It has been a few months since my first visit to the hidden tunnels beneath the mountain.
What started as a small hideout built by a group of children had gradually transformed into something much livelier. Every few days, after finishing my lessons and helping around the house, I would make my way back to Metal Veil. By now, even the adults guarding the entrance had stopped asking questions. To them, I was simply another child excited to play with his friends.
Only the children knew the truth.
I wasn't there to play.
Well... not entirely.
The first thing they did after learning that I enjoyed blacksmithing was build me a forge.
Calling it a forge might have been a little generous.
It consisted of a nearly broken cauldron that served as a melting pot, a cracked anvil with one corner missing, and a furnace assembled from loose stones scavenged throughout the tunnels. Around it were rusted tongs, bent hammers, chipped chisels, and all sorts of strange tools whose original purpose had long been forgotten.
Most of the equipment looked like junk.
To me...
It looked like paradise.
The children proudly called it **Ash's Forge**, though in reality it was nothing more than a forgotten corner of the fortress where discarded tools had been piled together over the years.
For a blacksmith, however, discarded did not always mean useless.
Almost every visit began the same way.
A child would excitedly run over carrying something they had found somewhere within the tunnels.
"Ash! We found another one!"
Sometimes it was a broken hammer.
Sometimes it was a cracked cooking pot.
Other times it was a rusted shovel that had probably been sitting underground for centuries.
Whatever they found, they brought it to me first.
Repairing them had quietly become my daily routine.
Most of the tools were too damaged to restore completely, but making them usable again was surprisingly straightforward. A bent blade could be straightened. Loose hammer heads could be secured with new handles. Rust could be cleaned away. Small cracks could be reinforced before they spread further.
The repairs weren't beautiful.
They didn't need to be.
As long as the tools worked, the children celebrated every success as though I had forged a legendary weapon.
Looking around the miniature forge, I couldn't help but smile.
The cracked anvil was still cracked.
The cauldron still leaked if it was filled too high.
Half of the tools hanging on the wall had probably been repaired three or four times already.
Yet somehow...
Everything felt more alive than before.
Metal Veil was slowly changing.
Not because someone had ordered it.
Not because a king had commanded it.
But because a group of children had decided that broken things were worth fixing.
And somehow...
That included me.
---
The past few months had settled into a familiar routine.
Every weekend, after breakfast, I would ask the same question.
"Papa... can I go play with my friends in the valley?"
And every weekend, the answer was exactly the same.
"You'll be back before sunset."
That part never changed.
What changed was me.
The valley had become more than just a place to play. It had become somewhere I looked forward to every weekend. Every visit meant another broken tool to repair, another strange piece of equipment to figure out, and another excuse for the children to drag me into whatever project they had come up with that week.
Today, however, I wanted something different.
I set my spoon down and looked at Ashtir.
"Papa..."
"Hmm?"
"Can I stay there for a couple of days?"
The room became quiet.
Sera slowly looked up from her meal.
"...A couple of days?"
I nodded eagerly.
"I want to play with everyone."
"And?"
"...And sleep there."
Sera immediately shook her head.
"No."
The answer came so quickly that I wasn't even surprised anymore.
"You're still too young."
"But Mama..."
"No."
I turned toward Ashtir instead.
"Papa..."
He continued eating for a few moments before letting out a quiet laugh.
"You've been planning this, haven't you?"
"...Maybe."
"Hahaha."
He wiped his beard before glancing toward Sera.
"He has been going there every weekend for months."
Sera folded her arms.
"I know."
"He has never come home late."
"I know."
"He knows the path."
"I know."
"He has friends there."
"I know."
Ashtir smiled.
"Then maybe..."
Sera narrowed her eyes.
"...Don't."
"Hear me out."
He raised both hands with a grin.
"One night."
She stared at him.
"Just one."
"He stays with the other children."
"He doesn't wander off."
"And..."
He turned toward me.
"The moment the sun reaches noon tomorrow..."
He pointed toward the valley.
"...I want to see you standing in the square."
His expression became noticeably more serious.
"If you're not there..."
"I'm coming to get you myself."
"I'll be there!"
"No excuses."
"I promise!"
"You'll be waiting in the square."
"I will!"
Sera looked back and forth between the two of us before letting out a long sigh.
"I suppose I already lost this argument."
Ashtir laughed loudly.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She smiled helplessly before looking at me.
"One night."
"No leaving the valley."
"No following anyone into places you don't know."
"And if your father comes looking for you..."
She smiled gently.
"...You'll be hearing from me afterward."
I immediately nodded.
"I'll behave!"
"Hahaha!"
Ashtir reached over and ruffled my hair.
"Go enjoy yourself."
It had taken months of asking.
Months of proving I could be trusted.
But finally...
I had earned my first overnight stay in the valley.
---
By the time I reached the valley, the familiar tunnel entrance was already bustling with children.
A pair of boys stood near the entrance carrying wooden spears almost twice their height. They puffed out their chests the moment they saw me.
"Halt!"
One of them pointed his spear dramatically toward me.
"State your name!"
I couldn't help but smile.
"Ash."
The two looked at one another before nodding.
"You're allowed in."
The other boy quickly pushed aside a wooden barricade just large enough for a child to squeeze through.
"Welcome back!"
"...Thank you."
The moment I stepped inside, I immediately noticed the difference.
It had changed.
A lot.
The once quiet tunnels were now filled with children.
Not dozens.
Hundreds.
Every tunnel seemed alive with activity. Children ran through the stone corridors carrying bundles of wood, baskets filled with mushrooms, buckets of water, and all sorts of tools far too large for them. Others chased each other between the buildings, laughing loudly as they disappeared into another tunnel.
The place no longer felt like a fort built by children.
It felt like a village.
No...
More like a tiny kingdom.
Everyone had somehow found a role to play.
Near the entrance, a group of children wearing handmade wooden helmets proudly called themselves the town guards. They marched back and forth along the tunnels with remarkable seriousness, occasionally stopping to salute anyone they considered important.
Further ahead, several girls had transformed one of the larger caverns into a marketplace. The stalls were made from old crates and broken tables, displaying polished stones, colorful feathers, handmade dolls, carved wooden animals, and all sorts of treasures that only children would consider valuable. Every trade was accompanied by loud negotiations and exaggerated arguments over whose shiny rock was worth more.
Another group busied themselves repairing small houses carved directly into the cavern walls. Some carried planks scavenged from abandoned storage rooms while others carefully hammered bent nails back into place.
Near a small underground stream, children hauled buckets of water toward the communal kitchens, where another group stirred enormous pots of mushroom stew with paddles nearly as tall as themselves.
The entire valley buzzed with life.
There was no shouting.
No panic.
Just constant movement.
Every child seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to be.
It was chaotic.
Disorganized.
Completely inefficient.
Yet somehow...
It worked.
As I continued walking, more and more children waved at me.
"Ash!"
"The blacksmith's here!"
"He's back!"
Several younger children immediately ran toward me before stopping just short of knocking me over.
One of them grabbed my hand.
"Come quickly!"
"We found more broken tools!"
Another tugged at my sleeve.
"No!"
"King Charles is waiting first!"
A third shook his head furiously.
"No!"
"The blacksmith apprentices got here before you!"
I laughed as they all began talking over one another.
It had only been a few months.
Yet somehow...
This little kingdom hidden beneath the mountain had become more alive than ever.
---
The familiar rhythm of hammer striking metal echoed through the tunnels long before I reached my little corner of the fortress.
_Ding._
_Ding._
_Ding._
"...They're already working."
As I rounded the corner, the sight before me made me smile.
My tiny forge was almost unrecognizable.
The cracked anvil was occupied by a broad-shouldered boy, no older than seven, carefully straightening the bent edge of a shovel. Beside him, another apprentice slowly filed the rust from a pair of kitchen knives while a third sorted through a mountain of broken tools stacked neatly against the wall.
"...Morning."
Several heads immediately turned.
"Ash!"
"You're finally here!"
"Look!"
The oldest of the group hurried over, proudly holding up a repaired hammer.
Its wooden handle had been replaced, and although the head still carried years of wear, it was sturdy enough to use again.
"I finished it!"
I took the hammer and examined it carefully.
The handle sat firmly against the eye.
The wedges were driven in correctly.
There was only one problem.
"You drove the wedge too deep."
"...Huh?"
I pointed at the top.
"See this split?"
The boy leaned closer.
"The handle will loosen after a few days."
His shoulders immediately slumped.
"...I thought I finally got it right."
"You almost did."
I smiled before handing it back.
"Cut a new handle later. This time, leave a little more wood above the head before driving the wedge."
He nodded enthusiastically.
"I'll do it again."
Over the past few months, the children had gradually introduced me to the sons and daughters of the village blacksmiths.
Most were older than me by a few years.
Despite that, they never treated me like the youngest in the group.
Not after seeing what I could do with broken tools.
Borin was the oldest among them, already seven years old. He was patient, dependable, and probably the best at shaping replacement handles.
Nia preferred smaller work. She spent most of her time polishing blades, removing rust, and sharpening kitchen tools until they looked almost new.
Durgan had more enthusiasm than skill. If something required enough force to hit with a hammer, he volunteered immediately.
Toren rarely spoke, but he had surprisingly steady hands. Whenever delicate repairs were needed, everyone naturally handed the work to him.
Mira possessed an incredible eye for detail. She could spot tiny cracks in metal that everyone else overlooked, often saving hours of unnecessary work.
The youngest after me was little Grom, whose greatest talent seemed to be finding broken things faster than anyone else.
If something had rusted, cracked, bent, or fallen apart...
Grom somehow managed to drag it back to the forge.
Over time, our little workshop had become strangely organized.
Someone cleaned.
Someone sorted.
Someone prepared replacement handles.
Someone worked the bellows.
Someone sharpened finished tools.
And I simply moved from station to station, correcting mistakes whenever I spotted them.
"Don't grip the hammer so tightly, Durgan."
He blinked.
"...Why?"
"If your hand gets tired, your strikes become weaker."
I gently adjusted his grip.
"Let the hammer do the work."
He gave it another swing.
_Ding._
The blow landed much cleaner than before.
"...Oh."
A few steps away, Toren struggled to straighten the bent shaft of a pair of tongs.
"Heat it a little longer."
He looked over.
"It'll crack otherwise."
Without questioning me, he slipped the metal back into the fire.
That had become normal.
Months ago, every suggestion I made was followed by a dozen questions.
Now...
They simply trusted me.
Not because I was stronger.
Not because I was older.
But because, somehow, the strange methods I carried from another world almost always worked.
The morning disappeared in a steady rhythm of hammering, filing, polishing, and laughter.
By midday, several more tools hung neatly on the wall, ready to be used again instead of thrown away.
Just as I was wiping the soot from my hands, hurried footsteps echoed through the tunnel.
"Ash!"
"Borin!"
"The King is calling everyone!"
"The monthly meeting is about to start!"
The entire workshop immediately fell silent.
Borin set his hammer down.
"Already?"
The messenger nodded excitedly.
"Everyone's gathering at the fort!"
I glanced at the repaired tools hanging along the wall before placing my own hammer beside the cracked anvil.
"...Let's go."
---
By the time we reached the central fort, most of the children had already gathered.
The once empty hall was now lined with long wooden tables, benches, and crude maps drawn across several pieces of stitched cloth. Children carrying notebooks made from bound scraps of paper hurried back and forth, organizing seats and preparing reports before the meeting began.
At the far end of the room, King Charles sat upon his familiar throne.
It was still made from stacked wooden crates.
It still looked far too large for him.
Yet somehow...
It suited him.
"Everyone's here?" Charles asked.
One of the older children quickly looked around the room before nodding.
"Almost, Your Majesty."
Another child rushed through the entrance carrying a small bundle of papers.
"The farming group is here!"
"The hunters too!"
"The blacksmith apprentices have arrived!"
Charles nodded with satisfaction.
"Good."
"Let's begin."
The room gradually fell silent.
One by one, the representatives stepped forward to give their monthly reports.
A young girl carrying a notebook bowed slightly.
"Food stores."
She carefully unfolded several pages.
"Our mushroom harvest remained stable throughout the month. The drying racks are nearly full, and the underground vegetable gardens continue producing enough to support everyone."
She flipped another page.
"The hunting parties also returned with enough cave rabbits and fish to keep our emergency storage stocked."
Charles nodded.
"No shortages?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Good."
Another child stepped forward.
"Water."
"The underground springs continue flowing normally."
"We repaired the cracked storage barrels last week."
He smiled proudly.
"There are no leaks anymore."
Several children quietly applauded.
Charles smiled.
"Well done."
The next report came from the builders.
"We repaired three houses this month."
"Two roofs."
"And expanded the eastern tunnel."
"We also reinforced the supports near the old storage rooms."
Charles glanced toward Ash.
"No collapses?"
The boy proudly shook his head.
"None."
"Excellent."
One report followed another.
Clothing.
Firewood.
Medicinal herbs.
Tool inventories.
Every department had someone responsible for keeping track of supplies.
It was surprisingly organized.
Considering every person in the room was still a child, the meeting felt remarkably similar to the project meetings I used to attend back on Earth.
Nobody interrupted.
Nobody argued.
Each group simply presented what had been accomplished and what still needed attention.
When the builders finished, Charles looked toward our corner of the room.
"The blacksmiths."
Borin stood up first before giving me a quick glance.
"Our repair workshop remained busy this month."
He unfolded a worn piece of parchment.
"We restored thirty-seven household tools, twelve farming implements, nine cooking pots, and six mining tools."
A few children nodded with satisfaction.
Borin continued.
"We also repaired the forge bellows, replaced two cracked hammer handles, and finished organizing the scrap storage."
He smiled.
"...We still have a mountain of broken things left."
The room erupted into quiet laughter.
Charles couldn't help smiling.
"I don't think that mountain will ever disappear."
"Probably not."
Borin scratched the back of his head.
"But it's getting smaller."
Charles nodded approvingly.
"Good."
He looked around the room once more.
"So far..."
"It sounds like everything is running smoothly."
Around the hall, dozens of children nodded in agreement.
For the first time in months, there had been no accidents, no shortages, and no major problems.
Everything had remained well within their expected limits.
For a kingdom run entirely by children...
That alone felt like a remarkable achievement.
Charles looked around the hall once more.
"Any miscellaneous reports?"
For a brief moment, nobody answered.
Then one of the older children standing near the back slowly raised his hand.
"The night watch has one, Your Majesty."
Charles nodded.
"Go ahead."
The boy unfolded a small notebook.
"The western and northern patrols reported nothing unusual."
He turned the page.
"The southern entrance is still stable."
Another page.
"...However..."
He hesitated.
"We heard the sounds again."
The room gradually grew quieter.
Charles' expression barely changed.
"Which section?"
"The lower tunnels."
"The deepest passages beyond the old mining route."
Charles simply nodded.
"What did you hear this time?"
The boy glanced at his notes.
"...Laughter."
He paused.
"A little later..."
"...singing."
Several children exchanged uneasy looks.
"And after that..."
He frowned as if trying to remember the exact sound.
"...metal."
"Metal?"
"It wasn't loud."
"It was rhythmic."
He lightly tapped the table.
_...Ting..._
A short pause.
_...Ting..._
Another pause.
_...Ting..._
"Like someone striking metal far away."
"It continued for almost an hour before stopping."
Charles remained silent for a moment.
Then he reached beneath his throne.
From a small wooden chest, he carefully lifted an old leather-bound journal.
The edges of its pages had yellowed with age, and its cover had been repaired so many times that the original stitching was barely visible.
He gently rested it on the table.
"The Journal of Kings."
Several of the younger children immediately straightened.
Ash's attention was drawn to the worn book.
Charles slowly opened it.
"When I became king, my predecessor told me that every king leaves behind a record for the next."
He flipped through several pages.
"The food reports."
"The repairs."
"The arguments."
"The festivals."
He smiled faintly.
"Everything that might help the next king."
Another page turned.
"Then I started noticing something."
He looked around the room.
"Every few months..."
"...someone reports strange sounds from the deep tunnels."
He lowered his eyes to the journal.
"'Laughter was heard beyond the lower passage.'"
Another page.
"'Night watch reported distant singing. Search found nothing.'"
Another.
"'Rhythmic metal sounds echoed through the eastern depths after sunset.'"
The handwriting changed with every page.
Different kings.
Different years.
Different generations.
Yet the reports remained almost identical.
Charles slowly closed the journal.
"The oldest journal we still have was written hundreds of years ago."
He rested a hand upon its worn cover.
"And even that king wrote..."
He smiled helplessly.
"...that the reports were already considered an old legend."
The room became completely silent.
"I don't know who—or what—makes those sounds."
"No king before me knew either."
"They searched."
"They listened."
"They found nothing."
Charles looked toward the children with a reassuring smile.
"So don't let your imagination run wild."
"If you hear the sounds..."
He closed the journal.
"...record them."
"...Finish your patrol."
"...And come home."
The meeting gradually relaxed again.
Several children nodded, relieved by the king's calm response.
Only Ash remained thoughtful.
A legend passed down through stories could change over time.
But a legend recorded by generations of kings...
That was much harder to dismiss.