The sun hung like a heavy, gilded coin over the spires of Winston Castle, casting long, amber shadows that stretched across the meticulously manicured gardens.
The air here was different from the soot-choked lungs of the industrial district; it smelled of blooming jasmine, damp earth, and the faint, metallic tang of the knightly patrols.
Arthur stood by a grand marble fountain, his posture as straight and unyielding as the blade he had birthed only hours before. Beside him, the contrast could not have been more jarring.
Grid was currently experiencing what could only be described as a post-legendary spiritual collapse. The "Sword of Burning Resentment" had taken everything from him—his sleep, his sanity, and most importantly, his gold.
Arthur watched the water ripple in the basin, his crimson eyes reflecting the shimmering surface.
He was internally calibrating. The transition from the frantic, bone-shaking violence of the forge to the silent, suffocating protocols of the inner castle was a leap most players failed to stick. But for Arthur, this was not a leap; it was a homecoming.
In the world beyond the screen, Arthur's bloodline traced back to the Cromwells—a lineage of British nobility that had treated "etiquette" not as a set of rules, but as a secondary circulatory system.
He knew the weight of a gaze, the angle of a bow, and the strategic silence required to make a sovereign feel both powerful and protected.
"Arthur..." Grid hissed, his voice cracking with the strain of a week-long scream. "My pouch. It's light. It's so light it's floating. I spent sixteen thousand gold on materials and those failed Epic attempts. If the Administrator lowballs us, I'm going to drown myself in this fountain."
Arthur didn't turn his head. "Control yourself, Grid. We are no longer in the smithy. We are the representatives of Khan's Smithy. Act like a man."
"I don't want to! I want gold coins!" Grid's predatory eyes suddenly locked onto the bottom of the fountain's basin. A flicker of silver caught the light beneath the dancing water—wishing coins, tossed by visiting nobles and lovelorn clerks.
Without a second thought for the "Legendary Blacksmith" title, Grid hiked up his soot-stained tunics and plunged his arms into the frigid water.
"Aha! Silver! And is that... a gold piece stuck in the moss?" Grid splashed around with the frantic efficiency of a scavenger dog in a rain barrel. He began scooping up the coins with a rhythmic, wet clink-clink-clink, his face twisted in a grin of pure, debased ecstasy.
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. Some things, he thought, even a Legendary class cannot change.
High above the garden, leaning against the arched stone frame of the solarium window, Lady Irene watched the scene with a mixture of profound awe and utter, speechless confusion.
Beside her stood Sir Phenex, the veteran commander of the Northern territorial forces, a man whose face was a map of wrinkles and hard-won wisdom.
Irene leaned forward, her fingers tracing the velvet of her sleeves. "Vladi," she said, her voice soft but carrying the innate command of her station. "Who are these men? One moves with the grace of a high-born prince, standing amidst the chaos of the garden like a statue of the founding kings. Yet the other... the other appears to be a beggar attempting to drown himself for a handful of copper."
Administrator Vladi, standing behind her with two massive, iron-bound crates, bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched his knees.
"My Lady, those are the masters of Khan's Smithy. The 'gentleman' is Arthur, the primary successor and the genius who fought against courruot Lord baron Lowe. The... 'active' one is Grid. He also fought in that war. Together, they have produced the miracles I hold here."
Vladi opened the primary crate with a flourish. Sir Phenex, a man who had seen a thousand battles and broken a thousand swords, let out a sharp, audible gasp. He stepped forward, his gauntleted hand trembling as it hovered over the [Sword of Determination].
The air around the blade didn't just shimmer; it pulsed. It was a low-frequency vibration that seemed to resonate with sir Phenex's blood. The lightning-scarred Black Iron of the hilt looked alive, as if it were waiting for a hand worthy enough to wake it.
"Sir Phenex," Irene asked, her eyes wide as she looked at the radiance emanating from the steel. "With this sword... could we truly stop the Yatan believers? They outnumber our vanguard ten to one at the eastern pass."
Phenex didn't answer with words. He gripped the hilt. The moment his fingers closed around the leather wrap, the [Indomitable Will] skill flickered through his veins. The exhaustion of the campaign, the fear of the dark mana, and the weight of his years vanished.
"My Lady," Phenex growled, his voice thick with a conviction that shook the glass in the windows. "With this blade in my hand, I will not just resist the darkness. I will break it. I will win. Send for the masters. I must see the man who forged a soul into metal."
(A/N: Remember what happened when Gojo Satoru said the same 'I'd win'?)
A few moments later, Arthur and Grid were summoned to the Audience Hall.
As they crossed the threshold of the grand hall, Grid was busy drying his wet arms on his trousers, his pockets jingling audibly with the copper coins, fourteen silver and two gold coins he had "liberated" from the fountain.
He walked with a hunched, suspicious gait, looking as if he expected the palace guards to demand an receipt for his pocket change.
Arthur, however, underwent a transformation that left the entire court in a stunned, appreciative silence.
As they approached the dais, Arthur's posture shifted. It wasn't an act; it was a shedding of the smith's skin to reveal the aristocrat beneath.
His shoulders rolled back, his chin leveled to the horizon, and his steps became fluid, measured, and silent. He moved with the effortless gravity of someone who had been born into silk and stone.
He stopped at the exact distance dictated by ancient protocol—neither too close to be perceived as a threat, nor too far to be considered an outsider. He bowed with a degree of precision that would have made a royal tutor weep with joy, his hand resting perfectly over his heart.
"Lady Irene of Winston," Arthur said. His voice was a rich, calm baritone that filled the cavernous hall without the need for volume. "It is the greatest honor of Khan's Smithy to serve as the shield and the sword of this territory. We bring you the fire of our hearth to light the darkness of the north."
Irene blinked, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of rose. She had expected a soot-covered laborer with rough speech and calloused manners. Instead, she was looking at a man who moved like a prince and spoke like a poet.
"Master Arthur..." Irene said, her voice fluttering for a second before she caught it. "The Administrator tells me you forged the legendary blade yourself. Such skill... paired with such refinement. It is a rare combination in this world."
She offered her hand—a gesture of extreme favor usually reserved for high-ranking nobility or victorious generals.
Arthur didn't hesitate, but he didn't rush. He stepped forward, his movements like water, and took her hand with a touch so light it was almost a suggestion. He bowed his head and pressed a brief, perfectly executed kiss to her knuckles.
"The blade was forged with the determination to see your smile remain unburdened by war, My Lady," Arthur replied smoothly, his red eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a second—just long enough to convey sincerity without overstaying his welcome.
Two feet away, Grid let out a sound that was half-choke, half-strangled-cat. 'Is he serious?' Grid screamed internally.
'Is he actually using British Noble Rizz on the Quest Giver?! Look at her face! She's glowing like a localized sun! Argh, the unfairness! The etiquette! The red eyes! He's playing a different game than I am!'
The romantic atmosphere of the court was abruptly anchored back to reality as Administrator Vladi stepped forward with the official ledger, his quill poised like a dagger.
"Regarding the compensation for these masterpieces," Vladi announced, his voice echoing. "The Earl's treasury has appraised the works based on their combat viability and the rarity of their craftsmanship."
He cleared his throat, reading from the scroll:
* [Sword of Determination] (Legendary): 220,000 Gold.
* [Sword of Burning Resentment] (Unique): 100,000 Gold.
* 4x [Epic Rated Longswords]: 9,000 Gold each (36,000 Total).
"The total payment," Vladi concluded, "is 356,000 Gold Coins."
The hall went silent. Even the guards shifted their weight. It was a sum that could buy a small town or fund a private army for a year.
"In addition," Vladi continued, "The Winston administration recognizes the need for future miracles. We are granting the masters of Khan's Smithy three chunks of Blue Orichalcum, retrieved from the Earl's private vault."
The sound that came out of Grid's mouth was no longer human. It was a high-pitched, wet gargle. His eyes rolled back into his head, showing only the whites, and a fine, white foam began to gather at the corners of his lips.
Three hundred... and fifty-six... thousand... Grid's brain essentially caught fire. After the split and the material costs, he was looking at a profit that would not only clear his real-world debts but allow him to live like a king.
He slumped against a marble pillar, clutching his stomach as if the sheer conceptual weight of the gold was physically crushing his organs.
Arthur, maintaining his perfect composure despite the astronomical sum, bowed once more. He didn't look at the gold; he looked at the Lady.
"The smithy thanks you for your generosity, My Lady. These materials will be used to ensure that whenever Winston calls, the answer will be forged in legendary steel."
The walk back to the smithy was the polar opposite of their walk to the castle. Grid did not stomp. He did not grumble. He floated. He held the heavy, clinking bags of gold to his chest, whispering sweet nothings into the leather.
"My debts... the 100 million Won..." Grid muttered, his voice airy and delusional. "I can finally pay it all off. I can be free. Then I can buy a car. I can buy ten cars. I can buy a car for my dad."
Arthur walked beside him, his gaze fixed forward. While Grid was celebrating the end of his poverty, Arthur was already calculating the future. The Blue Orichalcum was the real prize—a material that could actually withstand the full output of their future battles.
"Grid, wipe the foam off your chin," Arthur said calmly. "We are walking through the public square. People are starting to stare."
"Let them stare!" Grid shouted, suddenly spinning in a circle. "I'm a millionaire! I'm a hero! I'm the man who found two gold coins in a fountain while waiting for a paycheck!"
Arthur stopped, looking at the soot-stained exterior of Khan's Smithy as it came into view. To anyone else, it was just a shop. To them, it was now the most powerful forge on the continent.
"Arthur," Grid said, his voice regaining its usual edge of jealous ambition as he looked at his friend. "Next time... I'm the one who kisses the hand. I don't care about etiquette. I'll memorize a hundred British poems. I'll learn how to bow until my spine snaps!"
"Winston was just the beginning, Grid. With the Administrator's backing and our new ranks, the entire kingdom is going to be knocking on that door. We need to be ready to produce more than just swords."
Arthur pushed open the door to the smithy. The heat of the furnace rushed out to greet them—a familiar, welcoming embrace.
Grid let out a triumphant roar, dumping a handful of gold coins onto the primary anvil just to hear the sound they made. The "Tears of salt" were a distant memory, replaced by the golden light of a new era.
Arthur watched the chaos with a faint smile, his hand going to his inventory to check the legendary blueprint he had secured.
The journey to the Loran Waterfalls was finally within reach, and this time, they wouldn't just be going as seekers—they would be going as the most powerful craftsmen the world had ever seen.