Ending the meeting, the everyone soon dispersed

The training grounds deep within the subterranean levels of Ironforge were stiflingly hot, smelling of ozone, sulfur, and melted stone.

In the center of the obsidian arena, a massive figure moved with a rhythmic, terrifying momentum.

SCREEECH.

Alaric Ironheart dragged The Anvil across the limestone floor. The six-foot slab of grey Mythril gouged a deep white trench into the stone with every step. He didn’t hold it like a regular blade.

He gripped the hilt with both hands, the muscles in his back bulging as he torqued his hips, swinging the -pound weapon with every ounce of strength in his body.

BOOM!

The flat blade crashed into the floor, sending a shockwave of displaced air echoing through the cavern.

Alaric closed his eyes, inhaling the superheated air. His chest heaved. He was meditating through motion, trying to force his mind and body into perfect synchronization, trying to drown out the noise in his head with the deafening crack of metal on stone.

He swung again.

BOOM!

And again.

BOOM!

With every strike, a memory flashed behind his eyelids.

He saw Lukas, his hands charred and smoking, pinned beneath Prince Nero’s boot back in the Academy arena , 2. He saw Elena, bleeding and broken, dragging her shattered body across the dirt just to make the enemy bleed , . He saw the apocalyptic sky tearing open, raining purple lightning and despair as gods and monsters descended to erase them all , .

Alaric gritted his teeth, his grip on The Anvil tightening until his knuckles turned stark white.

He let the massive slab drop to the dirt, bringing his monstrous momentum to a halt. His broad chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gasps. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes and mixing with the grime on his cheeks.

He turned his head, his grey eyes drifting toward the edge of the arena.

Resting on a reinforced Dwarven weapon rack was the Sword of Heroes.

It was the legendary divine artifact he had journeyed to the Kingdom of Light to steal . The weapon of his ancestors. The only blade sharp enough to cut through the divine armor of the enemies that were coming for them.

It pulsed with a sacred, overwhelming power. Just looking at it made the air hum.

Alaric stared at the sword, and a profound, suffocating sense of inadequacy washed over him.

He walked over to the rack. He reached out, his calloused, scarred fingers hovering an inch above the hilt.

He could lift it. He knew he possessed the raw, physical strength to swing it. But to wield it freely in a life-or-death battle against Demigods or Imperial Legions?

He dropped his hand.

He wasn’t ready. The divine energy within the blade was too sharp, too absolute. If he swung it without perfect mastery, he risked destroying himself or, worse, leaving his friends exposed.

"I’m not strong enough," Alaric whispered to the empty room.

The words tasted like ash. He turned away from the divine sword and looked back at The Anvil resting in the dirt. It was ugly. It was blunt. It was a weapon meant for a brute .

But it was familiar. It didn’t ask him to be a savior; it only asked him to swing hard.

"Strength without control is just a crash waiting to happen," Alaric muttered, recalling the exact words his teacher had drilled into him back at the Academy , .

He clenched his fists, staring at the floor. The upcoming war against the Dragon Empire demanded a hero. It demanded a leader capable of cutting through the dark. And right now, staring at the dirt, Alaric felt like he was still just a blunt instrument holding his friends back.

He felt like a failure.

"You’re gripping the hilt too tight, Alaric."

Alaric jumped, his hand instinctively reaching for a weapon before he registered the voice. He spun around.

Standing at the entrance of the training ground was Damien.

He wasn’t wearing his formal black tailcoat. He wasn’t surrounded by the terrifying, suffocating shadow of the Hollow King. And, most importantly, he wasn’t wearing the terrifying white porcelain mask of ’Zero’.

His face was completely uncovered. His silver hair caught the flickering light of the magma vents, and his mismatched eyes—one a void of abyssal black, the other a blazing dragon gold—looked at his student with a warm, genuine smile.

"You seem stressed," Damien noted gently, walking into the arena with his hands casually stuffed into his pockets.

"Professor," Alaric breathed out, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly. He stood up straight, suddenly feeling like a child caught making a mistake.

He looked at The Anvil in the dirt, then at the divine sword on the rack. He swallowed hard, the shame rising in his chest.

"I’m just... recalibrating," Alaric lied, his voice thick and unsure. Then, looking at Damien’s understanding eyes, the lie crumbled. His broad shoulders slumped. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

"I’m falling back," Alaric admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush of frustration. "The Sword of Heroes... it’s powerful, Professor. It’s exactly what we need. But I don’t have the control to use it without leaving myself open. I tried. But every time I hold it, I just feel how far I have to go."

Alaric looked at his own large, scarred hands.

"I’m falling back on what I know because I’m not strong enough yet. And if I’m not strong enough... how am I supposed to protect them?"

Damien stopped in front of the giant boy. Despite Alaric towering over him in sheer height and muscle, Damien’s presence felt infinitely larger, a quiet, sheltering harbor in the middle of a storm.

"Slow down, Mr. Ironheart," Damien said softly.

He reached out and tapped the flat, dull side of the -pound Mythril slab resting in the dirt.

"You are treating this upcoming war like you have to carry the entire continent on your shoulders."

"The odds are against us, Professor," Alaric rumbled, his voice cracking with genuine fear. It wasn’t fear for himself, but fear for the people he loved. "Emperor Aurelius is hunting us. The Dragon Empire wants us dead. The Void Cultists are stirring. If I can’t master this sword... if I can’t be the shield you need me to be..."

"If the odds are against us, then you remain calm," Damien interrupted.

His voice didn’t boom, but it carried an absolute, unwavering certainty that commanded the world to listen.

"Panic breeds mistakes, Alaric. You feel like a bull in a china shop because you are rushing. You are looking at the summit of the mountain and forgetting to look at the steps in front of you."

Damien stepped closer, looking up into Alaric’s distressed grey eyes.

"Treat the world like it is made of glass. Breathe. Accept where you are right now, and stop punishing yourself for not being a god yet."

Damien gestured around the vast, sprawling expanse of Ironforge. Through the open archways of the training ground, the rhythmic, distant pounding of Dwarven hammers echoed through the stone.

"Look around you, Alaric," Damien smiled, his mismatched eyes softening into a look of profound pride.

"You aren’t a lone wall trying to block an avalanche anymore. You aren’t that desperate boy swinging a rusty sword at monsters he can’t defeat , ."

Alaric followed Damien’s gaze.

"You have Elena," Damien said softly. "You have Lukas. You have Leona, Lyra, and an entire continent of allies assembling under our banner because of the things you helped build. You are the heart of this team."

Damien turned back to him, his gaze piercing straight through Alaric’s insecurities.

"You are not alone."

Alaric stared at his teacher. The heavy, suffocating weight that had been pressing down on his chest, a weight that had been crushing his lungs since the day they escaped the Academy, slowly began to lift.

For months, he had told himself he had to be the immovable object. He had to take the lasers, take the fire, take the pain so others wouldn’t have to 2. He had convinced himself that if he faltered, everyone he loved would die.

Hearing Damien say he didn’t have to carry it all broke something rigid inside him.

Damien watched the giant boy’s posture finally relax, and let out a light, arrogant laugh that echoed through the warm cavern.

"Besides," Damien smirked, an absolute, metaphysical tyranny flaring playfully in his eyes.

"If worse comes to worst... I’ll step in."

Damien patted Alaric on his broad, muscular shoulder. Beneath Damien’s skin, the flawless, seamless fusion of his Eclipse Core hummed—radiating a power so dense and terrifyingly vast that it defied the laws of the world itself , .

"I didn’t crawl out of the th Layer of the Abyss just to watch my students lose," Damien chuckled, his tone dripping with the unadulterated confidence .

"I’ve fought Demon Generals. I’ve slaughtered th-Order Warlords. I’ve stared down Demigods and told them to wait in line. At this point, Alaric... I’m practically unkillable."

Damien’s smile widened, a promise of absolute violence wrapped in the warmth of a mentor.

"If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up. You just focus on your swings."

Alaric stared at Damien. The tension, the fear, and the frantic desperation completely drained from his massive frame. The burning heat of the forge suddenly felt comforting rather than oppressive.

He looked down at The Anvil, the crude, heavy block of metal he had relied on. Then, he looked at the Sword of Heroes, the elegant, divine weapon waiting patiently for him to be ready.

He didn’t need to rush. He had time. He had a family to back him up, and a teacher who could tear the heavens apart to keep them safe.

Alaric wiped the sweat from his brow, a fierce, feral grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Understood, Professor," Alaric rumbled, reaching down to grip the hilt of The Anvil once more. This time, his hands didn’t shake.

"I’ll take it one swing at a time."