Hammer of Inheritance

They walked for about half an hour before arriving at Blackhand's cave. Because the Forge Clan was settled near Lava Mountain, they had carved many such dwellings into the surrounding cliff walls. Solam found these caves quite pleasant—warm in winter and cool in summer—and he had been living in the one next to Blackhand's for the past two years.

"Old man, why did you call me back?"

"I have something for you."

"What is it? You're acting all mysterious, like you're afraid of someone seeing it."

The old man ignored Solam, walking straight to a corner to remove a rectangular stone block from the wall. The stone fit so seamlessly that one wouldn't have known it was movable without a close inspection.

Once the stone was shifted, a large chest was revealed inside. The old man glanced around suspiciously before opening it and pulling out a large cloth bundle, over a meter in size.

Yes, a large cloth bundle. Solam was stunned when he saw it; no one in Avalon knew how to weave, so cloth was virtually non-existent there. That was why Solam found it so strange.

"This is what I wanted to give you." The old man carefully held the bundle out to Solam. Only then did Solam realize it wasn't just cloth, but silk—pure black silk covered in black runes. If one didn't look closely, they would be nearly invisible.

It seemed the object wrapped in this mysterious fabric was of great importance; otherwise, the old man wouldn't have been so cautious.

Solam took the bundle. It was heavy, and the fabric felt as smooth as the silk from his past life.

"What's inside?"

"Open it and see for yourself."

Seeing the old man was still playing coy, Solam didn't press him. He knew that if there was something to be said, the old man would eventually say it. Solam carefully unwrapped the package.

Upon opening it, he discovered a warhammer inside. It was about 1.2 meters long and made entirely of metal. The hammer head was massive and engraved with numerous runes that flickered with white light from time to time. The handle was wrapped in some kind of unknown leather that felt incredibly comfortable to grip, and the texture of the leather ensured a firm hold, preventing it from slipping. (Visual reference: Doomhammer from World of Warcraft.)

Seeing the obviously enchanted warhammer, Solam felt a jolt go through him.

"Holy crap, old man, have you lost your mind? You stole the Doomhammer? Aren't you afraid the Frostblade Clan will hunt you down?"

"Damn it, what are you babbling about? I don't have the guts for that! Besides, the Doomhammer is currently in the hands of High Elder Dussel. If I tried to steal it, I'd be asking for a death sentence." High Elder Dussel was the leader of the Frostblade Clan. The Frostblade Clan had no Warchief; they were typically led by Shamans and were the only clan to be led exclusively by one.

Because they valued wisdom above all else, believing that only wisdom could truly lead the Orcs toward the future—and that warriors were too reckless to lead all the clans—their leaders were always addressed as High Elders.

Their High Elder was also the spiritual leader of all Orcs in Avalon, which was why they didn't call their leader a Warchief like the other clans. High Elder Dussel was the only legendary-level Shaman in Avalon, and the Doomhammer was their heirloom weapon and the symbol of the High Elder, as it had belonged to the Prophet Garul, who hailed from that very clan.

"Oh, then what's the deal with this hammer? I can tell it's far from simple."

"That's right. This is the heirloom of our lineage, so of course it's not simple," Blackhand said with great pride.

"The heirloom of our lineage?" One had to understand that mentorship between Shamans wasn't strictly formal. Shamans only needed guidance in the early stages; after that, everything depended on their own enlightenment. Everyone walked a different path, and even their interpretations of doctrine varied greatly, so there was naturally no tight-knit lineage.

Yet, here was old man Blackhand pulling out an "heirloom" like something out of a martial arts novel from his past life, which naturally made Solam suspicious.

"Don't doubt it. This is our heirloom, passed down to me by my master, who received it from his master."

Damn, so it really was a passed-down treasure. But...

"Wait, that's not right. If it's the heirloom of our Shaman lineage, there's no reason for you not to use it. Your weapon is a warhammer too, isn't it?" The Orcs of Avalon were a pragmatic race. If they had such a treasure, there was no reason to leave it unused. Given the Orcish temperament, they wouldn't hide a treasure away just because it was an heirloom; in their eyes, that would be an insult to the object.

Look at the Prophet's hammer—it was still being used to this day. The same went for Solam's own Bloodaxe Clan; the genuine Bloodfire was in his grandfather's hands, and it saw blood often enough. Orcs couldn't fathom the idea of keeping an heirloom just to display it; in Avalon, that would be considered insane.

"Ahem, that's because... I can't use it at all," the old man said, looking a bit ashamed.

"Can't use it? It's just a hammer, what's there to 'use'? You just swing it," Solam said, weighing the hammer in his hand. It wasn't light, but it was certainly something he—let alone the old man—could swing with ease.

"You don't know a damn thing. If it were just an ordinary warhammer, it wouldn't qualify as an heirloom." The old man gave Solam a look of utter contempt for his ignorance.

As it turned out, this hammer was the weapon of an Elemental Shaman from the Blackpeak Clan long ago. The Blackpeak Clan was one of the three great clans of Avalon. Although they hadn't produced earth-shattering heroes like the Prophet Garul or Grom Hellscream, they were not to be underestimated. The two mentors of the Prophet Garul had come from this clan, and the Doomhammer had been used by both of them in succession. After both mentors died in battle, the legendary weapon was passed to the Prophet Garul.

Legend had it that this weapon was also the symbol of the Blackpeak Clan's Warchief. It was said that after the Prophet entered Avalon, he intended to return the Doomhammer to the Blackpeak Clan, but they refused, arguing that the Prophet had brought the weapon immense glory.

Because of this, many Orcs of the Blackpeak Clan used warhammers as their weapons, and that Shaman was no exception. However, this particular weapon was not crafted by Orcs.

Legend said that when that Shaman was traveling in the outside world, he and his companions defeated a powerful demon and thwarted its plot. To reward him, people specifically commissioned the greatest Dwarven blacksmith of the time to forge this weapon, imbuing it with powerful magic.

Afterward, the weapon was brought back to Avalon with the Shaman. However, unexpectedly, after the Shaman died, the weapon could no longer be used by anyone. Even if someone tried to force it, it acted as nothing more than a common warhammer, devoid of any power. Thus, people gave the hammer to the Shaman's disciple, hoping that one day another Shaman would be able to restore its original power.

But until now, the hammer remained in this pathetic state, to the point where no one except the Shamans who inherited it even remembered it existed.

"So, you're saying this hammer is actually useless?" Solam squinted at old man Blackhand. He now suspected the old man was just finding a random hammer to mess with him as revenge for winning so much money. Don't let the old man's age fool you; he was actually quite unreliable. Otherwise, he wouldn't have gambled away his entire fortune for the sake of some bullshit title like "King of Lava Mountain."

"Damn it, is your master that kind of person? Do I seem that unreliable in your eyes?"

However, seeing Solam's exceptionally certain gaze, he was left speechless.

"Fine, fine. I might be a bit... that way sometimes, but not much. Just a tiny bit." He gestured with two fingers to show how small.

Solam continued to look at him with a gaze of pure disdain.

"Alright, alright, I'm usually pretty unreliable." Under Solam's stare, the old man finally conceded. He thought about how, aside from when he was teaching Solam, he never acted like an elder. Damn it, what kind of elder would desperately try to gamble with his own apprentice, eventually losing so much he nearly pawned his own underwear?

"But I wouldn't joke about the names of my master and his master." That was true. Even though the old man was a bit of a "child at heart," he wouldn't joke about his deceased elders. In Orcish society, even if the mentorship wasn't strictly formal, a master was still considered a close elder, and one wouldn't joke about them lightly.

"Then what's going on? Could one of our predecessors have been playing a prank on us?"

Smack! The old man slapped Solam on the back of the head.

"Pah! You think everyone is as bored as you?" But seeing the satisfied expression on his face after hitting Solam, Solam was certain that this old trickster Blackhand had definitely asked his own master the same thing in the past and had definitely been beaten for it.

"Ahem." Seeing Solam looking at him suspiciously, the old man coughed and said seriously, "When I was young, I was also curious, so I went to the outside world to find Dwarves, hoping to find an answer. Believe it or not, I found quite a few, but they couldn't tell me anything. Finally, I found the legendary Dwarven kingdom, Talundir, in the Great Rift. I made quite a few friends there, and eventually, a master blacksmith gave me the answer: this warhammer has a consciousness of its own. It chooses its own master, and anyone it does not acknowledge cannot unleash its true power."

"A weapon? With its own consciousness? Are you really not pulling my leg?"