Chapter Text
The mountains had teeth.
They gnawed at the sky with jagged peaks, bit chunks from passing clouds, and swallowed the screams of anyone foolish enough to climb their slopes unprepared. Snow fell in sheets so thick that noon looked like dusk, and the wind howled with the voices of a thousand dead things. It was the kind of place where civilized people feared to tread, where even the bravest sorcerers thought twice before venturing into the white-cloaked wilderness.
Perfect, then, for someone who had no interest in civilization.
High in the crags, where the air thinned to nothing and the cold could freeze blood in a man's veins, smoke rose from an impossible source. Not the thin, desperate wisp of a dying campfire, but thick, black columns that punched through the blizzard like fists. The smoke carried with it the scent of molten metal, burning flesh, and something else—something that made wild animals turn and flee, something that whispered of blasphemy and power and things that should not be.
The forge stood defiant against the mountainside, half-carved into the rock itself, half-built from stones that gleamed with an oily, unnatural sheen. Its walls rose crooked and organic, as if they had grown rather than been constructed. Windows glowed orange-red like infected wounds, and the door—when it could be called a door—was little more than a gaping maw in the stone, permanently wedged open by the heat that poured from within.
Inside, the air shimmered with waves of heat that would have killed a normal person in minutes. The temperature was a living thing, pressing against skin, crawling into lungs, demanding tribute in sweat and pain. But the figure hunched over the anvil seemed as comfortable as if she were lounging in a summer meadow.
(Name) (L/n) worked with the focused intensity of someone who had forgotten the outside world existed. Her hammer rang against red-hot steel in a rhythm that had no music in it—only purpose, only need, only the terrible patience of someone who understood that great things required great suffering. Sparks showered around her like angry stars, hissing when they met the pools of sweat and blood that had gathered on the stone floor. Some of the sparks seemed to scream as they died.
She paused, lifting the blade from the anvil to study it in the hellish light. The metal glowed with its own internal fire, and if one looked closely—if one had the stomach for it—faces could be seen writhing beneath the surface.
Twisted expressions of agony, mouths opened in silent pleas, eyes wide with eternal terror. The blade had been a person once. Several people, actually. Now it was something else entirely.
"Still fighting me," she muttered, her voice rough from breathing superheated air and metal fumes. "Brats..."
The blade pulsed in response, and she could swear she heard whimpering.
She was a creature carved from soot and scars, her skin a map of every mistake, every success, every moment of contact with the violent birth of her creations. Burns layered over burns in patterns that would have been beautiful if they weren't so obviously painful. Her hands were more callus than flesh, fingers permanently stained black beneath the nails, knuckles split and rehealed so many times they looked like small mountain ranges. Cuts from sword edges, punctures from spear points, the distinctive spiral scars left by cursed energy gone wrong—she wore them all without shame or attempt at concealment.
Her hair, once whatever color it had been born to be, was now permanently streaked with ash and soot. She kept it bound back with strips of leather, though rebellious strands constantly escaped to frame her face in wild, smoke-darkened tangles. Across her left cheek, a burn mark in the shape of a perfect handprint served as a reminder of the first time she'd tried to forge a blade from a still-living sorcerer. She'd learned to kill them first after that.
The clothes she wore had once been practical working garments—leather apron, thick gloves, boots that could withstand molten metal. Now they were archaeological layers, crusted with the remnants of a thousand different projects. Blood had soaked into the leather so deeply it had turned it nearly black. Metal shavings caught in every fold and seam. The apron bore scorch marks in artistic patterns, and holes where particularly violent cursed energy had eaten through the material.
She looked, in short, like something that had crawled out of the deepest pit of hell and decided to set up shop.
And she was magnificent.
The blade in her hands gave another pulse, and this time the whimpering was definitely audible. She sighed and set down her hammer, reaching instead for a smaller tool—a delicate pick that looked almost surgical in comparison to the brutal implements surrounding it. With movements precise as a surgeon's, she began etching symbols into the metal, each line drawn with the confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
"There," she murmured as she worked, her voice taking on an almost crooning quality. "I know it hurts. I know you're scared. But fighting only makes it worse."
The blade's glow began to shift, the angry red cooling to a deep, sullen orange. The faces beneath the surface grew less distinct, their expressions shifting from agony to something more like resignation. It was not kindness that motivated her gentle tone—(Name) had never been accused of kindness. It was simply practical. Panicked souls made inferior weapons.
"You were a sorcerer once," she continued, still etching. "Third grade, probably. Maybe second if I'm being generous. You thought you were hot shit, didn't you? Thought your little technique made you special." The pick carved deeper, and the blade shuddered. "Now you're going to be something actually useful."
A wet, sliding sound from the corner of the forge announced the approach of her constant companion. The thing that emerged from the shadows defied easy description, though 'abomination' was a good starting point. It looked like someone had taken a grub the size of a wine barrel and subjected it to every possible indignity. Its skin was a mottled purple, stretched tight over a body that seemed to consist entirely of stomach. Stubby, vestigial limbs protruded at random intervals, twitching uselessly as it dragged itself forward. Its mouth—and it was mostly mouth—took up nearly a third of its body, lined with rows of teeth that seemed more decorative than functional.
The creature was hideous. It was revolting. It was the kind of thing that would send grown sorcerers fleeing in terror.
(Name) looked at it and smiled with genuine warmth.
"There's my baby," she cooed, setting down her tools to scratch behind what might have been ears. "Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?"
The creature—her Inventory Curse, though she simply called it 'the worm'—made a sound like a rusty gate being opened. Drool pooled beneath its mouth, steaming slightly where it hit the hot stone. Its droopy eyes fixed on her with devotion so absolute it bordered on the religious.
"I know, I know," she said, understanding perfectly despite the creature's inability to form actual words. "You don't like when I work without you watching. But someone has to keep the forge running."
She gestured to the blade, which had finally settled into a stable glow. The worm examined it with the critical eye of a connoisseur, then made a disapproving gurgle.
"You think it needs more time?" (Name) considered this seriously. The worm had an excellent eye for these things. "You're right. The binding isn't quite set. Another hour in the heat, then we'll let it cool properly."
She placed the blade back into the forge's heart, where flames that burned without fuel and gave off heat that had nothing to do with combustion embraced it hungrily. The fire was wrong in ways that hurt to contemplate—it burned blue and green and colors that had no names, and sometimes faces could be seen dancing in the flames, laughing or screaming or singing songs in languages that predated human speech.
With the immediate work done, (Name) allowed herself a moment to stretch, joints popping like breaking sticks. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through muscles that had been locked in the same position for hours, but it was a good pain. The pain of work done well. She rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck, and surveyed her domain with satisfaction.
The forge was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. Tools hung from every available surface—hammers ranging from delicate jeweler's instruments to massive two-handed monsters that could flatten a man's skull, tongs in dozens of sizes and shapes, picks and files and grinding wheels that spun of their own accord. Weapon racks lined the walls, though 'weapon' was perhaps too simple a term. These were instruments of death that transcended the merely physical, each one humming with barely contained malevolence.
A spear that wept tears of acid. A sword that whispered secrets to whoever held it. A pair of daggers that giggled when they cut flesh. An axe whose blade was forged from crystallized screams. Each weapon was a small monument to suffering, a testament to (Name)'s particular genius for turning agony into art.
But the true heart of the forge, the thing that made it all possible, lay in the corner where she slept. It wasn't a bed in any conventional sense—just a pile of weapons deemed too unstable for use, too dangerous for storage, too volatile for anything but serving as furniture. Blades that sparked with erratic energy, spears that occasionally tried to impale their surroundings, hammers that struck at empty air as if fighting invisible enemies. They were her failures, her half-successes, her experiments gone wrong.
And they were her family.
She made her way over to the pile, the worm following with the devotion of a loyal dog. Several of the weapons stirred as she approached, recognizing her presence. A curved blade near the top of the pile let out a soft, keening wail—not quite human, but close enough to be unsettling. She reached out and stroked its edge, careful to avoid the spots where the metal still glowed with unstable energy.
"Shh," she murmured. "I know. I know it hurts. But pain is just the price of existence."
The blade quieted, though whether from comfort or simple exhaustion was unclear. (Name) settled into the pile with practiced ease, finding the spaces between sharp edges with the unconscious skill of long habit. The worm curled up beside her, its warm bulk providing additional cushioning. Other weapons shifted to accommodate them, metal singing softly against metal in a lullaby composed of threats and promises.
This was home. This was peace. This was the only place in the world where she could rest without watching her back, because everything here belonged to her as surely as she belonged to it.
The storm outside intensified, wind howling through the mountain passes with renewed fury. But inside the forge, the heat was constant, the light was steady, and the work would continue tomorrow as it had continued every day for more years than she cared to count.
(Name) closed her eyes and let the familiar sounds wash over her—the hiss of cooling metal, the pop and crackle of the eternal flames, the weapons beneath her shifted and sighed. A katana with a chip in its edge murmured something bitter about the sorcerer whose spine had become its core. A tanto with a ruby hilt sobbed quietly, mourning the young woman whose heart still beat within its steel. They were ungrateful children, these blades—resentful of their creator, hungry for the violence that gave their existence meaning, yet bound to her will like iron to magnet.
She was nearly asleep when the knock came.
It wasn't much of a knock, really. More like someone hammering on the door with the pommel of a sword, the sound echoing through the forge with aggressive impatience. The weapons around her stirred uneasily, sensing the intrusion of foreign presence. The worm lifted its massive head, tiny eyes glittering with suspicion.
(Name) didn't move immediately. Visitors were rare up here, and those who did make the journey usually fell into one of two categories: those who wanted to hire her services, and those who wanted to see her dead. Both groups tended to be equally irritating.
The hammering came again, more insistent this time. Accompanied by a voice that cut through the stone walls like a blade through silk.
"Open up, you miserable wretch! I know you're in there!"
(Name)'s eyes snapped open. That voice was young, crisp, and absolutely furious. It also carried the unmistakable accent of high breeding, the kind of pronunciation that came from growing up in palaces and temples. Most interesting of all, it was completely unafraid.
She pushed herself up from the weapon pile, ignoring the protests of blades that had grown comfortable with her weight. The worm made an anxious gurgling sound, but she patted its head reassuringly.
"Stay here, pretty. Let's see what the snow blew in."
The door, such as it was, had been wedged open for so long that forcing it closed would have required more effort than (Name) was willing to expend. Instead, she simply walked toward the opening, letting the heat from the forge flow out around her like a tide. The sudden temperature change would be like a physical blow to anyone standing outside—she'd seen grown men collapse from the shock of it.
Standing in the doorway, apparently unaffected by the heat, was a boy.
He couldn't have been more than fourteen, fifteen at the outside, though he carried himself with the rigid posture of someone much older. His hair was white as fresh snow, styled with meticulous care despite the mountain wind.
His clothes were expensive—silk and fine wool, cut in the latest fashion—but practical enough for travel. Most striking were his eyes, pale blue like winter ice, burning with an intensity that had nothing to do with the forge's heat.
And he was beautiful. Not in the soft, feminine way that some boys were beautiful, but with the sharp, dangerous beauty of a blade fresh from the whetstone. Every line of his face was precisely drawn, every angle perfectly calculated. He looked like he'd been carved from marble by an artist who understood that perfection could be just as terrifying as any monster.
He was also clearly freezing, though he was doing his best to hide it. Snow clung to his shoulders and hair, and his breath came out in sharp puffs of vapor. But his expression remained stern, almost haughty, as if the discomfort was beneath his notice.
"Are you (Name) (L/n)?" he demanded without preamble. "The one they call the Weapon-Maker?"
She leaned against the doorframe, studying him with the same clinical attention she gave to her raw materials. He was obviously a sorcerer—she could feel the cursed energy radiating from him like cold fire. Strong, too. Stronger than most adults she'd encountered. But there was something else, something that made her instincts prick with interest.
"Depends who's asking," she said finally. "And why they're asking at this time of night, in this weather, in this place where smart people don't go."
The boy's jaw tightened. "My name is Uraume. I serve Lord Sukuna, and he requires your services."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who had turned half the country into his personal hunting ground, who collected sorcerers like other men collected coins. She'd heard the stories, of course—who hadn't? But she'd always assumed they were exaggerated, the kind of tales that grew in the telling until myth became larger than reality.
Apparently not.
"Sukuna," she repeated, tasting the name. It left a bitter aftertaste, like metal and blood. "And what does the great King of Curses want with a humble blacksmith?"
Uraume's eyes flashed with irritation. "You are hardly humble, and we both know you are far more than a simple blacksmith. Lord Sukuna has need of weapons. Specific weapons. The kind that only you can create."
(Name) was quiet for a long moment, considering. Behind her, the forge continued its eternal work, flames dancing higher as if sensing the tension in the air. The worm had crept closer, its bulk visible in the doorway's periphery, ready to defend her if necessary. Her hand rested casually on the hilt of a dagger at her belt—not one of her cursed creations, just good honest steel, but sharp enough to open a throat if needed.
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
Uraume's smile was as cold as the mountain wind. "Lord Sukuna does not make requests. He gives commands. You will come with me, or you will die here. The choice is yours."
The threat should have frightened her. Any sane person would have been terrified at the prospect of defying Sukuna's will. But (Name) had stopped being sane the first time she'd heard a sword scream in pain, and fear had been burned out of her years ago by the forge's heat.
Instead, she laughed.
It was not a pleasant sound. It was the laugh of someone who had seen too much, done too much, created too many horrors to be impressed by threats. It echoed off the stone walls and seemed to make the shadows dance with amusement.
"Oh, little servant," she said, still chuckling. "You think death frightens me? I sleep surrounded by the souls of the dead. I forge weapons from the bones of sorcerers. I've looked into the heart of cursed energy and found it beautiful. Death is just another tool in my workshop."
Uraume's composure cracked slightly. "You—"
"But," she continued, raising a hand to silence him, "I didn't say I would refuse. Sukuna wants weapons? Fine. I'll make him weapons. The kind that will make his enemies weep just to look at them. The kind that will turn battlefields into art galleries of suffering."
She stepped back from the doorway, gesturing for him to enter. "Come inside before you freeze to death, ice boy. We have business to discuss."
Uraume hesitated for a moment, clearly caught off-guard by her casual acceptance. But the cold was brutal, and the heat rolling from the forge was impossible to resist. He stepped across the threshold, and (Name) saw his eyes widen as the full impact of her domain hit him.
The forge was overwhelming to outsiders. The heat was bad enough, but it was the other sensations that really got to people—the way the light seemed to move independently of its sources, the whispers that came from empty air, the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes. Most people lasted maybe five minutes before the atmosphere drove them back outside.
Uraume stood his ground, though she could see sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He was stronger than she'd given him credit for.
"Impressive," he said, voice carefully controlled. "The rumors don't do it justice."
"Rumors?" (Name) made her way back toward the anvil, Uraume following at a cautious distance. "What do they say about me?"
"That you're mad. That you forge weapons from the souls of the dead. That you've made pacts with cursed spirits." He paused, studying the weapons that lined the walls. "That you can create tools capable of killing anything, even things that shouldn't be able to die."
"All true," she said cheerfully, pulling on her leather gloves. "Well, mostly true. I haven't made any pacts with cursed spirits. I just beat them into submission and stuff them into metal. Much more reliable than contracts."
The worm chose that moment to emerge fully from the shadows, its bulk sliding across the floor with wet, organic sounds. Uraume went very still, one hand moving instinctively toward what was probably a concealed weapon.
"And this is my assistant," (Name) said, patting the creature's flank. "Say hello to the nice boy, sweetheart."
The worm regarded Uraume with obvious suspicion, drool pooling beneath its mouth as it considered whether the newcomer represented a threat. After a moment, it made a sound like a rusty hinge and retreated to its corner, though its eyes never left the boy.
"Your... assistant," Uraume repeated faintly.
"Storage," (Name) explained. "Cursed spirit, specifically bred for carrying capacity. Completely loyal, utterly devoted, and uglier than sin. Everything I need in a companion."
She turned her attention back to the blade in the forge, checking its progress with a critical eye. The metal had settled into a stable glow, the faces beneath the surface now barely visible. Good. It would be ready for the final tempering soon.
"So," she said without looking away from her work. "Sukuna wants weapons. What kind of weapons? How many? When does he need them? And most importantly—" She turned to face Uraume directly, her eyes reflecting the forge's light like a predator's. "What's he offering in return?"
Uraume straightened, falling back into the formal bearing that seemed to be his default state. "Lord Sukuna requires two weapons specifically. The first is a trident—Hiten. Three-pronged, cursed to never miss its target, capable of piercing any defense. The second is a lightning blade—Kamutoke. It must be able to channel and amplify cursed energy to devastating effect."
(Name) nodded slowly. Both weapons were within her capabilities, though they would require significant time and resources. "Materials?"
"Lord Sukuna will provide whatever you require."
"Timeline?"
"As quickly as possible, but Lord Sukuna understands that quality cannot be rushed."
"And payment?"
Uraume's expression grew uncomfortable. "Your life will be spared. You will be... protected... under Lord Sukuna's authority."
(Name) was quiet for a long moment, then burst out laughing again. "Protection? Oh you really don't understand how this works, do you?"
"I don't—"
"I don't need protection," she said, still grinning. "I need materials. Bodies, specifically. Fresh ones, preferably, though I can work with older corpses if necessary. Sorcerers are best, but anyone with decent cursed energy will do.
The stronger the better."
Uraume paled slightly. "You want to forge the weapons from actual—"
"From people, yes. That's how my cursed tools work, little servant. You take a person, you break them down to their essential components, and you reshape them into something useful. The soul provides the cursed energy, the body provides the raw material, and the suffering provides the binding agent that holds it all together."
She pulled the blade from the forge, holding it up to catch the light. The metal had achieved perfect stability, glowing with steady internal fire. "This little beauty used to be a monk. Very dedicated, very pure, very convinced that his righteousness would protect him from harm. Now he's going to spend eternity cutting things."
Uraume was staring at her with a mixture of fascination and horror. "That's... that's monstrous."
"That's practical," (Name) corrected. "Death is just a transition, not an ending. I'm giving these people purpose beyond the grave. Immortality, in a way. They should be grateful."
"Do they... do they know? Can they feel?"
"Oh yes." Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "They feel everything. The pain, the fear, the rage. It's what gives these weapons their power. A sword forged from contentment would be about as useful as a butter knife."
She set the blade aside to cool and turned her full attention to Uraume. "So, little one. Are you prepared to provide me with the materials I need? Because if Sukuna wants weapons that can kill gods, he's going to have to accept that gods will need to die to make them."
Uraume was quiet for a long moment, clearly struggling with something. Finally, he nodded. "Lord Sukuna has... resources. Bodies will not be a problem."
"Excellent." (Name) clapped her hands together, sending up a small shower of sparks. "In that case, we have a deal. I'll make your master his toys, and in return, he'll keep me supplied with raw materials. Everyone wins."
"Except the people who become the raw materials," Uraume said quietly.
(Name) shrugged. "They were going to die anyway. At least this way, their deaths have meaning."
The conversation was interrupted by a sound from outside—footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approaching through the snow. But these weren't the uncertain steps of someone struggling against the mountain's hostility. These were the steps of someone who owned whatever ground they walked on, someone who had never met an obstacle they couldn't overcome.
The worm began to whimper, pressing itself against the far wall as if trying to escape. The weapons around the forge stirred uneasily, some of them humming with anxiety. Even the eternal flames seemed to flicker, as if in deference to whatever was approaching.
Uraume straightened, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. The slightly uncertain boy was gone, replaced by someone rigid with formal respect. "Lord Sukuna," he breathed.
(Name) felt it then—a presence like a weight pressing down on reality itself. Power so vast and alien that it made her teeth ache and her vision blur at the edges. Cursed energy so dense it was almost visible, rolling ahead of its source like a tide of barely contained destruction.
And then he was there.
Sukuna filled the doorway like a natural disaster given human form. He was tall—taller than any man had a right to be—and built like something designed for violence. Four arms, she noted with professional interest, and covered in markings that seemed to shift and writhe when she wasn't looking directly at them. His face was sharp as a blade, beautiful in the way that predators were beautiful, with eyes like burning coals and a smile that promised terrible things.
He looked at her forge, at her weapons, at her worm cowering in the corner. His gaze swept over everything with the casual assessment of someone evaluating a potential purchase. Then his eyes settled on her, and (Name) felt the full weight of his attention like a physical force.
"So," Sukuna said, his voice carrying harmonics that made the stone walls tremble. "You're the famous Weapon-Maker."
(Name) met his gaze without flinching, though every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to run. "And you're the infamous King of Curses. Charmed, I'm sure."
Sukuna's smile widened, revealing teeth like filed daggers. "I like her already."
He stepped into the forge properly, his massive frame making the space feel suddenly cramped. The heat didn't seem to affect him at all—if anything, he looked comfortable, as if he belonged among the flames and shadows. His four eyes swept over her weapons with the appreciation of a connoisseur, pausing on the more exotic pieces.
"Impressive work," he said, reaching toward a blade that immediately began to keen in distress. "I can hear them screaming."
"Don't touch that one," (Name) said sharply. "It bites."
Sukuna's hand paused an inch from the weapon, and for a moment she thought she'd overstepped. Then he laughed—a sound like breaking stone. "It bites? How delightful."
He withdrew his hand and turned his attention back to her. "Uraume has explained what I require?"
"He has. Hiten and Kamutoke. Both difficult, both time-consuming, both possible." She crossed her arms, studying him with the same clinical interest she gave her raw materials. "Question is, when will you return? I know Uraume said that there is wiggle room, but I want to be able to actually hand something over by time you come back."
"There’s no need for that," Sukuna said. "You're coming with me."
The words hit her like a physical blow. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact, delivered with the casual certainty of someone who had never been refused anything in his life.
"Coming with—" She stopped, processing. "You want me to leave my forge."
"I want you where I can reach you," Sukuna corrected. "It's inconvenient to climb this mountain every time I need something. Much easier to keep you close."
(Name) felt something cold settle in her stomach. She looked around at her domain—the weapons that knew her touch, the tools that sang when she used them, the pile of failures that served as her bed. This place was more than just a workshop. It was her world, her sanctuary, the only place where she truly belonged.
"I don't travel," she said slowly. "I work here. This is where the magic happens."
"The magic," Sukuna said, his voice carrying dangerous amusement, "happens wherever you are. The forge is just stone and fire. You are the weapon-maker."
"The forge is—"
"Replaceable." He stepped closer, and she could feel the heat of his cursed energy like standing too close to a blast furnace. "You, however, are not. So you'll come with me, and you'll make your weapons wherever I decide to make camp."
The worm in the corner began to whimper more loudly, sensing the tension in the air. Several of her weapons responded to her emotional state, their hums growing more agitated. The blade she'd been working on earlier pulsed with angry light.
"And if I refuse?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
Sukuna's smile never wavered. "Then you'll make them anyway, just with significantly more broken bones."
(Name) was quiet for a long moment, staring at him. She could fight, of course. Her weapons would respond to her call, and the forge itself was designed to be defensible. But she wasn't stupid. Whatever power she possessed, Sukuna's was clearly far greater. She'd heard enough stories to know that much.
And besides... there was something almost intriguing about the prospect. She'd been alone on this mountain for so long, creating weapons that would never see proper use, forging masterpieces for an audience of one ugly worm and a collection of screaming metal. To work for someone who would actually appreciate her craft, who would put her creations to their intended purpose...
"Fine," she said finally. "But I have conditions."
Sukuna raised an eyebrow. "You're hardly in a position to make demands."
"I'm in a position to make my work deliberately shitty," she countered. "You want weapons that won't break the first time you use them? Then you listen to my conditions."
His expression darkened dangerously, but he gestured for her to continue.
"First—the worm comes with me. Non-negotiable." She reached out to pat the creature, which pressed against her hand like a cat seeking comfort. "Second—I need access to my tools. The important ones, anyway. Third—"
"Enough." Sukuna waved a hand dismissively. "Bring whatever you need. I don't care about your pet or your trinkets as long as you do the work."
(Name) nodded slowly, then turned to survey her forge one last time. It would be strange, leaving this place. She'd built it with her own hands, shaped it to her needs, filled it with years of work and blood and cursed energy. But maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time to see what her weapons could do in the hands of someone who truly understood destruction.
"Give me an hour," she said. "I need to bank the fires and pack the essentials."
"You have ten minutes," Sukuna replied. "I don't have all night."
She opened her mouth to argue, then caught sight of his expression and thought better of it. Ten minutes it was.
Moving with practiced efficiency, she began pulling tools from their hooks and gathering materials. The worm, understanding what was happening, opened its massive mouth wide. One by one, she fed it her most precious possessions—hammers and tongs, files and grinding wheels, vials of various substances that glowed with their own internal light. The creature's stomach was apparently infinite, capable of storing far more than its size should have allowed.
"Remarkable," Uraume said quietly, watching the process with fascination. "I've never seen a storage curse quite like that."
"Bred it myself," (Name) said with pride, feeding the worm her favorite anvil. The massive block of metal disappeared into its gullet without even causing a bulge. "Took three tries to get the proportions right. The first two exploded."
Finally, she turned to the pile of weapons that had served as her bed. These were her failures, her experiments, her children that had never quite grown up properly. She couldn't take them all—there were simply too many—but she could take a few.
She selected a curved blade that whispered lullabies in a dead language, a spear that occasionally tried to hunt on its own, and a small dagger that had once been a particularly stubborn sorcerer. The worm accepted them all without complaint, though it made a small sound of distress at the taste of the dagger.
"I know, baby," she murmured. "He was bitter. But he'll behave now."
With her most essential possessions stored safely in the worm's belly, (Name) took one last look around the forge. The eternal flames still burned, and would continue burning long after she was gone. The mountain would keep her workshop safe, she thought. And perhaps someday she would return.
But probably not.
"Ready," she announced, shouldering a pack containing the few items too dangerous to trust to the worm's storage.
Sukuna nodded approvingly. "Good. We have a long way to travel, and I want to be clear of the mountains before dawn."
He turned and strode from the forge without another word, clearly expecting them to follow. Uraume fell into step behind him, and after a moment's hesitation, (Name) did the same. The worm slithered along beside her, its bulk leaving a trail in the snow.
As they descended the mountain path, (Name) didn't look back. There was no point in dwelling on what she was leaving behind. She had her tools, she had her worm, and she had the promise of interesting work ahead.
And if she sometimes missed the warmth of her forge in the days to come, well... that was just another kind of fuel for the fire.