The heavy oak doors of the Winston smithy groaned as they swung shut, the iron hinges shrieking like a dying bird before sealing the interior from the prying eyes of the cobblestone streets.
Outside, the Mero Company's influence still loomed over the town like a suffocating fog, but inside, the air was different. It was thick—viscous with the scent of cooling iron, acrid charcoal, and the lingering, ozone-heavy static of Arthur's raw power.
Grid stood by the charcoal sacks, his posture hunched, his shoulders pulled up toward his ears. He looked like a man who had successfully stolen a mountain of gold but was now utterly terrified of the shadow it cast. His hands, calloused and soot-stained, fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. He wouldn't look up. He couldn't.
Arthur sat on a simple wooden stool, his posture relaxed yet radiating an invisible pressure. He wasn't looking at the forge or the weapons lining the walls; he was dissecting Grid.
He watched the way the "Legendary" Blacksmith's pulse throbbed in his neck, the way his eyes darted toward the exit, calculating the distance.
Arthur knew that at this very moment, the digital ghosts of his movements—the way he had cut through the outlaws with the precision of a surgeon—were being dissected by millions of people across the globe. The "Gods" of this world, the players, were watching.
"The footage of me killing the outlaws," Arthur said. His voice was quiet, devoid of the white-hot rage he had shown the Mero Company's thugs the day before. It was worse this way—level, cold, and final. "It was you who recorded it and sold it. Correct?"
Grid flinched as if struck by a physical lash. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, mingling with the soot to create dark streaks down his face. "I... I don't know what you're talking about! I was just hiding! I'm a Level 1 Blacksmith, Arthur! What was I supposed to do? Stand there and get gutted? I was fleeing for my life!"
Arthur finally looked up. His ruby eyes were piercing, glowing with a faint, Red Energy of Saharan that seemed to see through the stutter, the sweat, and the layers of self-justification.
"I'm not angry, Grid. At least, not yet," Arthur remarked, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, hollow sound against his knee.
"The Mero Company is slow. They don't have access to the news broadcast networks. They're still looking for a 'ghost' in Winston—a nameless swordsman. But you've just given me a clock. By selling that footage to the broadcasting stations, you've invited the entire world to Winston. The clock is ticking, and it's moving faster than I expected."
Grid swallowed hard. The mental image of the 5,000 gold currently sitting in his bank account—the life-changing sum he had earned by betraying his 'friend'—suddenly felt like a slab of lead in his stomach. It wasn't just money anymore; it was evidence.
"Khan," Arthur turned his gaze to the old man. Khan was sitting up now on a cot, his face finally regaining a healthy flush of color thanks to Arthur's intervention.
"This is Grid. He's... a traveler I've been looking after. He has nowhere to stay, and as you can see, he is persistent. Can we give him the back rooms for a while?"
Khan looked at Grid, then back at Arthur. He was an old man, seasoned by years of hardship and the treachery of the Mero Company, and he could see the vibrating tension between the two young men. But his trust in Arthur was absolute.
"Any friend of yours is a guest of this forge, Arthur. The back rooms are dusty and smell of old hide, but they're yours, lad. A blacksmith belongs near the fire."
The moment the words left Khan's mouth, the back door of the smithy—the one leading to the private living quarters—creaked open. Five figures stepped out of the shadows, their presence immediately shifting the room's oxygen.
Piaro, the former Duke and the Great Swordsman of the Saharan Empire, stood at the front. He wore the simple clothes of a laborer, but he carried himself with the gravity of a mountain.
He looked at Grid for a single, agonizingly long moment. His eyes, sharpened by decades of war, betrayal, and the heights of martial mastery, saw through the "Legendary" title. He didn't see the Successor to Pagma, the mythical smith who could arm an army. He saw a greedy, hopeless idiot who gripped his gold tighter than he gripped his honor.
Piaro let out a sharp, disappointed huff—a sound of pure dismissal—and turned away toward the small garden patch in the rear. To him, Grid was a 'Seed' so withered and rotten it wasn't even worth the effort of sowing.
Behind him were the twins, Alfia and Meteria. They were beings of celestial grace, their beauty almost painful to look at, yet their eyes held an ancient power. They stared at Grid with a coldness that made the temperature in the forge plummet.
"This?" Alfia whispered, her lip curling in a sneer that didn't belong on such a divine face. "This is the one the you spoke of? The Bone Valley loser from Patrain? The heavens must be laughing at us."
Meteria's eyes flashed with a hint of gold, her voice like grinding ice. "He is a sham. A stain on the title of Legend. To call him a Successor to Pagma is an insult to every craftsman who ever bled for their work and strive to become the best. He smells of cowardice and moldy rye bread."
Grid recoiled, his face turning a humiliated shade of beet-red. The shame was being eclipsed by his reflexive arrogance. "Hey! I'm 'Pagma's Successor'! I have the Legendary class! You can't talk to me like—"
"You are quite the nuisance," Nana interrupted. Her hand was tight around the hilt of the Sun Sword, the leather of her glove creaking in the silence. "Arthur gave you the chance to come here. He gave you a place of safety. And when you saw Arthur and Khan in trouble, your first instinct wasn't to help, or even to stay silent. It was to flee from the place while throwing Arthur under the cart."
The words hit Grid like a physical poison. He opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat.
"I'm just Level 1!" Grid finally exploded, his voice cracking. "What could I do? If I stepped out, I would have died in one hit! I'm a player! I have to look out for myself!"
"Oh! Don't find excuses!" Cecil, the Blacksmith-Berserker and Khan's second disciple, stepped forward. She was the only one whose anger felt human—hot and visceral.
She only held back from striking him because of the silent command in Arthur's eyes. "I can understand being weak. I can understand being a coward. That is a normal decision for a weakling to make."
Grid found a momentary, desperate relief in Cecil's voice. A reprieve. But it lasted only seconds.
"But after you ran," Cecil continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous growl, "you crawled back like a rat to record him. And now, every 'Blessed by God' formed group you blessed ones called guild, every power-hungry maniac in this world—knows his face and his location. Do you have any idea what you've done? They will swarm this place. They will pester him to join them, or they will kill him so no one else can have him. I want nothing more than to hammer your head into an anvil right now!"
"Quiet," Arthur said. The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a blade.
He turned to Grid with a long, apologetic sigh that felt strangely hollow. "I apologize for their rudeness, Grid. They... have very high standards. They see the world in black and white—loyalty or betrayal."
Arthur gestured toward Khan. "This is Khan. If you truly want to be a blacksmith, you'll learn from him. Forget the 'Legend' title for a moment. Start with the basics. If you can't swing a hammer correctly, your title is just a tombstone waiting to be carved."
Khan, ever the soul of kindness, nodded. Even with Grid's glaring flaws, he saw a young man who was lost. Since Arthur had vouched for him, Khan would do his duty. He motioned for Grid to follow him into the heat of the inner forge.
As Grid walked away, dragging a heavy bag of charcoal and grumbling under his breath about how "unappreciated" his Legendary status was, Arthur's voice rang out one last time.
"Grid!"
Grid dropped the coal bag with a dusty thud. He turned, an annoyed scowl on his face. "What now? More lectures? More telling me how much of a 'stain' I am?"
"Tomorrow, we leave the smithy," Arthur said. His eyes were no longer cold; they were focused, like a predator marking a trail. "I'm taking you to the hunting grounds."
Grid's eyes widened. "Hunting? Did you miss the part where I said I'm Level 1? I'll die if a rabbit sneezes on me! My durability is lower than a wet paper bag!"
"You won't die," Arthur said, a small, dark smile finally touching his lips. "I'm currently Level 172. I will carry you. I will 'bus' you through the high-level zones. I will feed you experience until your level rises so high you become a High Ranker in a matter of days. I want you strong, Grid. I want you so strong that in the future, you won't have to flee. You'll be able to do the 'right' thing in critical moments."
Grid's eyes lit up. The greed, ever-present and insatiable, roared to life. A bus ride? From a Level 172 monster? For free? The amount of time and money that would save was astronomical.
"A bus ride... to become a High Ranker? For free?" Grid stammered, his resentment evaporating in the heat of his avarice. "You... you're actually a good guy, Arthur! I knew you were different!"
Arthur smiled back. He looked at Grid the way a farmer looks at a prize hog before the first winter frost—calculating the weight, the yield, and the timing.
In the back of Arthur's mind, a notification shimmered. His [Sword Saint Candidate] quest was already active. He knew the lore; he knew the history of this world better than anyone. He knew the final hurdle to cross the threshold of godhood and claim the title of Sword Saint: Defeat a Legend in 1v1 combat.
And where else could he find a Legend? The world was empty of them, save for himself and this greedy, bumbling fool in front of him.
"I'm going to put you under Piaro's tutelage as well," Arthur continued, his voice smooth and encouraging. "He'll break your body and rebuild it. You'll learn how to fight, how to move, and how to survive. I will give you everything you need—the levels, the gear, the training—to be a true Legend."
Grid's eyes flashed with predatory delight. 'The sucker is still the sucker! No matter how strong he gets, he's still a pushover!' he thought, wanting to laugh hysterically at his good fortune.
But as he looked past Arthur, he saw the four girls watching him. Their eyes weren't filled with the same "kindness" Arthur was showing. They looked at him with a predatory hunger that matched Arthur's, a chilling killing intent that kept the laughter trapped in his throat.
Grid picked up the coal bag and hurried into the forge, his mind already counting the gold he'd make as a High-Level Legendary Blacksmith.
The "Successor to Pagma" was being fattened for the slaughter, and he was thanking the butcher for the meal.