The Cursed Extra-Chapter 120: [2.68] The Secret Forge That a Forum Troll Predicted
"Every great house has its secrets. The trick is knowing which ones to dig up."
***
The service corridor behind the Onyx dormitory hadn’t seen maintenance in decades. Maybe longer.
Moss crept along the stone walls like green veins. Spread in patterns that suggested no groundskeeper had bothered with this passage since before my father was born. The air hung heavy with the smell of decay and forgotten spaces. That particular mustiness that only accumulated in places the world had decided to ignore.
I led Lyra through the narrow passage. Ducked beneath low-hanging pipes that dripped condensation onto the cracked flagstones below. Water had pooled in the uneven stones. Created miniature lakes that reflected our lamplight back at us in fragmented pieces.
The ceiling pressed close overhead. Forced me to hunch my shoulders in a way that would have been uncomfortable if I weren’t already so accustomed to making myself small.
My fingers traced the wall as we walked. Counted stones the way the original novel had described.
Forty-three stones from the corner. Then seventeen up.
The knowledge felt surreal. Like walking through a dream I’d once read about. These details had been mere words on a screen. Throwaway descriptions in a passage I’d skimmed while procrastinating on an engineering assignment.
Now they were solid reality beneath my touch. Rough granite and ancient mortar that crumbled slightly under my fingertips.
PlotHoleFinder69 would lose his mind if he could see this.
I remembered the forum arguments about whether the author had actually planned out the academy’s underground architecture or just made things up as needed.
Turns out there was a method to the madness. Who knew?
"Master, where exactly are we going?" Lyra’s voice carried a note of curiosity rather than concern. She trusted me completely. Even when I led her into forgotten corners of the academy that no student had any business exploring.
That trust was simultaneously flattering and terrifying.
What if I led her somewhere genuinely dangerous? What if my memory of the novel was wrong?
Stop it. You’ve verified enough details to know the broad strokes are accurate. The rest is just paranoia.
"Somewhere that doesn’t appear on any official map." I stopped before what looked like a solid wall. Ran my palm across the rough stone surface. The texture was different here. Slightly smoother where countless hands had touched the same spot over centuries. "The academy has layers, Lyra. What students see is just the surface. Beneath all those polished floors and gleaming windows, there’s another academy entirely. One that served purposes the current administration would rather forget."
My fingers found the loose stone. A piece of masonry that shifted slightly when pressed.
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened.
I pushed harder. Felt the ancient mechanism resist.
Then something clicked deep within the wall. A sound like bones settling into place. The mechanism groaned. Metal ground against metal after years of disuse.
A section of the wall pivoted inward on hidden hinges.
Darkness gaped beyond the opening like a hungry mouth.
Stale air rushed out. Carried scents of cold metal and ancient dust. The darkness seemed to swallow our small lamp’s light. But stone steps descended into the depths. Worn smooth by countless feet from centuries past.
"The original builders of this academy understood something the current administration has forgotten," I said. Started down the steps. Each one felt solid beneath my boots despite their age. "They built for war, not politics. They expected this place to withstand sieges, not just academic rivalries."
The staircase spiraled downward in a tight helix. The walls closed in around us until I could touch both sides with my outstretched hands.
Lyra followed without hesitation. Her footsteps silent on the stone while mine echoed with each footfall. Her crimson eyes reflected what little light we carried. Glowed like coals in the darkness.
The temperature dropped as we descended. The warmth of the upper academy faded into the perpetual chill of underground spaces. My breath started to mist in front of me. Small clouds that dissipated almost immediately.
Chapter 847 had mentioned this place in passing.
Just a single paragraph about the "forgotten forges beneath House Onyx."
The protagonist had never visited, of course. Why would he? He was too busy collecting love interests and unlocking his forty-seventh hidden power to bother with something as pedestrian as academy infrastructure.
PlotHoleFinder69 had speculated about its significance in one of his forum posts. Argued that the author was setting up a Chekhov’s Gun that never fired.
"Classic worldbuilding bloat," he’d written. "Mentions an interesting location, never uses it. Probably forgot it existed by Chapter 900."
He wasn’t wrong about the author forgetting.
But he’d missed the more important point.
This wasn’t meant for the protagonists. This was meant for people like me. People who read between the lines and paid attention to the throwaway details.
Thanks for the tip, you magnificent nerd.
The stairs ended at a heavy wooden door. Its iron hinges black with age. The wood felt solid under my hands as I pushed. The grain rough against my palms.
For a moment, the door resisted. Swollen in its frame from centuries of humidity.
I pushed harder. Put my shoulder into it.
It swung open with a groan that echoed through the chamber beyond.
The forge stretched out before us. A circular room carved from living rock.
Dust lay thick on everything. Undisturbed for decades. Maybe longer. The lamp’s light barely reached the far walls.
But what I could see made my breath catch.
Tools hung on the walls like sleeping weapons. Hammers with worn handles that showed the imprints of vanished hands. Tongs that had shaped countless pieces of metal, their jaws stained dark with old soot. Files and rasps arranged in neat rows. Organized by size and purpose with the care of a master craftsman.
The bellows stood silent in one corner. Their leather cracked but not beyond repair. Even the coal bin remained, though only ash filled it now.
At the center of it all sat the anvil.
It dominated the space like an altar to some forgotten god of creation. The metal surface bore the scars of countless projects. Dents and scratches that told stories of blades forged and armor shaped.
Despite the dust, the anvil remained solid. Its dark surface unmarked by rust. Whatever alloy the original smiths had used, it had been designed to last.
I approached it slowly. My footsteps echoed in the silence.
The weight of history pressed down on this place. I could almost hear the ring of hammers. The roar of flames. The hiss of hot metal plunging into water.
Generations of House Onyx smiths had worked here when the house meant something more than academic failure. When wearing the black meant something other than being the last pick for team assignments.
"What is this place?" Lyra’s voice was barely above a whisper. As if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever spirits lingered in the shadows. She stood at the entrance. Her lamp raised high. Tried to take in the full scope of what we’d found.
"House Onyx wasn’t always the dumping ground for unwanted students."
I ran my hand across the anvil’s surface. Wiped away a patch of dust. The metal beneath was dark iron. Cold but unblemished. It felt almost alive under my touch. As if it remembered the heat and purpose it had once served.
"Once, we were warriors. Smiths. Makers of weapons that decided the fate of kingdoms. This forge produced blades that ended dynasties and armor that turned back invasions."
I looked around the room. Took in the tools and the workspace and the centuries of accumulated silence.
And now it’s going to produce flash-powder and smoke bombs for one very desperate extra.
How the mighty have fallen. Or risen. Depends on your perspective.
