"Why am I here?" Elina's voice was a flat line of exhaustion, her golden-amber slit pupils tracking Noa and Marnok with the weary suspicion of a cat that had already been put in a bathtub once today.
She had been brought to the workshop practically by force, barely having had time to let the palace medics finish wrapping the fresh wounds on her chest and her broken horn. Standing there in her charcoal and crimson gown, she looked strikingly out of place against the soot-stained rafters of the smithy.
"Well, you see, Elina-chan, we want your help with making my sword." Noa raised a single finger and closed his eyes, offering a smile so radiant it was practically a physical hazard.
"Elina... chan? What are you getting at?" She widened one eye and leaned forward in suspicion, her nose inches from Noa's. "And what about this sword? I don't know sword crafting."
"Well you see, Elina, sword forging is not only about how much you know." Behind her, Vionette spoke up.
She had followed them here because she knew Noa's character far too well. The moment she saw him dragging a confused Elina toward the industrial district, she knew the forging was about to become a spectacle.
Elina looked at Noa, then at Vionette, and finally let out a long, heavy sigh. She accepted that she had no choice but to see this through.
"Ok… what is it that you want?"
"We want you to heat up these dragon parts I got from one of my friends." Noa pointed at the pile of draconic materials sitting on the workbench.
Elina looked at the pile, and then her eyelids began to twitch.
"You don't have any more dragon friends! Those are the scales you snatched from me just a few hours ago! And my horn!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "You're literally asking me to cook myself!"
"Who knows? Fate is strange, isn't it?" Noa rolled his shoulders as his lips tightened. He didn't even give her a real answer.
"Tch! Whatever! Let's just get started."
"Okay then," the room's atmosphere shifted to a more serious one as Marnok stood up, his leather apron creaking. "Fire your dragon breath directly to this."
He pointed at the forge's intake—a funnel-shaped iron opening at the base, lined with glowing Heat-Sink Runes designed to keep the entire stone structure from exploding under the solar pressure of a dragon's lungs.
Elina walked slowly toward the place Marnok pointed at. She didn't know the first thing about smithing, but she knew power.
"Here I go then." She pointed both palms at the opening, index fingers and thumbs touching to form a perfect triangle—a window of focus for the primal force dwelling within her lungs.
"Dragon Blast!"
Inside that triangle, Aether gathered and turned a bruised, violent crimson. She absorbed as much Aether as she could, but instead of a wide explosion, she condensed it into a needle-thin, hyper-pressurized stream.
WROOOM!
The forge didn't just turn orange; it turned a blinding white-blue. The air in the shop began to vibrate, the sound so low and heavy it felt like it was pressing against everyone's ribs. The exhaust coming out of the chimney turned into a pillar of pure heat that could be seen across the city—a golden spear piercing the sky.
Any other forge would've been turned to melted liquid, but Marnok's was ready. He had been dreaming of this moment for years.
The Dragon Horn was placed inside a Crucible—a bell-shaped pot of high-density graphite—tucked into a recessed nest at the very back of the forge. The Dragon Scales were laid out on a Fire-Brick Platen in the middle, sitting directly in the straight line where Elina's breath screamed through the intake.
"Keep it going smoothly." He looked at Elina, then back at the shifting colors of the metal. "Now, raise it a bit!"
"Okay. Here goes!" Elina pushed harder, her hair whipped around her face by the sheer pressure of her own Aether.
The obsidian scales began to bleed a deep crimson light as the horn inside the pot turned into a glowing, translucent violet marrow. Marnok watched, barely even blinking, waiting for the perfect moment of malleability.
"Lower the intensity!" Marnok suddenly shouted at Elina.
"On it!" she gasped, cutting back her Aether output until the white-blue roar faded back to a steady, pulsing orange.
Marnok stepped up and grabbed his Tungsten Tongs. He clamped onto the glowing dragon scales, grabbing them with a grip that spoke of decades of experience.
"It's time to begin the real work."
THUD!
He hauled the scales out and slammed them onto the Anvil's Face. While the scales were still screaming with white heat, he reached back for the Crucible and tipped it. The molten Dragon Horn Marrow—now a thick, glowing violet liquid—got poured directly over the center of the scales.
From Marnok's view, a great weapon is made out of the maker's skills, the weapon's will, and the user's care. In this case, the dragon horn was the core, the unyielding marrow of the sword, while the scales were the skin.
The liquid marrow hissed and popped as it met the solid scales, creating a bonding layer that looked like purple lava flowing over volcanic rock.
"Hey!" He looked at Noa, his eyes burning with a wild energy. "Get that sledgehammer and come here quickly! I can't hold this beast down by myself!"
To bend dragon parts like these, Marnok knew he was physically powerless. He needed the raw power and the intent of the owner of the blade—the one who would bear the weight of its sins.
"Yes!" Noa's carefree tone was long gone. The playfulness had vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He quickly grabbed the heavy sledgehammer and ran towards Marnok.
"Follow my rhythm and strike back immediately. If you miss a beat, the metal will reject you," Marnok warned.
"Ok!"
Ting
CLANG!
Marnok struck a rhythm on the edge of the anvil to signal Noa. Marnok hit the center of the marrow to spread it, and Noa followed immediately with the sledgehammer, using raw strength to flatten the scales and force the marrow into the crystalline structure of the materials. Over and over, they repeated it. The rhythm was hypnotic, a pulse of creation that filled the workshop.
Noa didn't know the specifics of the craft, he just went with the beat Marnok provided. He hit with full force because he had to—the metal possessed an enormous, stubborn will. It literally tried to push the hammers back, resisting the change. Noa used his full power to keep the hammer from bouncing, while Marnok used his [Force Redirection (Rare)] to ensure the shockwaves didn't shatter the anvil's foundation.
"Loosen the strength a bit! You're crushing the grain!" Marnok yelled.
"Ok."
"Too low, a little bit higher! Hit it like it owes you money!"
"What the hell? Okay!"
"To left! Keep it centered!"
The two were drenched in sweat, their clothes clinging to them. Even Noa hadn't thought it would be this physically taxing.
Slowly, the glowing bar started to take its first shape—a long, wicked sliver of violet and black. They weren't just hitting metal; they were breaking the beast's stubborn memory of being alive. Sweat fell from their brows and entered the metal, turning into raw emotion as it bonded with the steel.
'Vionette, look at his face,' Elina whispered, leaning against the forge intake for support. 'He's actually being serious for once. I didn't think he had it in him.'
'He has to be,' Vionette replied, her eyes never leaving Noa. 'He was very excited for this weapon.'
"Now, get it to the edge!" Marnok shouted, grabbing the hardy block. They moved the long, glowing bar to the brink of the anvil.
CLAG!
CLING!
"I'll taper the point, you help thin out the cutting side."
Instead of smoothing the edge into a traditional curve, Marnok placed the glowing blade over the hardy block and struck. This notched the dragon scales, creating jagged, razor-sharp thorns that pointed back toward the hilt. Every strike released a fountain of sparks, the friction of the dragon-metal against the iron tools creating a miniature firework show.
He followed the design Noa had drawn on a scrap of paper—a child's request for something "cool" and "spiked." But to Marnok, it was a holy commission. He wouldn't cut corners on a child's dream.
CLING!
Splshhh.
The next phase started. The blade had become so sharp before it was even finished that the air itself seemed to bleed. Just the vibration of the hammer sent out invisible "ghost slashes," mapping red lines across Marnok's leathered skin. But his eyes didn't flinch. Noa didn't look back either; he was staring into the soul of the metal.
"Goddam sword! Stop resisting!" Noa shouted at the core of the sword, his voice echoing the hammer strikes.
CLING!
Splsh.
Marnok continued the forging without a care for the cuts appearing on his own arms. Instead of wincing, he smiled in amusement, a wild, manic look in his eyes.
Elina watched from the forge intake, reminded of the human who had fought her—the man who laughed madly even when his legs were shaking, who found joy in the brink of destruction.
'Are these two the same?' she wondered as she saw the soot-covered Marnok smiling through the pain.
"Stop." After a long hour of rhythmic hammering, Marnok finally held up a hand. "The metal is angry and too unstable. Let's let it cool down."
He placed the blade on the cooling rack, allowing the Aetheric grains in the dragon scales to settle into their new, forced alignment. As it cooled from white to a deep, cherry red, the blade began to sing—a low, mournful draconic hum that made everyone's teeth ache and the glass bottles on the shelves rattle.
Marnok locked his eyes on the metal, calculating the right moment.
"Now! Bring it back on!"
Noa quickly grabbed the heated blade with heavy tongs and slammed it back onto the anvil.
"Continue making the cutting side!" Marnok grabbed his hammer back, ready to resume the beat.
"On i—Wait." Noa remembered something. He dropped the sledgehammer to the ground with a heavy, metallic thud that shook the workshop floor.
[Echo Reclamation]
His arms were suddenly swathed in a thick, crawling mist of dark purple energy. Marnok saw the skill activate but had no time to ask questions. If the heat died now, the sword was scrap.
Noa ignored the tools and closed in on the anvil, his eyes glowing with the same violet hue as his skill.
THUUNG!
He didn't use a hammer. He slammed his bare hand directly onto the glowing flat of the blade.
"Noa! What the hell are you doing?" Elina screamed, stepping forward, but Vionette held her back.
The dark purple energy of [Echo Reclamation] flowed from Noa's palm like an infection. The crimson-black surface of the sword began to bubble and ripple, the metal churning as if the sword were trying to scream in agony.
THUUNG!
As the two powers—Elina's stubborn draconic will and Noa's skill—clashed, the workshop began to tremble. Shockwaves rippled out from the anvil, leaving jagged marks on the stone walls and sweeping weapons off their racks. The pressure was so great it extinguished Elina's held-up Dragon Blast, the fire snuffed out instantly by the vacuum of Noa's energy. Vionette ducked behind Elina for protection.
Noa was smiling in excitement. With each pulse of the skill, his hands started to melt against the white-hot blade, but he didn't pull away. He wasn't strengthening the metal; he was trapping a moment of the dragon's fear inside the sharp side.
"Remember the feeling of being torn apart," Noa whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the energy. "Return it to your enemy without hesitation. Taste all the agony I have gathered from Crimvane and return that agony tenfold."
He was infusing the blade with every negative emotion he had gathered from the people of Crimvane using [Echo Reclamation]. The anger of the betrayed, the sadness of the bereaved, the fear of the weak—all of it flowed into the steel, spreading across the thorned edge like a network of glowing, malignant violet veins.
In the corner of his eye, Marnok saw the unnatural energy, but he didn't feel fear. He felt the rush of a man witnessing a miracle of darkness. He saw the emotions being stitched into the metal lattice, turning a weapon into something alive and hungry.
"Hahahah! Keep going! Keep going at it!" the dwarf shouted, his own hammer joining Noa's hand in a final, frantic rhythm.
THUUGHH!
Bit by bit, the sword absorbed the emotions. That once-emotionless core was now being filled with a soul—a soul made of nothing but distilled negative emotions.
A living record of pain was being born.