The morning sun had barely begun to rise over the jagged spires of Winston's castle, casting long, skeletal shadows across the town square, when the peace of Khan's smithy was shattered.
It wasn't the rhythmic, polite tap of a dawn customer, but the heavy, rhythmic thunder of an official iron knocker striking the oak door. It was a sound that carried the weight of the law.
Inside, Arthur was already awake. He sat at the small wooden desk in his room, his red eyes scanning a ledger of their current ore reserves by the light of a fading mana lamp.
He had been mentally mapping the route to the Loran Waterfalls through Kesan Canyon, calculating the exact amount of charcoal his [Portable Furnace] would require for a week-long expedition.
The thundering at the door didn't startle him; it confirmed a nagging intuition he'd had since the auction. Success in Winston was a double-edged sword: the more you proved your worth, the more the world demanded of you.
In the cot across the hall, Grid sat up with a groan that sounded like a rusty hinge. He was still wearing his [Hooded Zip-Up], the translucent fabric shimmering as he moved.
"By the gods," Grid muttered, rubbing his face with calloused hands. "If that's a customer wanting a discount before the sun is up, I'm going to use their head as an anvil. I have a class quest to complete, and I'm not being late for it."
Arthur stood up, adjusting the iron signet ring on his finger. "It's not a customer, Grid. Listen to the cadence. That's a government herald."
Arthur reached the door first, pulling it open to reveal a messenger clad in the silver-and-blue tabard of the Earl's administration. The man held a scroll sealed with the heavy, dark purple wax of the high office.
"Winston's Administrator, Lord Vladi, summons the masters of this forge," the messenger announced, his voice devoid of warmth. "Urgent matters of state have bypassed the standard summon channels. You are required at the Administrative Hall immediately. Do not dally."
The Administrative Hall, usually a place of dry bureaucracy and scratching quills, had been transformed into a buzzing frequency.
Administrator Vladi sat behind a massive oak desk, the light from the tall windows highlighting the deep, hollow circles under his eyes. He didn't offer pleasantries or wine.
Instead, he unrolled a map of the northern territories. Several regions were marked with dark, weeping stains of purple ink—the tactical symbol for desecrated land.
"The Yatan Church," Vladi began, his voice raspy from a night of shouting orders. "Their influence is spreading like a rot from the northern wastes. What started as skirmishes has turned into a slaughter. Our knights are being pushed back, not because they lack courage, but because their equipment is literally dissolving."
He looked directly at Arthur, recognizing the Successor's Mark. "The dark mana of the Yatan priests acts as a corrosive agent. Standard-issue steel becomes brittle in seconds. The few Epic and Rare items your forge provided at the auction are the only things still holding the line. They saved a dozen lives yesterday alone. But a dozen is a drop in a blood-soaked bucket."
Vladi leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly. "We need a miracle. We need steel that can breathe through shadow without shattering."
A blue notification window flickered into existence before Arthur's and Grid's eyes, the text pulsing with a sense of urgency.
[Quest: Business with the Administrator (1)]
Difficulty: A
Description: Winston's administrator, Vladi, has officially commissioned Khan's Smithy to equip the vanguard knights for the Yatan suppression campaign.
Quest Clear Conditions: Forge at least three Epic-rated swords each with a level requirement between 120 and 180.
Time Limit: 7 Days.
Quest Reward: Massive increase in Regional Reputation, a 'Lord's Recognition' Title, and a Choice of one 'Secret Blueprint' from the Royal Archives.
Quest Failure: Immediate dissolution of the smithy's trade license and a 'Major' drop in trust with the Winston administration.
Arthur's mind moved with clinical precision. Three Epics each in seven days. For a normal blacksmith, it was a suicide mission. For him and Grid, it was a test of raw output versus perfection.
Beside him, Grid's soul seemed to physically exit his body. He stared at the quest window with the expression of a man watching his winning lottery ticket blow into a sewer.
"A week?" Grid whispered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wheeze. "But... the waterfall. The hoodie. Pagma's Swordsmanship! It was right there! I was twenty-four hours away from being a god, and now I'm back to being a labourer!"
"Grid, focus," Arthur said, his voice a sharp, cooling spray over Grid's rising hysteria. He turned back to Vladi. "Lord Administrator, three Epics each in seven days is a tall order, even for us."
"If you succeed, you secure the forge's legacy for a generation. If you fail... there won't be a Winston left for you to work in." Valdi said.
The walk back to the smithy was punctuated by Grid's vocal protests against the universe. He didn't just walk; he stomped, his boots echoing like hammer strikes against the cobblestones.
"I hate this game!" Grid screamed at a passing stray cat. "I hate the Yatan Church! Why can't they go worship their dark god in a basement for one more week? Why do they have to start a crusade the moment I get ready to retrieve the swordsmanship?!"
"Enough, Grid," Arthur snapped, his mind already calculating the carbon-to-iron ratios needed for the anti-corrosion properties.
"An A-rank quest from an Administrator isn't a setback; it's a foundation. Look at the rewards. Sole contractor of winston Knights gears, that could be the key to our spreading reputation. We can go to the waterfalls anytime. But we can only save Winston now."
"I don't want to save Winston! I want to learn swordsmanship!" Grid turned on Arthur, his eyes bloodshot.
"You're too calm! You're always so... so rational! Doesn't it bother you that we're being treated like a vending machine for the military?"
Arthur stopped in the middle of the street, looking Grid dead in the eye. "It bothers me that our steel is the only thing standing between those knights and a grave. If we go to the canyon and Winston falls, what good is the swordsmanship? Who will be left to watch you use it? Who will give you the quest reward of Pagma's Swordsmanship, the Valhalla armour?"
Grid opened his mouth to argue, but the cold logic of Arthur's gaze silenced him. He let out a final, huffing breath of indignation. "Fine. But I'm taking the biggest bag of gold from this. And I'm charging them for the stress."
When they crossed the threshold of the smithy, the atmosphere changed instantly. The leisurely pace of the morning was replaced by a militaristic urgency. Arthur gathered Khan and Steng in the center of the workshop.
"The Administrator has issued an mandate," Arthur announced, unrolling the requisition orders. "Seven days. Three Epics each. We are going to produce the order. Khan, I need you to oversee the final tempering. Your experience with anti-corrosive oils is vital."
Arthur turned to Steng, his voice firm but encouraging. "Steng, this is your trial by fire.
You are on bellows and coal duty. I want the furnace at exactly 1,450 degrees for the initial melt. If the temperature fluctuates by more than five degrees, the Silver-Steel won't bond with the Black Iron. Do you understand?"
Steng straightened his back, his face pale but determined. "Yes, big brother Arthur! I won't let the heat drop!"
Arthur then looked at Grid. The legendary successor was currently staring at his anvil with a look of murderous intent.
Grid growled, grabbing his heavy hammer. The frustration that had been bubbling inside him began to transmute into a familiar, manic energy.
"Fine. If I have to make swords, I'm going to make the most over-engineered, expensive pieces of metal these knights have ever seen. If those Yatan bastards ruin my plan, I'm going to make sure they die in the most 'ugly' way possible."
Arthur nodded, heading toward the smelting vats. He felt the familiar weight of the [Mark of the Successor] on his finger, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"Steng! Start the bellows!" Arthur shouted.
The furnace roared to life, a pillar of white-hot flame illuminating the dark corners of the forge. The smell of ozone and heated iron filled the air.
Arthur stood before the primary crucible, his eyes fixed on the melting deluxe iron. In his mind, he wasn't just seeing metal; he was seeing the faces of the knights in the hall. He was seeing the purple stains on the map.
The waterfalls were a dream for tomorrow. Today, there was only the hammer, the heat, and the uncompromising demand of the lord.