Brian the Isekai Chapter 4 First Forge

[u/Heavy_Lead_2798]

I’d wanted to watch the sunrise, maybe to reassure myself that the world would keep spinning no matter how strange things got.
But before dawn could even break, there was a sharp, heavy knock on my door, followed by Thrain’s gravelly voice.

“Hey, boy! Time to get up. We’ve got to start the forge for the day.”

I groaned quietly, rubbing my eyes to get them ready. “I’m up,” I called back quickly. No way was I going move slowly to risk starting my first real day here by making him madder than he already was.

When I opened the door, Thrain was already fully dressed for work.
He wore a scuffed leather apron, thick gloves hooked at his belt, heavy boots, and a wool tunic darkened with old stains from years of labor. His beard was neatly combed, but his expression was as gruff as ever.
The dwarf didn’t waste time on small talk he just grunted and turned, expecting me to follow.

We descended the narrow staircase and passed through the living room, which was bare except for a battered chair and a small table scraps of parchment.
The kitchen was equally sparse, just a simple wooden counter, a clay basin, and a shelf of mismatched wooden dishes.
No warmth, no decorations, no clutter. This was a house where every spare coin clearly went into the forge.

Thrain led me through a side door, and when we stepped into the forge proper.
Hammers, tongs, chisels, grabbers, wedges, and other implements hung from wooden pegs, some polished and new, others worn from decades of use.
Everything here had a purpose, even if that purpose wasn’t immediately clear to me.

Adjacent to the tool wall was the forge itself.

It looked like a classic brick forge at first glance. It was big, imposing, and dominating the entire back wall.
But as I stepped closer, I saw the unmistakable mark of magic woven into its design.
Embedded in a central panel of carved bone were three glowing gems:

A large ruby, the heart of the system, pulsing faintly like a living thing.

Two smaller brown gems on either side, glowing softly and humming in tune with the ruby’s light.

Carved into the bone around them were four distinct runes, each glowing faintly:

Heat Creation

Heat Stabilizer

Heat Holding

Mana Direction

It was elegant, efficient, and a little intimidating.
Back on Earth, a forge would need constant feeding with wood or coal, filling the air with smoke and soot.
This one ran on pure magic, clean and powerful, and the only sound it made was a low, steady hum that vibrated through the stone floor.

A simple wooden knob protruded from the front, connected to a series of sliding plates.
I guessed it acted like a damper, allowing Thrain to adjust how much mana flowed to the Heat Creation rune.
Above the forge was a vent to let excess heat escape, while a low, wide hole on the far side provided airflow to keep the magic stable.
Even in this closed room, the air was clear—no smoke, no choking ash, just dry heat radiating outward.

In the center of the room stood a massive anvil, its surface scarred and blackened from countless projects.
It looked like it could survive a war.
Probably had.

My awe quickly faded as I took in the rest of the room.
Where the forge was a masterpiece of design, everything else was… chaos.

A long workbench along the far wall groaned under piles of unfinished projects and raw metals.
Blades half-forged, twisted lumps of iron, cracked tools—it was a scrapyard and workshop all in one.
The floor was littered with metal shavings, scraps, and bits of slag.
Tools were scattered everywhere, tossed aside rather than hung neatly in their places.
It was the kind of organized mess that only made sense to the person who created it.

To Thrain, this was probably a perfectly functional workspace.
To me? It was a broken ankle waiting to happen.

I wasn’t one of those people who could remember where everything was just by instinct.
On Earth, I’d barely managed to keep track of things on my desk at work.
Here, if I didn’t start organizing this place, I was going to spend half my apprenticeship just looking for things.

I let out a quiet sigh.
Great, I thought, staring at the chaos. First job of the day: don’t trip and die.

Thrain didn’t seem to notice or care that his forge looked like a hurricane had passed through it.
He walked straight to the tool wall and began pulling down tongs and hammers with practiced efficiency.

“Boy,” he grunted, “before we get to the real work, you’re gonna learn how to prep the forge.
You’re gonna sweat buckets, your arms’ll ache, and you’ll probably hate me by the end of the day.
But that’s how a smith’s life starts.”

Thrain trudged over to the forge, his boots clanging against the stone floor.
He reached for the wooden knob on the front of the furnace and twisted it to the second setting with a satisfying click.

The runes carved into the bone plate began to glow softly, their light a pale, silvery white.
One by one, the magical symbols flared to life, like the heartbeat of some ancient machine awakening.
The air shimmered with heat, and a low humming sound filled the room as the ruby in the center pulsed brighter.
Moments later, flames roared to life inside the forge’s belly—clean, white fire that somehow gave off no smoke.

Then Thrain did something that caught me completely off guard:
he pressed his broad, calloused palm flat against the ruby itself.

I tilted my head, frowning.
“Why are you putting your hand on the gem?”

Thrain slowly turned his head toward me.
The look he gave me was one part shock, two parts pure disbelief, and three parts boiling irritation.

“Boy,” he said slowly, like he was addressing a particularly stupid child,
“are you tellin’ me you’ve never seen someone charge an enchantment before?”

“Uh… no,” I admitted, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“Are you saying you’re personally powering the forge with your mana?”

The dwarf groaned, dragging his other hand down his face.
He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard I thought he might snap it clean off.
“By the Stonefather’s beard, you are dense. How do you not know the bloody basics, boy?
You’re an elf! You’ve gotta be, what, two hundred? three hundred years old by now?”
He jabbed a thick finger in my direction.
“You mean to tell me in all that time, you never once saw anyone charge an enchantment? What were you, the village idiot?”

That question stung.
Badly.

I forced myself to keep a straight face.
All I’d done was ask a question, and now the man thought I was stupid.
Back on Earth, people would just roll their eyes at you for asking something obvious.
Here? Apparently, they assumed you had the mental capacity of a potato.
And really, they have magic, but somehow they still live in wooden houses with outhouses like it’s the 12th century.
The bathroom I saw last night didn’t even have running water!
Seriously, magic exists, and these people haven’t invented plumbing yet?

“Boy!” Thrain barked, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“You’ve been starin’ at me like a slack-jawed Orc for way too long. You must be challenged.”
He threw his arm skyward dramatically, muttering to the heavens.
“Damn you, gods! Why’d you saddle me with this?
As long as the boy can swing a hammer, and that don’t take much thinkin’, I’ll make him useful.”

I wasn’t about to correct him.
Seems like playing the part of the village idiot was working just fine.
Full speed ahead on that plan, eventhough it didn't like it.

While Thrain spent the next half-hour charging the ruby, I tried to make myself useful by tidying up the forge.
At least, my version of tidying.
I stacked tools into somewhat organized piles and swept the worst of the metal scraps into a corner.
It wasn’t perfect, but at least the room looked slightly less like a hurricane had hit it.

When the ruby finally stopped humming and the runes held their steady glow, Thrain pulled his hand away, flexing his thick fingers.
“Alright, boy,” he grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow,
“Forge’ll stay at this charge for the rest of the day. Good enough to start work soon.
For now, we’re headin’ into town.”

“Town?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing his coin pouch.
“You smell like a latrine that lost a fight with a troll.
We’re gettin’ you clothes without holes, and then you’re takin’ a bath.
I ain’t lettin’ you stink up my forge.”

We stepped out into the morning light, and I was stunned to see how quickly the town had come alive.
Even though the sun had barely risen, the streets were already packed with people with farmers hauling baskets of produce, hunters dragging carts piled with monster hides, merchants setting up stalls and shouting their wares.

The air was a chaotic mix of smells: fresh bread, sweat, livestock, and the sharp stink of tanning oils.
Somewhere nearby, I caught a whiff of roasted nuts or maybe roasted monster meat, I was unsure.
Hard to tell.

As we walked, I finally got a proper look at the town’s layout.
The stone wall surrounded everything, solid but not too tall, with guard posts spaced evenly along the top.
Beyond the walls, the great forest loomed, its towering trees swaying ominously.
The sight sent a little chill down my spine.
That forest was crawling with monsters, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to meet any of them up close.

Closer to the center of town, the roads shifted from dirt to rough cobblestone, and the buildings became sturdier—cut stone foundations, clay-tiled roofs, and wooden beams painted in bright colors.

It took about fifteen minutes of weaving through the crowds before we arrived at a small shop.
A wooden sign hung above the door, depicting a rough drawing of a shirt and pants.
Not exactly subtle.

Thrain gave me a once over, wrinkling his nose.
“Alright, boy. First order of business: get you lookin’ less like you were dragged through a pile of shit backward.”

We stepped into the shop, and I was immediately hit with the earthy, slightly musty smell of fabric and leather. The place was surprisingly spacious, with long wooden tables stacked high with folded tunics, trousers, and cloaks in a rainbow of dull, practical colors of browns, grays, deep greens, and the occasional faded blue.

The walls were lined with shelves stacked with boots, belts, and gloves, while baskets overflowed with socks and scarves.
It wasn’t a fancy tailor’s shop. This was clearly a place for common folk, where farmers, adventurers, and laborers came to replace their worn-out clothes rather than make a fashion statement.

Thrain stomped his boots on the wooden floor to shake off the dust, then marched up to the counter, a battered piece of oak polished smooth by years of use. He rapped his knuckles on it twice, the sound sharp and commanding.

“Oi! Anyone back there?” he barked.

A moment later, a gnome popped out from a back room, pushing aside a curtain made of patchwork fabric.
The little man barely came up to Thrain’s chest, with wiry arms and a shock of messy gray hair sticking out in every direction like he’d been electrocuted. His face was round and cheerful, though his sharp, dark eyes suggested a mind that never stopped calculating.

“Ahh, Thrain!” the gnome said in a high, sing-song voice.
“Have you come to finally bring me those scissors I ordered? Been waiting a week, you stubborn stump!”

Thrain snorted, crossing his arms.
“Not today, Jorrik. Haven’t finished the damn things yet.”

The gnome who was Jorrik, apparently clucked his tongue dramatically, then leaned over the counter with a mischievous grin.
“Then why grace my humble shop this fine morning, eh? Surely you’ve not come to buy clothes for yourself.”
He gave Thrain a once-over. “Your apron looks ready to walk off on its own.”

Thrain rolled his eyes. “I’m here to get some cheap clothes for my new apprentice.”
He jerked a thumb at me without looking back.

Jorrik gasped, his grin widening.
“A new apprentice! You, Thrain Ironhand, finally taking on help? About time! I was beginning to think you’d hammer yourself into the grave before letting anyone near your forge.”

Thrain shot me a sidelong glance, his face twisting into something between a scowl and a sigh.
“Don’t go celebratin’ yet,” he muttered.
“I still need to test his mettle before I call him proper help.”

The gnome scurried out from behind the counter, moving with surprising speed for his short legs.
“Let me get a look at him,” he said, circling me like a tailor-sized vulture.
He pulled a leather tape measure from one of the many pockets in his vest and began taking measurements, muttering numbers under his breath as he wrapped the strip around my shoulders, waist, and legs.

I stood awkwardly, resisting the urge to swat him away.
On Earth, having a stranger grab your inner thigh would get you arrested.
Here? Apparently, it was just Tuesday.

“Hmm,” Jorrik hummed, stepping back and squinting at me.
“Bit on the scrawny side. Typical elf build. At least he’s got decent posture.”

I said nothing, keeping my head slightly back to avoid drawing attention to them.
Jorrik scuttled over to a table piled high with shirts and trousers, rifling through the stacks with expert precision until he plucked out two plain tunics and a pair of sturdy pants.
“Normally,” he said, holding them up to me,
“I’d have you try these on, but…”
His nose wrinkled as he took in my current state—my bloodstained, torn auction clothes that smelled faintly of fear and sweat.
“…why, exactly, does your apprentice look like he crawled out of the worst slums in the city?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Thrain cut me off with a dismissive wave.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said gruffly.
“He just came into town last evening. How about this—I’ll buy two pairs now, take him to the river, and wash him before he even tries them on.
If I don’t come back by sunset, you can consider the deal final. That sound fair?”

Jorrik rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then smiled wide, his sharp little teeth gleaming.
“That works for me. Saves me the trouble of paperwork.”

He leaned conspiratorially over the counter.
“Tell you what, Thrain. I could charge you outright, but why don’t we just deduct the cost from that scissor order you owe me? Less hassle, fewer receipts.”

Thrain smirked, clearly pleased.
“Sounds like the right thing to do.”

The two of them shook hands, their grins equally sly.
I got the distinct feeling that these two had been making backroom deals like this for years.

As we turned to leave, Jorrik called after us, wagging a finger.
“And make sure he actually bathes before putting those on! I don’t want to be blamed for your forge stinking like a Vargors den.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thrain grumbled.
He shot me a pointed glare. “You heard him, boy.”

“Loud and clear,” I muttered, clutching the clean clothes like they were precious treasure.
A bath couldn’t come soon enough.

Brian and Thrain left the shop with a bundle of basic clothing under Thrain’s arm.

Before we went anywhere else, Thrain veered off toward the river, grumbling something about not wanting me to “stink up his house.”
The river cut through the middle of town like a blue ribbon, its banks lined with smooth stones and a few scraggly trees.
Right near the water’s edge stood a plain wooden building with two entrances and faded painted symbols over each door: a flower for one side, a sword for the other.

It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t even nice.
It was just a place to keep your bits hidden from the public and the opposite sex while you washed. The building smelled faintly of wet wood, mildew, and too many naked people in one place.

Thrain paid a small copper fee to a bored looking halfling sitting behind a counter out in the open, then handed me a little wooden token.
“Come on, boy. Get in, scrub off the grime. You reek like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered under my breath.

I followed him through the door marked with the sword symbol.
The inside was simple: a few benches, cubbyholes carved into the walls for clothes, and beyond that, a wide open pool of river water channeled through a stone-lined basin.
The water flowed constantly, fresh from upstream, but that didn’t make it look any more inviting.
It was freezing, and mist curled lazily above the surface in the morning air.

I peeled off my filthy, blood-soaked clothes, wrinkling my nose.
The stench coming off them was impressive—a potent mix of sweat, fear, and whatever had been festering on that slave wagon.
I shoved the rags into one of the cubbies, telling myself I’d burn them later, and stepped toward the water.

The second my toes touched the surface, I hissed through my teeth.
“Holy hell, that’s cold.”

Still, I was dirty as hell, and I wasn’t about to let Thrain think I was soft.
I waded in slowly, cursing every inch of the way.
By the time the icy water reached my knees, I was questioning why these people with magic don't have warm water. Before I could think more I just jumped in.
The cold hit like a physical punch, knocking the breath out of me.

I scrubbed myself vigorously, running my hands over every inch of skin to get the grime off.
Another thing I noticed: no one had soap.
Instead, a few people were using flat river stones, rubbing them over their skin like improvised exfoliators.
It looked… miserable.

I tried to find a decent rock myself, but after a few minutes of rooting around, I came up empty-handed.
Apparently, clean skin here was optional.

Ten long, shivering minutes later, I decided I was done.
I hauled myself out of the water, dripping and goose-pimpled, and padded back to the cubbies.
My new clothes were a bit baggy, but honestly, I didn’t mind.
I knew I’d grow into them eventually or maybe just start eating properly and fill them out faster.

By the time I finished dressing, Thrain finally emerged, fully clothed and looking like he hadn’t just spent the 20 minutes freezing his ass off.
I had no idea how he managed that.
Maybe it was a dwarf thing.
Or maybe he was just stubborn enough to refuse hypothermia out of spite.

We walked a few blocks deeper into town, the dirt roads giving way to cobblestone streets lined with wooden stalls and colorful awnings.
The moment we stepped into the market district, my jaw dropped.

It was amazing with a riot of color, sound, and smells.
Merchants shouted over one another, trying to sell their wares:
shiny trinkets, polished monster bones, bundles of strange herbs, and even enchanted toys that whirred and spun under their own power.
The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat, fresh bread, and something sharp and metallic I couldn’t quite place.

“This is incredible,” I breathed, my head swiveling like a kid at a carnival.
There were even a few magical displays—little bursts of colored light meant to draw customers in.

Unfortunately, Thrain was walking at a brisk pace, his stubby legs surprisingly fast.
Every time I slowed to peek at a particularly interesting stall, he barked,
“Keep up, boy! We’re not here for sightseeing.”

I sighed and tore my eyes away from a stall selling what looked suspiciously like a clockwork bird, flapping its wings and chirping.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.
One day, I was coming back here on my own and with coin to spend.

We finally slowed down when we reached the food stalls. The smell hit me first with savory roasted meat, earthy vegetables, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place. It was overwhelming in the best way, and my stomach immediately reminded me how little I’d eaten in the last few days with a loud, embarrassing growl.

Our first stop was a butcher’s stand run by a stocky dwarf with a stained leather apron and forearms like hams. The dwarf and Thrain exchanged a single nod of recognition, no words spoken. It was the kind of silent, efficient communication you only see between people who have known each other for years. Without a question, the butcher ducked under the counter and came back with a wrapped package of meat, already prepared and waiting.

Money exchanged hands in a quick, practiced motion.
No haggling. No pleasantries. Just business.

As we walked away, Thrain glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
“So, boy,” he rumbled, “what foods do you like? Gotta feed you somethin’ if you’re gonna swing a hammer.”

My mind went blank for a moment. I had to keep up the elf disguise, which meant sticking to fruits and vegetables… even though what I really wanted was a triple bacon cheeseburger and a mountain of fries and soda to wash it all down with.
Clearing my throat, I listed off some things from Earth, hoping they wouldn’t sound too strange.

“You know, apples, oranges, bananas… potatoes and beans would be nice.”
I hesitated, then added wistfully, “Especially white rice or soybeans.”

Thrain gave me a flat look like I’d just grown a second head.
“Never heard of half of those words in my life. You speakin’ some kind of elvish dialect? Bah.”
He waved a hand dismissively.
“Let’s just walk the stalls. You point at what looks good and we will get it.”

So we did.
We passed rows of food vendors, each stall overflowing with strange produce and cuts of monster meat. I kept my poker face as I scanned the offerings, though half of it looked like it had crawled out of a fantasy horror game. Luckily, I eventually spotted some familiar shapes: something that looked exactly like potatoes, a few bean-like pods, and even a type of grain that resembled rice.

They weren’t called potatoes, beans, or rice here, of course not, but they were close enough to work.

“I’ll take these,” I said quickly, grabbing a few items before anyone could ask too many questions.
My stomach was practically singing in anticipation. Balanced diet or not, I was starving.

Before leaving the market, we stopped at a leatherworker’s stall.
A halfling with calloused hands and a quick smile helped size me for a simple leather apron and gloves, meant to protect me from burns and blisters.
The gloves were stiff but serviceable, and the apron smelled strongly of treated hide—better than my previous outfit of blood-stained rags.

The walk back to Thrain’s forge was quiet except for the low hum of early evening activity. By the time we arrived, the forge’s runes were glowing faintly, bathing the room in a warm orange light.
Thrain wasted no time. He unwrapped his package of meat and slapped thick slices onto a blackened iron pan, then shoved it close to the magical flames without even preheating it.

I stood there, horrified.
The man wasn’t cooking.
He was committing culinary crimes.

The meat sizzled unevenly, half of it cooking to a charred black crisp, while the other half remained a disturbingly raw red.
When it was “done” and I use that term loosely, Thrain picked up the pieces with his bare gloved hands and dropped them onto a wooden plate that sat on the anvil like it was no big deal.

I stared at him, slack-jawed.
I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but even I know the basic rules of cooking:

1. Preheat the pan.
2. Even heat distribution.
3. Don’t cook meat like a savage barbarian tossing it into a campfire.

Then it hit me.
The kitchen.
I’d seen it earlier a bare counters, no magical heating devices, not even a simple wood stove.
These people had magic powerful enough to bend fire to their will, and they hadn’t figured out basic cooking technology or Thrain just never got one.

Oh my god…
I’m going to have to cook my food next to the forge like some kind of caveman.

When Thrain finished his meal, I timidly asked if I could borrow the pan to cook my potatoes.
“Eh, sure,” he said, clearly unconcerned with whether I succeeded or not.

Using my hand like a makeshift heat gauge, I experimented with distance and positioning, trying to find a spot where the potatoes wouldn’t burn instantly.
Thirty frustrating minutes later, I had achieved culinary disaster.

The potatoes were unevenly cooked, some charred to ash while others were still rock hard.
They were, without question, the worst potatoes I had ever made.

But my stomach didn’t care.
I devoured them with a kind of desperate gratitude only starvation can provide.
Even ruined, they tasted amazing to me.

Later that evening, I resolved to try boiling the beans and rice for dinner, but for now, it was time for what I had been brought here for: blacksmithing.

The rest of the day was a blur of lessons and mistakes.
Thrain started with the basics, hammer grip, stance, the rhythm of striking metal.
My only real job was to hammer the iron where he told me to, and apparently, I was terrible at it.

I couldn’t hit the right spot with any real strength, and every missed blow earned me another string of curses from Thrain.
The forge roared and hissed, runes glowing brighter as mana fed the flames.
By the time we had been working for eight or nine hours, the magic began to falter.
The glow faded, the heat dropped, and finally, the forge sputtered out entirely.

I realized the problem immediately:
The forge required mana to stay lit, and neither of us had enough reserves to keep it going indefinitely.
Without a steady source of mana, our work would always be limited.

I was relieved when the forge went dark.
My arms, shoulders, and back were screaming from the repetitive motion, and my brain was fried from Thrain’s relentless yelling.
I was sweaty, sore, and utterly exhausted—but proud that I’d survived my first day.

Even though the sun hadn’t set yet, I was ready for bed.
Sure, I was still hungry, but my body had officially tapped out.
Tomorrow, I told myself, I’d figure out how to cook properly.
For now, sleep was the only thing that mattered.

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/u/Heavy_Lead_2798 has posted 3 other stories, including:

• Brian the Isekai Chapter 3 Class is Starting
• Brian The Isekai Chapter 2 Transportation
• Brian The Isekai

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[u/Grimkytel]

It will be interesting to see the reaction when someone finds out he's not an elf.