The fire did not harm him.

  The first thing to return was neither light nor pain, but sound. A saturated hum that seemed to pass straight through his ribcage. It was steady, measured - like a gigantic heart beating at the very foundation of the world. Then came warmth - dense, enveloping, not burning but as though he had been wrapped in a heavy wool bnket.

  An slowly opened his eyes.

  Above him arched a vast stone vault, disappearing into darkness. The rock was dark, and within its depths shimmered reflections, as if molten veins of ancient metal flowed through the walls. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the scents of coal and iron. The ceiling vanished somewhere in immeasurable height.

  He jerked upright and sat.

  His clothes were intact. His shirt wasn’t scorched. His pants bore no trace of fme. The skin on his hands and face was smooth, without burns or blisters. Even his hair remained untouched.

  He rose to his feet.

  Before him stretched an enormous stone hall. Its scale was impossible to grasp in a single gnce - the vaults faded into dim radiance, and the walls seemed to recede endlessly. Along them stood colossal anvils, massive hammers, and furnaces carved directly from the rock itself. Everything felt both motionless and alive. Sacred. Strangely ancient.

  A few steps away, his athletic companion was speaking casually with another man An had never seen before.

  This man was enormous.

  A giant, towering a full head above the warrior who had led An here, his shoulders nearly unnaturally broad. Silver curls fell to his shoulders in dense strands. His face was sharp and weathered, as if centuries of furnace heat had scorched it. Deep wrinkles cut across his skin, yet his eyes burned with living, lucid fire. He was beautiful - with a terrible, almost unnatural perfection, like an ancient statue given breath.

  He wore a heavy leather apron bckened by soot and time.

  He was ughing.

  Laughing loudly, freely, confidently - cpping the athlete on the shoulder with such force that the man rocked slightly but did not step back.

  “You’re still the same stubborn fool,” the silver-haired man said in a thick voice. “How many times have you gotten yourself into trouble - and still dragged your legs back here?”

  “Not enough,” the other replied with a faint smile. “But this time it turned out differently.”

  The silver-haired man’s gaze shifted to An. It changed entirely. No joy. No irritation. It was the look of a master assessing raw material before work begins.

  He approached with heavy steps that echoed solidly against the stone floor.

  “This him?” the bcksmith asked calmly.

  “The one,” An’s companion confirmed.

  The silver-haired man extended his hand.

  “Give it here.”

  Without hesitation, the athlete removed the sword-hilt - the former rod - from his belt and pced it in the giant’s palm. An felt a painful jolt somewhere in his chest.

  “Hey…” he said helplessly.

  The bcksmith did not respond. He examined the hilt carefully, ran his fingers along the metal, and nodded to himself.

  “The core’s intact,” he muttered. “Can still be reforged.”

  Only then did he look at An.

  “You,” he said shortly. “Go fix.”

  “Fix what?” An asked, confused.

  The giant waved a massive hand vaguely to the side.

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  And without waiting for further questions, he turned and walked deeper into the Forge, carrying the rod with him. As An’s companion passed by, he smiled and gave a small wink.

  “You’ll like it,” he said quietly.

  ---

  The space shifted without transition.

  An took several steps across the stone floor - and suddenly entered a small room.

  It looked like an old office.

  Pstic wall panels. Worn linoleum. In the center stood a heavy desk with many drawers - the kind he had seen hundreds of times… back there… before. On the desk sat a mp with a green shade, casting a soft, warm light. Dozens of folders with printouts, pencils, pens, rulers y scattered across the surface. Two wooden chairs stood nearby. Against the wall loomed a massive multifunction printer.

  On its screen glowed a bright error message:

  **SYSTEM FAILURE: Internal Error. Please contact customer service.**

  An stopped.

  He exhaled slowly. His shoulders rexed.

  He stepped closer, ran his palm over the pstic casing, feeling its familiar texture. The faint smell of heated electronics filled the air.

  “Hey,” he murmured. “Tech support’s here.”

  He smiled involuntarily.

  There were no fiery bdes here. Just equipment he knew. Equipment he had repaired hundreds of times.

  He carefully opened the cover. Checked the carriage. Examined the guides. Removed the side panel. Inside y a familiar world of gears, belts, sensors. His movements grew steady and calm. The world narrowed to cables, circuit boards, connectors. The hum of the Forge faded into distant background noise.

  He immersed himself fully in the work.

  After some time, the message on the screen changed.

  **READY**

  He ran a test print.

  The sheet came out smoothly, without dey. Colors accurate. Bck lines perfectly sharp.

  With quiet pride, An taped the printout to the machine’s casing.

  Job done.

  In one of the desk drawers he found cookies. He sat down. Crumbs dusted his fingers and fell to the floor. The taste in his mouth was indescribably pleasant. He leaned back. Warmth enveloped him. The mp’s glow softened the edges of the desk.

  He propped his feet on an open drawer and closed his eyes.

  He thought he could hear his own heartbeat.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  He fell asleep.

  ---

  He woke abruptly.

  His heart pounded. Sweat ran down his back. His mouth was dry.

  The office remained. Through the open doorway he could see the stone vaults of the Forge. Warm crimson light illuminated massive anvils and furnaces.

  He understood now: he was inside a mechanism created in deep antiquity - the Forge of the World, existing long before the current order of things.

  But something new had settled inside him.

  He felt - uncertainly - the weight of his own body. The density of his presence. It warmed him from within.

  He carefully concealed this realization. It wasn’t clear whom, or how much, he could trust. And where was the man in the white robe? After all, An had fulfilled his request…

  Two figures ducked through the narrow doorway.

  His companion - and the silver-haired giant.

  “Awake,” the giant said calmly, still without smiling.

  “He managed,” the athlete added thoughtfully.

  “Who are you, finally?” An asked quietly. He froze in a flicker of fear - had this new sensation inside him made him recklessly bold?

  The scarred man stepped forward ceremonially. His sandals struck the floor loudly.

  “My name is Tsevael. I was commander of those sent to correct major malfunctions in Limbo.” His eyes seemed to bze with blinding white light - the same light that had consumed the clerks when An aimed the rod at them. “And not only there,” he added meaningfully.

  The silver-haired man nodded and gestured.

  “Pyromarchos. I am head of the Forge of the World. By the will of the Creator, all things in the world were made. And the Forge shaped everything else.”

  He squeezed back through the doorway and moved toward an anvil. An hurried after them.

  On the anvil y a sword.

  Its foundation was the same hilt. But now a golden, fiery bde extended from it. No trace of damage remained.

  Tsevael lifted the sword and swung it. A trail of fire followed the bde, scattering sparks. Smiling, radiant, he approached An and touched his shoulder with the bde.

  Warmth passed through the fabric of his shirt.

  “I name you,” he decred solemnly, “Lesser - but not small.”

  Pyromarchos nodded sternly.

  “Enough. Time for you to go.”

  Tsevael smirked and strode away, disappearing from sight.

  Pyromarchos turned to An. In his hand appeared another rod. Longer. Slimmer. Dark metal. With something like a crossguard.

  “This is yours,” the bcksmith said almost kindly, handing it over.

  An took it and swung.

  A bde formed in the air - woven of starlight. Icy sparks shimmered within it.

  It was entirely his.

  Pyromarchos watched closely.

  “Go,” he said, pointing toward an opening in the wall. His face grew thoughtful. Tired. “And fix everything.”

  An stepped outside - and stopped.

  He meant to turn back and ask what exactly he was supposed to fix and where he was meant to go. But raging fme sealed the entrance. Its tongues licked the ground near his feet, leaving smoky streaks.

  He shrugged.

  Turning his back to the endless wall of the Forge, he began walking without a clear direction.

  He walked and walked, feeling neither fatigue nor hunger nor thirst. His feet found a narrow path between tufts of stiff grass that led him off the rocky wastend and onto a long-abandoned field. The warmth hidden in his chest encouraged him.

  After a while, he remembered the object he had stuffed into his pocket. He stopped and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

  Pin office paper.

  He unfolded it.

  Bnk.

  Confused, he folded it again and slipped it back into his pocket.

  Ahead rose a forest wall. The path curved along it. The sun was setting behind him.

  And suddenly he saw one of the clerks standing beside a thick stump.

  Ordinary - if that word could apply. Cold. In standard attire. There was no counter - but he felt her steady gaze from a distance.

  He cautiously touched his new rod.

  The stump glowed softly.

  Wait.

  That was the familiar elevator…

  The one that had carried him to work each time.

  A strange relief filled him.

  Order was returning.

  Under the clerk’s unwavering gaze, he stepped onto the glowing ptform.

  The doors closed.

  The elevator moved.

  *Did I make a mistake?* An had time to think -

  - and slid downward.