The registrar handed over the rest of the documentation to my mother, and then he handed me a book while she was holding me in one arm, a book with magical ink, one that I could read. The Adventurer's Primer, Martial Edition, a picture book. Thank goodness. Something that I didn’t think I would need would come in so useful. I wondered if this was going to be full of propaganda or if it was actually going to be helpful. I could only hope. But at least it would have pictures, and it also was an enchanted book, which meant that there was an inscription somewhere in the cover that I could look at and practice with, which was exciting on its own. Even the scent of the ink promised that it had been made by hands that cared for the craft.

  My mother and I bid the registrar farewell. I waved the book and said, “Bye,” in our language. Or I may have said, “Butts.” I’m not really certain. My mother and the registrar both laughed, and I looked at them a bit confused, but we moved on. The air outside was bright with afternoon heat, and dust clung to my mother’s skirt as she walked. I held the book tight to my chest, feeling its heartbeat hum through the enchantment. It was warm, heavier than it looked, and I found myself tracing the little embossed seal on the corner again and again.

  My mother said that we would be going to the Temple District, as she wished to pay her respects to the gods. She again asked if I wished to go to the Temple of Knowledge, and I vehemently shook my head. I repeated the word iron three times just to make sure she understood. She smiled at me and then said iron again to me, her tone amused but not dismissive, as if she was beginning to realize that this was not whimsy.

  She took me into one of the temples. They all looked identical on the outside, as the law required. Each had the same height, the same width, the same square fa?ade of white stone trimmed with bronze, so that no god’s house stood above another. The only difference lay in the symbols carved over the doors. For the God of Iron, it was a clenched fist raising a hammer skyward. For Knowledge, an open eye. For Mercy, a hand extended downward. Every door looked the same until you noticed those symbols, each one a promise and a warning.

  Inside, the Temple of Iron looked nothing like the others. There were no braziers, no incense, no polished altars. This was not a temple of quiet reverence or mystic fire. It was a gymnasium, pure and simple. The smell hit me immediately, thick and human, a mixture of sweat, salt, and determination. The floor was covered in polished stone mats instead of carpets, and racks of metal weights gleamed like offerings lined against the walls. The air thrummed with the sounds of grunts, laughter, and breath drawn deep in unison. It was not pretty, but it was alive.

  Men and women lifted, pushed, pulled, stretched, and trained in every corner. Some were young and eager, others weathered and scarred, their arms a map of every prayer they had ever given. This was how mortals prayed to Iron, not through words but through strain.

  As we stepped farther in, a man stuck his head through the door and called out, "Is this the Temple of the Forge?"

  The priest waved him off with a friendly grin. "Wrong temple, friend. The Forge is for blacksmiths and craft. This is the Temple of Iron. We do not shape iron here. We shape the body into iron."

  The man muttered thanks and backed out, already turning toward another doorway with a different symbol above it. The priest tapped the sign over our entrance, the clenched fist lifting a hammer, then swept a hand toward the rows of weights and mats.

  "Body first," he said. "Metal comes later."

  Every drop of sweat that fell to the floor was an offering. Every repetition a hymn. Every ache a psalm.

  My mother’s nose wrinkled, and she stepped carefully between two people performing squats with weights across their shoulders. A priest noticed us and came forward, a man whose muscles made his robe look like it was losing an argument with his torso. He smiled broadly and said, “Welcome to the Temple of Iron, young acolyte. Have you come to shape your already fine body into something greater? Would you like to start with the dumbbells, or perhaps the kettle press?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but he was clearly addressing my mother. His grin was enormous, his teeth white against skin darkened with labor, and I could see the humor in his eyes as he glanced at me.

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  “Oh, would your little one like to join the junior class? We hold it every Wednesday. It’s mostly stretches, posture work, and learning balance. Only,” he leaned forward, peering at me, “he does look a little young. Extremely young. And I don’t think he should be doing any real exertion, or his body might become damaged permanently.”

  That caught my attention. I didn’t know that exercise could harm the body if done wrong. I thought exercise was supposed to strengthen it. It seemed I had much to learn in this life. I looked around again and noticed the chalkboards covered with diagrams of joints and tendons, the instructions for safe movement written in looping script. This was an art of flesh, measured and studied. A temple of anatomy rather than spirit.

  I tried to ask for the tenets of Iron, but the word escaped me. I might have said cat of iron. The priest blinked in confusion until my mother explained. “He means the Tenets of Iron,” she said, shaping each syllable carefully. I repeated it after her, proud that I managed to say it correctly this time.

  The priest’s grin widened. “Ah, a seeker already. Follow me. And your son, is he a reincarnator?”

  My mother nodded.

  “Good,” the priest said with warmth. “If he follows Iron, he’ll grow strong in this life, and every life that follows.”

  He led us to the back of the hall, where the noise dimmed. There, against the far wall, stood a great iron plaque mounted upright, polished smooth from years of Reverend touch. Ten lines were carved into its face, the Ten Tenets of Iron, pressed into the metal as if by divine fingers. The letters glowed faintly when the light hit them, not with magic, but with oil and care.

  I read the words the way all divine text was read, not with my eyes, but with my soul.

  The Ten Tenets of Iron

  

  
1. Your body is a gift. Take care of it.
   
     Wash it, rest it, mend it. A gift neglected returns to dust.


  
2. Your body is a tool. Use it.
   
     Keep it in motion. Work polishes the soul as much as the skin.


  
3. Your body is a temple. Pray to it.
   
     Breathe deep. Stretch wide. The simplest movement is worship.


  
4. Your body is a promise. Keep it.
   
     Let your hands prove your words. Let your effort prove your intent.


  
5. Your body demands sacrifice. Offer it.
   
     Sweat, hunger, ache, these are the coins of growth. Spend them daily.


  
6. Your body has needs. Honor them.
   
     Eat when hungry, rest when weary, love when willing. Need is not sin; harm is.


  
7. Your body feels pain. Listen to it.
   
     Pain is the voice of the forge reminding you where the metal is thin.


  
8. Your body seeks balance. Maintain it.
   
     Overindulgence dulls the edge; denial makes it brittle. Keep the middle path.


  
9. Your body is your foundation. Build it evenly.
   
     No part is lesser. The smallest weakness topples the tallest wall.


  
10. Never skip leg day.
    
      Never. Leg day is the most important. You will hate it. Everyone hates it. Do it anyway.


  

  When I finished reading, I felt the weight of them settle inside me, not as commandments, but as reminders. This was faith built from discipline, worship written in repetition. The God of Iron did not ask for belief, only effort. And I knew then that I would live by these words.

  The priest lingered beside the plaque as I studied the carvings, his arms folded, the light catching faint silver scars along his knuckles. “The Tenets are simple,” he said, voice calm and low. “They are not to be memorized, but to be lived. Each day you move, you practice them. Each time you rest, you honor them. You will find they change meaning as your strength grows.” He touched the plaque lightly, tracing one of the carved letters with a fingertip. “People come here thinking they will build muscle, but what they truly build is honesty. The body cannot lie. You can fake prayer, fake piety, but you cannot fake the weight of iron. It will always tell you the truth.”

  I listened, barely breathing. Even as a child, I understood the gravity in his tone. He was not just a priest; he was a craftsman of flesh. Around us, the sounds of training rose again, steady and rhythmic. The air felt heavier now, not from heat but from purpose. These people weren’t worshiping something beyond themselves. They were forging something within. Every drop of sweat here was a verse in a sacred language that only effort could translate.

  My mother stood silently beside me, her expression thoughtful rather than uncertain. She believed in Iron. I knew that now. She was a woman of Knowledge, raised to follow thought, reason, and study, but even she had found faith in Iron’s strength. It had been Iron, after all, who had answered her when no other god had listened. She had not prayed for wealth, or wisdom, or peace. She had prayed for the strength for her son, and Iron had given it. She never forgot that. Though she worshiped Knowledge with her mind, she honored Iron with her heart. This place was not foreign to her; it was simply louder, rougher, and far more direct than she was used to. She respected it nonetheless.

  When we left the temple, I looked back once. The sun was setting, spilling gold across the identical roofs of the Temple District. But only one building had the sound of living hearts within it. I clutched my picture book and whispered the words again in my head: Your body is a gift. The words glowed behind my eyes like cooling metal, and I knew I had chosen correctly.