The path to Gondrik D'Sinoparis's workshop was a daily journey that I, Carlos, undertook with growing enthusiasm. My master wasn't just a blacksmith; he was a Runic Artificer—a rare and revered title—a figure who transcended mundane tales of mages and alchemists. He wasn't like that Velkheim of the White Tower, whom I once read about in my father's dusty compendium. Velkheim was the Luminar of Essences, famous for his pompous formulas and for bottling moonlight—a figure who seemed more like a grand theorist than a creator. Gondrik was visceral; the essence of his art pulsed in the very air he breathed.

Gondrik's workshop wasn't a peculiar house full of bubbling flasks. It was a sanctuary of metal and magic. The smell of glowing charcoal, of freshly forged metal, and of quenching oils mingled with the concentrated aroma of mana. The constant sound of the hammer on the anvil, once thunder in his youth, was now a rhythmic, softer hammering, like the tired pulse of a giant. In every corner, there were incomplete metal pieces, complex gears, shimmering runes in chalk sketches, and ingots of rare ore. In the center, hanging on the wall, lay an enormous war hammer, covered with runic carvings that seemed to vibrate in silence. It was Gondrik's legendary hammer. I had touched it once when he wasn't looking, and felt something dense, an ancient mana, pulsating beneath the cold metal. Gondrik used a smaller, lighter one now.

My master was a dwarf. His gray hair and white beard were like the foam of a rocky waterfall, framing a face marked by crevices and wrinkles. His figure, once powerful, was now bent by the passage of years, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands, though steady at the forge, trembled slightly when manipulating something delicate. Gondrik needed me more and more. Not just for my youthful strength, but for my weak telekinesis, to manipulate delicate parts, and for my sensitivity to pure mana, to feel the imperfections his own tired eyes no longer saw.

It was Gondrik who explained to me, over countless hours, the true nature of mana in living beings' cores. He called it the Essence Scale—a system of concentration and purity Phases, like the growth of a tree or the formation of a gem. It began in the Rooting Phase, where mana barely formed, up to the legendary power of a Stellar Phase Core. Most street mages barely reached the Core magical core. Some talented and famous masters only reached a Conducting Core. But Gondrik, in his youth, had achieved a Prismatic Core, a level where mana becomes so pure that it refracts the very essence of power, just one stage below the strongest. His elements, Earth and Fire, had been the base for his special element, Lava, a legendary affinity that allowed him to mold metal and the earth itself with unparalleled mastery. That was why he had been, in his youth, one of the most prestigious Runic Artificers in Sinoparis.

In our routine, Gondrik forged the main piece, the metal roaring under his mana. And I, with my telekinesis, moved delicate parts, rotated gears as thin as a hair, or kept mana crystals suspended in their most subtle form, arcane dust, preparing them for infusion. My sensitivity allowed me to "read" fault lines, feel "fissures in the flow," the "screaming knots" in a metal even before Gondrik perceived them. It was a dance between brute force and ethereal delicacy. I guided his calloused hand to where the rune should be engraved, where mana needed to be "aligned."

Gondrik, in his grumpy wisdom, sometimes tested me. One day, he threw me a raw and unstable iron rune, and muttered: "Feel the error, kid." I failed, the mana of the rune pricking me like needles. But on the next attempt, closing my eyes and "touching" the energy, I felt the distortion. I was able to guide the rune until it aligned. The gleam in Gondrik's eyes was the best reward.

I grew there, learning that the art of runic forging was intuition and a deep understanding of mana. I made deliveries for Gondrik around the city, exploring the districts, using my telekinesis for small things, to help a vendor or rescue a cat, without anyone realizing it was magic, just "luck."

That night, the forge was colder. Gondrik, with a heavy sigh, commented: "The Mana Tusks of Iron Snout... they should have arrived. For an 'ancestral conductor' I've been planning, they are the missing piece. I hope the caravan didn't encounter any problems."

Carlos and Gondrik worked late. The sound of Gondrik's hammer on the anvil, soft now, muffled the distant sounds of the city.

Suddenly, a sound. Different from the usual clinking. Louder. Closer. It wasn't the wind. Nor metal. It was a dry, heavy knock, that echoed like a dissonant note at the entrance door.