The two-week countdown to the Winston Smithy Tournament was not a triumphant march of progress; it was a slow, agonizing descent into a private, soot-choked hell.
Inside the forge, the air had turned stagnant, vibrating with a frantic, uneven rhythm. It was the sound of a hammer that lacked the steady soul of a master but possessed the raw, jagged desperation of a cornered animal.
Arthur stood by the coal bins, his arms crossed over his chest, his silhouette flickering against the orange glow of the furnace. He was silent, a living statue watching the "Legend" unravel strand by strand.
To bridge the gap for the upcoming competition, Arthur had provided the raw logistics: crates of high-grade pig iron, bars of refined black iron, and mounds of premium anthracite coal that burned with a fierce, white heat.
But he had withdrawn the one thing Grid had come to rely on: his direct assistance. There was no more joint-forging, no more "balancing" of the thermal expansion by Arthur's steady hand, and no more technical stabilization.
If Grid was to face the Mero Company's hand-picked master smith in front of the entire town, he had to prove that the [Pagma's Successor] title wasn't just a cosmetic badge pinned to a coward's chest.
The results of this isolation were devastating. Without Arthur's calming presence to act as a metaphysical heat-sink, Grid's inherent lack of fundamental skill was laid bare.
He possessed the [Pagma's Rare Craftsmanship] passive, a skill that theoretically guaranteed at least a 'Rare' rating through the sheer divinity of the techniques. But the system was a living thing, and it was sensitive to the intent of the user.
Grid's mental state was fractured by a toxic slurry of greed, inferiority, and the suffocating pressure of the deadline.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The hammer strikes were too heavy, driven by spite rather than precision.
[You have produced a Normal rated item.]
[Refined Iron Plate Armor]
Rating: Normal
Defense: 188
Description: A standard piece of plate armor. It is sturdy but lacks any artistic flair or magical conductivity. It is heavy, poorly balanced, and smells faintly of acrid sweat.
"Dammit!" Grid's scream ripped through the roar of the bellows. He hurled his heavy forging hammer against the stone wall. It bounced off a cooling rack with a discordant ring, narrowly missing the head of a sleeping Khan.
"Normal?! I'm Pagma's Successor! I'm a Legend! I have the hidden class that everyone would kill for! Why does the system keep giving me this garbage?!"
Then Grid found Arthur and complained, "These raw materials are cursed Arthur, they won't produce a single rare other than normal. Change the materials, please!"
Arthur didn't blink. He didn't even shift his weight. "The iron is pure, Grid. The coal is high-calorie. Those are the same ingredients Cecil and I use to produce 'Unique' work. The only thing 'bad' in this forge right now is your heart. You aren't crafting a weapon; you're trying to craft a paycheck. The anvil knows the difference. It can feel that you're trying to cheat the metal."
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Grid turned, his face smeared with black grease and salt-streaked tears. "The pig iron is cursed! You gave me the dregs of the batch! You're trying to sabotage me so I fail the quest and you can take the smithy for yourself, aren't you?!"
Arthur's gaze was pitying, which only served to stoke the fires of Grid's resentment. For three days, the cycle continued. Grid would craft during the day, producing a mountain of mediocre, Normal-rated Level 60–80 gear that would barely sell for a few gold coins, which is lower than the cost of materials producing it.
At night, he was dragged into the forest by Piaro, where he would scream in terror as he "Overgeared" his way through mobs, his level rising while his sanity dwindled.
On the fifth night, something in the air changed. The humidity in the forge seemed to thicken, tasting of ozone and iron.
Grid didn't go to sleep. He stood before the anvil, his hair matted, his eyes bloodshot and glowing with a manic, purple light.
He wasn't thinking about Pagma's humanitarian ideology or the "peace through craftsmanship" that the legends spoke of. He was thinking about the debt collectors in the real world.
He was thinking about the smug face of Rabbit. He was thinking about how much he hated the "perfect" Arthur who stood in the corner like a silent, divine judge.
"You want a weapon?" Grid whispered, his voice a jagged rasp that sounded like metal grinding on metal. "I'll give you a weapon. I'll give you all of it. Every bit of this hell."
He abandoned the steady, rhythmic strokes Khan had tried to teach him. He began to strike the glowing steel with a violent, erratic fury. Every blow was a scream.
He poured his frustration, his resentment at being the 'loser' of the world, and his absolute hatred for his own talentless self into the white-hot metal.
The furnace roared in response, the flames turning an unnatural, sickly shade of violet. The air grew cold despite the fire.
SHIIIIING—!
A dark shockwave pulsed from the anvil, extinguishing half the torches in the smithy and rattling the windows in their frames. Arthur stepped forward, his hand reflexively hovering over the pommel of his sword as the system broadcasted a rare, dark notification across his vision.
[An Epic rated item has been produced!]
[All stats increased by +4!]
[Reputation through continent increased by 80!]
Grid slumped over the anvil, his chest heaving. He began to laugh—a low, hysterical sound that escalated into a screeching cackle. He appraised his creation with trembling hands.
[Sword of Malice]
Rating: Epic
Attack Power: 250~281
Durability: 230/230
Description: A sword made by a craftsman with a lacking reputation and a bitter heart. The maker's resentment and frustration were fully poured into the steel, staining the blade a permanent, matte black that reflects no light. It hums with a faint, disturbing sound—like a distant scream—when drawn.
Generated Skill: [Madness Frenzy]
* Effect: Decreases the user's rationality (Mental Defense -50%) in exchange for a 25% Attack Power increase for 3 minutes.
* Cooldown: 30 minutes.
User Restrictions: Level 120 or higher. Intermediate Sword Mastery Lv. 1. Strength 300 or higher.
"Hehe... haha! Look at that!" Grid held the black blade aloft. The matte surface seemed to swallow the light of the remaining torches. "Two hundred and eighty attack! And the skill... Madness Frenzy! I don't need 'grace' or 'balance.' I'll butcher them! I'll butcher everyone who looked down on me!"
Arthur walked over, his boots crunching on the discarded "Normal" scraps that littered the floor like the remains of a failed life. He looked at the [Sword of Malice]. The blade was ugly, serrated in a way that would cause maximum pain, and radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated spite.
Beside him, Khan and Piaro emerged from the shadows, drawn by the dark pulse of the forge.
Khan looked at the sword and slowly shook his head, a look of profound grief etched into his aged features.
"This is a tragedy, lad. Pagma's techniques were meant to bring light to the dark places of the world. They were meant to arm the weak so they might stand. You've used the tools of a god to forge a shadow."
Piaro, the man who sought the "Natural State" of all things, didn't hide his disgust. "There is no nature in that steel. It is a rot. You have bridged the gap of your talent with the filth of your ego, boy. It will cut your enemies, yes, but a blade born of resentment has no loyalty. It will eventually turn on the hand that holds it."
Arthur sighed, a long, weary sound that echoed in the silent forge. He realized that in this "Real Version" of the Satisfy world, the butterfly effect of his presence had pushed Grid further into the abyss than the original story ever had.
In the records he remembered, Grid was petty, but he had a spark of growth fostered by Khan's warmth. Here, under the crushing weight of Arthur's overwhelming brilliance and Piaro's impossible standards, Grid had retreated into the only thing he felt he truly owned: his bitterness.
Now as Grid's every off the line course generated 'Chaos Points' for Arthur. Getting a thousand or two Chaos Points are daily occurance just like now. He got 2,500 because Grid made 'Sword of Malice' which is totally different from original.
Grid hadn't become a master; he had become a warlock of the anvil.
[Sword Saint Candidate Progress: Stage 2 (Transcendent)]
* All stats will become 1.3 times greater.
* Quickly detect enemy's weakness.
* There is a high probability of predicting enemy's movements.
Arthur could feel that his Swordsmanship has increased tremendously under Piaro's tutelage.
Arthur looked at his own progress and then at Grid. His hypothetical opponent for the Saint's Trial was walking a dark path. If Arthur was to be the Saint, Grid was becoming the Demon he would have to exorcise.
"You're happy with this, Grid?" Arthur asked, his voice devoid of its usual warmth.
"Happy? I'm ecstatic!" Grid hugged the black sword to his chest, ignoring the way the cold, jagged edge bit into his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.
"I don't need your 'purity' or Khan's 'traditions.' They didn't pay my bills! They didn't make me famous! This sword is me! It's fast, it's mean, and it's going to win me that tournament and this smithy!"
Arthur turned away, walking toward the heavy oak doors. "Nine days left, Grid. Keep practicing. But remember the warning of the ancients—when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you. Try not to lose what little is left of yourself before the first hammer falls in the square."
As the door shut, Grid went back to the anvil, his laughter echoing against the cold stone walls. He was Level 40 now, his stats climbing toward the 100s at an artificial pace, fueled by a dark momentum and the "Nukes" Arthur had provided.
Behind him, the mountain of "Normal" items lay discarded—the silent, metallic proof that without his hatred, the Legend was nothing.
Arthur, standing in the biting chill of the Winston night, looked up at the moon. He knew that the duel he was preparing for wouldn't just be a test of metal. It would be a battle for the soul of a Legend.