My Charity System made me too OP

The Forge Wind Room looked more like a war engine factory than a place to train. Thick brass pipes arched along the ceilings and walls, with rows of massive bellows, ducts, vents, and levers spread throughout. Every tool here was meant to control one thing: airflow.

The Dwarven smith, now with sleeves rolled up and soot streaked across his face, pointed at a complex mechanism with dozens of knobs and rotating vents.

"Forge-fire breathes, boy," he said. "Your job now is to teach it to breathe right. You misalign a single draft flow and the entire flame chokes, sputters, or explodes. Get it right… and your heat bends steel like butter."

He handed them a forged blueprint etched into a slate: a diagram showing how to regulate core flow, secondary intake, and backflow exhausts for maximum burn efficiency.

"Today, you're gonna sculpt air like a wind god."

Leon stepped forward without hesitation. Roman followed, his eyes already calculating the vectors of airflow like it was a spell formation.

The forge pit behind them remained cold, lifeless.

"Now," the dwarf said. "Light it with perfect breath. If you waste coal again, you'll mine more yerselves."

Three Hours Later

Sweat poured. Muscles ached.

Leon's arms felt heavier than they had in battle. Roman's sleeves were torn, knuckles scraped, eyes sharp. The levers groaned with every adjustment, and each gust had to be perfectly balanced—not too fast, not too slow. One wrong pull meant starting over.

At last, the airflow clicked. A low hum filled the chamber as vents synchronized, and the forge lit with a roaring breath—not wild, not erratic. It was a perfect flow.

The blue-white fire swirled evenly in the pit, steady and strong.

The dwarf let out a grunt of approval. "Now that's a flame worthy of forging."

He tossed them each a slab of cold forgesteel, black as night and harder than obsidian. "Tomorrow… you strike steel. But you ain't ready yet."

Roman almost collapsed to the ground. "So what now?"

The dwarf grinned. "Now you clean the bellows and reset the ducts for the next ten students. By hand."

OUTSIDE – IRONRIFT CITY – OBSERVATION BALCONY

Roselia leaned against a rail, watching plumes of forge smoke drift from the Smithery Tower.

"He's really doing it," she said, eyes distant.

"Of course," Liliana said softly. "Leon doesn't just fight. He disciplines himself. That's why he keeps rising."

Naval smiled faintly. "Still, that Spil Coal heat is no joke. I doubt half the Tiers from Floor 400 could handle it."

Milim nodded, eyes narrowed. "But once Leon's done here, he won't just be stronger. He'll be sharper. A blade refined by his own hands."

Roselia tapped the balcony railing. "How long do you think they'll last in there?"

The Dwarven attendant standing nearby chuckled. "Most last two days before they give up. Some stay a week. But if they survive past ten days, we give them the mark of an Apprentice Forgebinder. That's rare."

Roselia smirked. "Then warm up the mark. You'll need it."

INFINITY SMITHERY – NIGHTFALL

Leon and Roman sat beside the now-dormant forge, their bodies bruised, blistered, and soot-covered.

Neither spoke.

But there was a new strength in their silence—not the kind born from combat, but from control, from patience, from learning how to shape power rather than wield it raw.

The fire had taught them much.

And tomorrow, they would learn to bend metal.

INFINITY SMITHERY – FORGE DAY THREE

The morning bell tolled deep within the molten halls of the Infinity Smithery, echoing like a call to arms. The fires had already been lit. The air crackled with rising heat, and molten veins pulsed brighter than before.

Leon and Roman stood at the edge of a circular forge ring, each holding a thick, unshaped slab of Forgesteel—a dense black alloy known to resist mana infusions until properly awakened by heat and spirit.

Their Dwarven mentor stood before them, arms folded, beard still faintly glowing from proximity to magma vents.

"Today," he said solemnly, "ye don't just strike metal. Ye command it."

He gestured to the massive anvil at the center. "That Forgesteel slab ye're holding is dead weight until you awaken it. First, ye'll feed it to the fire. Then… you strike."

He handed each of them a coreforge hammer, forged from heart-iron with reinforced handles made of flamewood. The weight was immense.

"Don't just swing to hit. Swing to shape. Each strike is a word in the language of steel. You fumble, it breaks. You rush, it folds wrong. You hesitate… and it mocks you forever."

Leon nodded. Roman adjusted his grip.

The slabs were placed into the heart of the forge. The fire, sculpted the day before, responded obediently. The steel began to glow—a dark red first, then a rising orange.

The dwarf watched in silence. He saw how Leon didn't rush. His breathing matched the rhythm of the flames. Roman observed the minute changes in glow and texture, applying his calculations from the previous airflow sessions.

Then, they struck.

CLANG!

CLANG!

Steel sang.

The heat surged with every impact. Sparks danced like fire spirits. For hours, the two Ascenders hammered, folded, cooled, reheated, and shaped. Sweat soaked their backs. Blisters tore open on their hands. But neither stopped.

And soon… two crude but honest shapes emerged.

Leon's was a long, curved blade core—unpolished, but balanced. Roman's was the early frame of a tower-forged gauntlet, engraved with wind vents and mana channels.

The dwarf examined them.

He said nothing for a while.

Then:

"…These ain't weapons yet. But they're honest. And that's more than most give me on their fifth week."

IRONRIFT CITY – DWARVEN COUNCIL CHAMBER

In a chamber deeper than even the city's public forges, seven Dwarven Elders sat around a crescent stone table. Lava flowed through tubes overhead like crimson rivers.

An old dwarf with a golden monocle tapped his staff. "He's already awakened Forgesteel on Day Three?"

Another grunted. "And sculpted stable forge-fire on Day Two. Not even the Dragonkin managed that."

A third leaned forward. "You've all seen the scrolls. He's the one who mastered Shell Reverb. The mad human who stayed an entire year on Floor 300 and walked out unscarred."

They all fell silent.

Then the High Forgebinder, a titan of a Dwarf with runed bands around his arms, said quietly:

"Watch him. If he completes the Grand Ember Test… we may finally name an outsider as Flamebound."

The chamber trembled faintly. It wasn't from magic.

It was from expectation.

INFINITY SMITHERY – REST CHAMBER

Leon sat alone, his freshly-forged blade core across his lap. His eyes were closed, his mind calm.

Roman entered, his gauntlet core wrapped and placed gently on the stone shelf.

Leon opened his eyes. "You feel it?"

Roman nodded. "Yeah. This isn't like fighting. It's... purer."

Leon looked down at his blade. "When you fight, you destroy. When you forge, you build something that might protect someone long after you're gone."

Roman gave a rare smile. "I think I finally understand why Dwarves call smithing a sacred path."

Leon exhaled, slow and steady. "Then let's walk it. All the way."

Outside, the forge fires roared, and the name Leon began to echo louder through Ironrift City.

He wasn't just a warrior anymore.

He was becoming a Forgebinder.