Noa and Marnok moved in a synchronized dance of destruction and creation, their forms silhouetted against the roaring furnace like ancient titans shaping the foundations of a world.
Every strike of the hammer was a rhythmic tolling of a funeral bell, the sound of colliding steel and the wet tear of their own flesh echoing against the soot-stained rafters. They forged the blade bit by bit, with a precision that bordered on the religious, ignoring the agony of their raw hands.
Vionette watched them in a heavy, silken silence, her crimson gaze fixed on the glowing metal as if she could see the destiny being hammered into its core.
Beside her, Elina's draconic senses reeled; she hovered at the periphery, her tail twitching in agitation, genuinely confused if these two mortals were even sane to sacrifice so much for a single length of metal.
"Final! Shot!" Marnok's roar was a crack of thunder that shattered the tension in the room.
CLAANGG!
He hit his final strike with the force of a falling star, while Noa, teeth gritted in a snarl of effort, finished his side in perfect unison. The workshop seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat.
"Quickly, hand it over." Marnok's voice was a jagged rasp of adrenaline.
He grabbed the hilt-end of the sword tongs with a grip of iron and walked toward the Quench Tank.
Slppmmm.
As he sunk the violet blade into the cooling liquid, the tank didn't just splash; it erupted. A pillar of freezing violet steam shot up to the rafters like a vengeful ghost clawing its way out of the underworld.
This was the 'Thermal Shock,' a violent baptism of temperature. It was the moment where the internal geometry of the blade was frozen in time, locking the jagged thorns and the razor-thin edge into a state of infinite, mythic hardness. It was a process of multiplication, turning the dragon-matter's natural toughness into something that defied the laws of physics.
When the blade finally emerged from the mist, the heat had vanished, replaced by the cold, lethal sheen of a piece of violet and black obsidian.
"Holy shit." Noa looked at it, his eyes wide and reflecting the dark abyss of the steel.
Marnok grinned at the blade in profound satisfaction, his eyes narrowing behind his soot-crusted goggles like a mad god admiring a finished sin.
"Now, for the final touches," he whispered, his hands trembling slightly with the weight of exhaustion and pride.
He carried the blade toward where his enchanted whetstones and the grinding wheel sat waiting. The sword was still covered in the 'scale' of its birth—a crust of impurities and slag.
Marnok pressed the metal against the wheel, and a spray of purple sparks illuminated the room like dying stars.
He ground away the crust on the cutting side, slowly revealing a mirror-bright purple edge that seemed to slice the very air. With the soul of an artist, he left the spine rough, dark, and primeval, showing the original, jagged texture of the dragon scales.
He then spent more than an hour hand-polishing the thorns, his movements slow and reverent, until the tips caught the light like polished black diamonds.
Finally, the master smith straightened his back. He had made the sword Noa asked for, and the weapon he had always dreamed of crafting.
"It's done… my masterpiece is done!" He laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy, and handed the weapon over to Noa, who had been watching the refinement like a man watching his own soul take shape.
Noa held the sword up proudly, the weight of it anchoring him to the floor. He felt the heavy, dark pulse of the weapon against his palm, a rhythmic vibration that felt like a predator's heartbeat.
The handle was a grim masterpiece in its own right, carved from a dense, unyielding segment of Elina's horn and inlaid with scales that provided a cold, armored grip that felt as though it grew from his own hand. Along the dark surface, Marnok had etched fine, silver-tinted scriptures.
The blade itself was a nightmare of geometry. The spine, thick and textured from the dragon horn, flowed directly into a series of jagged, multi-toothed thorns that pointed back toward the hilt like the teeth of a trapped beast.
There was no smooth edge to be found; the spikes themselves were the cutting surface, and they glowed with a low, churning violet light. It was a hyper-sharpened razor that used its terrifying thinness to cut deep into an enemy, while the thick spine ensured the blade wouldn't snap under Noa's overwhelming strength.
This ghostly energy, a manifestation of the negative emotions of Crimvane, flickered over the thorns like a glowing, violet wound held steady in Noa's grasp.
"Marnok, we cooked, buddy," Noa smiled, his voice low and dangerous. "This is what I was talking about. A perfect sword that fits me."
Behind him, hearing the compliment, Marnok nodded in deep satisfaction, his chest swelling with pride.
While Elina assessed her own thoughts—staring at the blade that was once part of her—Vionette walked toward Noa. Her crimson eyes softened as she saw his joy.
"So what is the name?" she asked, a playful side-eye accompanying a smile that made her eyebrows loosen. She was happy simply seeing Noa's smile.
"A name… Mmm." Noa stared into the violet depths of the steel. He thought of a name that could carry the weight of a sword born from negative emotions and dragonic blood.
Then, a word surfaced from the depths of his mind like a bubble of ink.
"Acheron!" he grinned, his eyes burning with the desire to see what kind of future this weapon could carve.
"Nice name for a high Mythic Grade item," Elina joined in, her voice sounding small against the weapon's aura.
"A what? Mythic Grade?" Noa looked at her in genuine confusion.
The terminology of the world still felt like a foreign tongue; he didn't know that items and artifacts held such specific ranks.
"I forgot I haven't told you," Vionette said, putting a hand on her face with a sigh that carried a hint of endearment. "I'll explain it while we go to Eryndor".
***
Thud… thud… thud.
In the training ground provided by Eryndor, the air was stagnant and hot. Kaelen hit his sword against the training dummy with a rhythmic, punishing force that spoke of a man trying to outrun his own limitations.
He was dressed simply in a tight black short-sleeved t-shirt that showed the corded muscle of his arms and brown long pants. His hair swept with the momentum of his swings, but his eyes were locked on the target without a single flicker of wavering. Sweat fell from his forehead like rain, soaking into the dust at his feet.
Thud.
He landed another hit, but his expression soured, his lips thinning into a line of frustration.
Tch. Still not quite right. More to the right. He forced himself to continue his grueling training after taking a long, ragged breather.
Though he had enjoyed himself with Lucien the day before and earned a substantial amount of money, he couldn't allow himself to forget the necessity of the grind.
Because unlike a cheater like Noa—who had only stepped foot in a training ground once at Blackmoor just to leave after a few minutes—Kaelen didn't have that kind of luxury.
While Noa gained his strength like a thief in the night, Kaelen had to earn every ounce of his power. It wasn't that he was talentless; it was that he didn't have any 'Skills'—those reality-warping powers that could overturn a fight in a single breath.
The only way he could rise to the top was through the sheer, unyielding force of his hard work and will.
A few meters to the side, Lucien sat on a chair under the shade of the roof, looking like a portrait of refined composure. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt with black pants, the fabric crisp despite the heat. In his left hand was a book titled The Etiquette of the Royal Envoy, and in his right was an iced drink that looked far too civilized for the setting.
Suddenly, inside Lucien's mind, Vionette's voice rang through like a silver bell. Lucien didn't panic; instead, he stood up from his chair immediately, his posture snapping into a straight line as if to show respect to her even in her absence.
"Hey Kaelen! We've got summoned by those two! Let's go!" he shouted across the training ground.
There were no formalities in his voice, just a simple 'those two'. They were friends first, and they knew Noa and Vionette only wanted them to act like servants during serious, public moments. In a way, it was a cry for help from two lonely children who had finally found people to stand beside them.
Kaelen stopped mid-swing, the blade humming as it cut the air. He sheathed his sword with a sharp click and began walking toward Lucien.
"Ok. Let's go".
***
Roswell walked through the castle hallway, the sound of his boots echoing beneath the high, vaulted ceilings like the ticking of a clock. Beside him, Livora followed with a graceful but arrogant stride, accompanied by two maids. They had been informed of Vionette's arrival, and the air between them was thick with tension.
"I wonder how she's trying to win this war," Livora mocked, her voice a poisonous honey.
Roswell slowed down and turned toward her, his eyes flashing with irritation.
"I already told you, don't underestimate them."
"Hmmp!" Livora tossed her head, refusing to concede.
They continued in silence before finally arriving at the Map Room.
Creak.
The maids opened the heavy doors, and the scene that greeted them was far from the disorganized gathering Roswell had expected.
Vionette sat at the head of the table, her presence commanding and cold. She was no longer in her usual traveling clothes.
Over her white hair rested a black leather military-style hat, the Crimvane crest set proudly at its center while thin crimson strokes traced the edges of the brim like veins of fire.
She wore a fitted crimson shirt tucked neatly beneath a black corset with a slim black tie running down the middle. Over it hung a short black coat with a dark fur collar, its sleeves marked by subtle red strokes and left open at the front to reveal the sharp silhouette of her uniform.
A black skirt lined with two thin crimson stripes fell just above her thighs, paired with dark thigh-high stockings and tall black boots. White gloves covered her hands, and two leather straps wrapped around her waist in a slightly tilted fashion, holding the scabbard of her sword firmly at her side.
Vionette looked directly at Roswell, her piercing crimson eyes holding a weight that made him freeze mid-step. It was a military outfit, yes, but it didn't look overly stifling or traditional; it looked as if it had been designed just to match the specific flow of the war.
His gaze turned to the man at her left.
Noa sat there, dressed in a similar military-styled outfit that matched Vionette's in color and tone, though his carried a more structured, masculine air.
He wore a fitted crimson shirt beneath a structured black coat that was buttoned closed, its high collar rising neatly around his neck. A slim black tie ran down the center, partially hidden by the coat's front. A red aiguillette draped across his shoulder and chest, adding a formal military touch to the dark uniform.
He wore long black trousers tucked into sturdy black boots, and around his waist was a single leather strap holding the newly crafted scabbard—Acheron's cradle—resting in a practical position at his hip. White gloves covered his hands, and the black leather hat with the Crimvane crest sat upon his head.
He was looking at Vionette, examining her outfit with a quiet intensity, while she reached over and grabbed him by the cheek in a brief, possessive gesture.
Roswell's gaze drifted to the left side of the table, and he froze even more—though this time, it was for a completely different reason. The relaxation he felt seeing the pink-haired girl sitting there was instantaneous, her cuteness acting like a balm against the room's tension. She seemed like a flower that even a demon would hesitate to crush.
Lina wore the same outfit similar to Vionette's, her vibrant pink hair a shocking contrast against the black leather hat. Her version was adjusted for her petite frame: the short black coat was cropped higher with a clean, slim collar instead of fur, and she wore a crimson shirt tucked into a black corset with a small tie. While she kept the same striped black skirt and white gloves, her stockings reached only to her knees, tucked into tall black boots. Two leather straps wrapped around her waist in a tilted fashion, securing her scabbard just as Vionette's did.
But as Roswell looked at the person Lina was chatting with, his relaxation turned back into a cold, visceral fear. Next to the little girl was someone who looked only slightly older, but whose presence felt like a mountain of obsidian.
A-a dragon?
Elina sat next to Lina, chatting with her in a low voice. She wore the same outfit similar to Vionette's, though her black leather military hat featured two reinforced slits to accommodate her dark, curving dragon horns. Her monster-looking eyes, slit-pupiled and glowing with an intense inner light, shifted as she spoke.
Her version of the uniform was modified for her heat-based nature: she wore fingerless black leather gauntlets instead of white gloves, and her short black coat featured a slim collar and crimson sleeve strokes that looked like glowing embers. She wore the same striped black skirt and thigh-high stockings paired with metal-plated black boots.
Roswell stared at her horns, his mind reeling. One of the prideful dragons had somehow been brought into the fold of Crimvane in such a short time. He looked at Livora; she was frozen herself, her mockery silenced by the sheer weight of the power gathered in the room.
Opposite to Lina and Elina sat Lucien and Kaelen.
Lucien wore a uniform of the same military style as Noa's, though his version was far more refined and orderly. His black coat was neatly fitted with a tall, structured collar and precise silver buttons that caught the light. His long black trousers were sharply pressed and tucked into polished boots. While Noa's look was more casual, Lucien's tie and silver-buttoned front were perfectly aligned, and his hat sat perfectly straight. He wore black gloves that were specifically modified with the thumb and index finger sections cut open, allowing his bare skin to remain exposed for better dexterity.
Kaelen's attire followed the same military design but carried a heavier, commander-like presence. His black coat was broader at the shoulders with armored lining and a high, firm collar. His sturdy boots were built specifically for the battlefield. A single strong leather strap secured his scabbard at the waist, completing a look that felt immovable and imposing.
Lastly, at the far ends of the table, Duke Korneas and Duke Valric sat opposing each other like two ancient towers.