Darunia gripped the ancient hammer, feeling its weight in his massive hands. The forge techniques of his ancestors called to him like the mountain's heartbeat through stone. He wanted to master every secret they had left behind, every method of shaping metal that made Goron blades legendary. Sweat dripped from his mane as he studied the worn marks on the hammer's handle—grooves made by generations of craftsmen before him. This knowledge mattered more than guarding rubies or sealing darkness. This was his people's true legacy, and he would claim it. He found the ruined blacksmith forge in a clearing, its stone walls charred black from old fires. Twisted metal remnants jutted from the rubble like broken bones. Darunia circled it slowly, reading the story in the destroyed structure. Someone had worked here once, shaping heated metal into tools and weapons. The heavy stone anvil still stood in the center, scarred but solid. He set down his hammer and ran his fingers across its pitted surface. This would do. Here, away from his duties on Death Mountain, he could practice the hammer strikes his grandfather had taught him as a child. Here, he could fail without shame and learn without watchers. The forge was dead, but its anvil remained ready to ring under his hammer. But he needed materials. Darunia spotted a wooden cart near the tree line, half-filled with rough stones of different sizes. He pulled it closer to the ruined forge, wheels creaking under the load. Some of the rocks would work for rebuilding the forge walls. Others might contain ore he could heat and shape. He lifted one stone, testing its weight and density. Not iron, but something harder. He tossed it back into the cart and selected another. This place would become his workshop, his training ground. Every dawn he would come here to practice. Every strike of the hammer would bring him closer to the mastery his ancestors had achieved. The mountain could wait. The seals could hold. This was his path now. Three days later, Darunia stood before his rebuilt forge. The circular stone hearth rose from the clearing floor, constructed from the salvaged rocks he'd hauled in the cart. He'd worked through each night, fitting stones together with the same care his ancestors used for their strongest walls. The structure held firm when he tested it with his fist. Now he just needed fire hot enough to soften metal. He arranged dried wood inside the hearth and struck his hammer against stone until sparks caught. Flames climbed higher as he fed them. Heat washed over his face, and he smiled for the first time in weeks. The workshop was ready. Tomorrow, he would begin forging his first blade using the old techniques. Tomorrow, his real training would start.

Darunia crouched beside the forge, watching flames lick the edges of a flat piece of iron he'd found buried in the rubble. The metal began to glow orange, then yellow. He gripped his hammer and pulled the iron onto the anvil with iron tongs. The first strike rang out across the clearing. Too soft. The metal barely dented. He struck again, harder this time, feeling the impact surge through his arms. The iron flattened slightly under the blow. He repositioned it and struck a third time, then a fourth. Each hit taught him something new about timing and force. Sweat soaked his mane as he worked the cooling metal. When the glow faded to dull red, he thrust it back into the flames. His ancestors had done this thousands of times, perfecting each movement until the hammer became part of their arm. He would do the same. One strike at a time, he would learn what they knew. The fire dimmed as the morning wore on. Darunia tossed in the last piece of dry wood and watched it catch. He needed more fuel, enough to keep the heat steady for hours of work. He spotted a wooden chest near the tree line, its metal reinforcements showing signs of age. Perfect for storing fuel supplies. He tested the latch and found it secure. Each day he would fill it with wood and keep it close to the forge. No more interruptions to search for fuel when the flames started to fade. The iron glowed bright again. Darunia lifted it with the tongs and plunged it into a galvanized steel trough he'd dragged to the clearing that morning. Steam exploded upward as the metal hit the water. The hiss filled his ears. He pulled the iron free and examined it in the light. The rapid cooling had hardened the surface, just as the old methods required. He turned the rough piece over in his hands, studying how the water had changed it. This step mattered as much as the hammer strikes. But something was missing. He knew the basic movements, the rhythm of heat and strike and cool. Yet his ancestors had possessed deeper knowledge, secrets passed through generations. Where had they recorded those techniques? Darunia set down his work and stared at the forest. Somewhere in these hills, there had to be answers. Old records. Written instructions. He would search until he found them. The hammer could only teach him so much. To truly master the ancient forge techniques, he needed to learn from those who came before.