Wolff felt cold.

He always did, out here — surrounded by sun-bleached stone and dwarven ruins, where the wind cut like a rasp and the gods had long since stopped whispering. His temple had no glory. No priests. No procession of grateful villagers.

Just dust, rusted swords, and failed prophecy.

He sat on the temple steps, biting into a stale root vegetable, when the bell rang.

Not a ceremonial bell — there were none left — but the summoning chime. Crude, rebuilt by dwarves who didn’t believe in heroes anymore, just in mechanisms that ticked and clicked out of duty.

He didn’t move at first.

The dwarves cheered. A few muttered curses. It had been days since their last "hero" — a swordsman who wept on his third day and disappeared into the canyons.

Wolff stood slowly. Dusted off his coat. Another one, then.

Another fool tossed into a world that devoured hope faster than it built temples.

The stone floor of the summoning chamber hissed with heat. Magic cracked around the ring in pale gold arcs, reacting to the foreign blood, the ancient contract.

And then — in a blink — someone appeared.

Not armored. Not prepared.

A boy.

Clothes scorched around the hem. Arms scratched. And in his grasp, a baby. Held close to his chest with the kind of instinct Wolff recognized from wild animals: guard the soft thing, even if you die.

The room went silent.

Even the dwarves at the observation gate said nothing. Wolff stepped forward, gaze narrowing. The boy looked up, dazed, sweat clinging to his temple — a student? A wanderer? No, a mistake. The spell had fetched the wrong one. He should send him back.

But the baby stirred. Reached out — tiny fingers grasping the air.

And the boy… didn't flinch. Just adjusted his hold, barely even looking down.

Wolff stopped.

“...This isn’t a hero,” one dwarf muttered behind him.

Wolff didn’t answer.

Instead, he crouched before the boy. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just looked. This wasn’t the usual panic. Not desperation, not pride.

It was something else.

Something heavy, old. Like the boy had already been living through a world’s end long before they yanked him into this one.

Wolff exhaled.

“Welcome to the temple of steel,” he said eventually, voice low. “It’s the worst one.”

The boy didn’t reply. Of course not. They never did, at first.

The baby yawned. A strange peace.

Wolff stood again, rolling his shoulders.

“They’ll expect you to fight. To save. To survive.”

He turned toward the long, sun-blasted hall.

“But if all you do is keep that kid alive… you’ll have done more than most.”