Blow the billows, build the fire—strike the hammer, lift it higher. Molten metal scorches ground as sparks and steam go spinning round. The weapons forge, a sacred place, where fire ducks with fearless grace work the flame with steady hand, in ancient halls of Quackingwaxx land. Unflinching in the ember's glow, they breathe the fire soft and slow. It fills their lungs, it fuels their art—they shape the blades with flaming heart. With every swing and molten pour, they craft the weapons made for war. These aren’t blades from common steel; they’re forged with love, with duck-born zeal. No sword survives unless it's blessed by fire ducks who know the test. Normal blades may bend or break—but not the ones these masters make. Each must be shaped with perfect care for ninja ducks with hands that flare. No forge like this across the sands, save for the one in Quackingwaxx lands.
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