Chapter 708: Seeing through changes
"Nothing," he said aloud, voice easy, deflective.
[That kind of nothing makes my tail itch,] she muttered.
But she didn't press.
Lucavion let his fingers trail briefly across the projection glass once more before the light dimmed completely. His reflection faded into it—leaving only the echo of the crest behind.
Then he turned away from it.
Quiet.
Composed.
And carrying a silence that felt heavier than it should.
Once the final measurements were recorded and the tailors stepped away, the runes dimmed beneath their feet, signaling the end of the session. The room returned to stillness—only now, each of them carried something tailored not just to their frame, but to the image the world was about to see.
Kaleran reappeared with his usual timing—precise, composed, unavoidable.
His slate cloak didn't so much rustle as it simply existed in motion, much like the man himself. He stepped to the center of the room and folded his hands behind his back.
"Now that your attire has been catalogued," he began, "we move to logistics."
They turned to face him, some more reluctantly than others. Toven was still muttering something to his tailor about adding 'subtle flames' down the sleeves. Mireilla gave him a look that implied there was nothing subtle about it.
Kaleran continued without waiting for silence.
"Your schedules for the next days will be delivered to your suites shortly. Etiquette consultations, and the formal banquet rehearsal are all included. You are expected to attend all scheduled events unless given direct exemption by an instructor or ranking officer."
His gaze lingered just long enough to imply that missing a single minute would be considered an act of treason.
Then his tone shifted—slightly.
"There is one other matter," he added, glancing briefly toward Lucavion, then back to the group. "Sponsor interviews."
The air thinned just a touch.
Kaleran kept speaking, voice smooth, professional. "If you wish to meet with any of the noble houses, factions, or independent patrons that have expressed interest in supporting you, you may submit your request through the Resonance Conductor in your suite. Meetings are to be scheduled tomorrow and the day after."
Lucavion didn't blink. But he could already feel the invisible weight trying to press in around him.
"Tonight," Kaleran continued, "the official list of initial sponsors will be finalized. Any of you may review the offers sent to your name and accept, decline, or defer as you see fit."
He glanced around the room—and then let his gaze fall, inevitably, back on Lucavion.
"Though some of you," he said, just faintly dry, "will likely be reviewing several dozen."
Lucavion gave a slow, almost innocent blink. "Is that unusual?"
Kaleran's mouth tightened by a fraction. "Rare. But not unheard of."
Toven leaned toward Elayne and whispered, "He's already got nobles tripping over each other, doesn't he?"
Mireilla didn't answer. But the look she gave Lucavion wasn't quite irritation.
Not quite admiration either.
Just the acknowledgement of someone who saw how fast the tides were shifting—and how easily he was already moving with them.
Kaleran turned toward the door, the discussion clearly concluded. "You are dismissed for the afternoon. Use your time wisely."
He paused at the threshold, then glanced back—eyes locking once more with Lucavion's, but the words were for them all.
"The world is watching now."
And then he was gone.
Leaving behind silence—and the sound of choices already beginning to whisper.
****
Lucavion stepped through the suite doors just as they parted for him, the aetheric lock recognizing his presence with a soundless click. The faint pulse of mana from the Resonance Conductor greeted him like a heartbeat beneath the floor. Warm, familiar.
The room, as ever, responded to his mood.
Lights dimmed to a thoughtful dusk. The sky projected on the dome above shifted into a gradient twilight—neither his homeland's stars nor the capital's moonscape, but something in-between. Caught in transition. Unsettled.
He didn't speak a command this time. He didn't need to. The tea tray shimmered into place on instinct, bitter and dark, exactly as he liked it. The cup was warm against his fingers as he sank into the low-slung seat near the interface glass.
Quiet.
Composed.
But not at ease.
The projection glass still bore the faint after-image of his measurements, the rune patterns slowly fading from view. Not unlike the names that hadn't made it through the entrance exams.
Names like hers.
He sipped once, letting the bitterness anchor him. No sign of her. Not during the final rounds. Not even a whisper.
Elara.
The supposed main character.
The "hidden prodigy."
He hadn't seen her.
Not once.
That, in itself, was almost laughable.
'A character built to change the world… and she vanishes in the opening act?'
He leaned back, gaze tracking the slow swirl of light above him, eyes hooded.
No.
She hadn't vanished.
Just... re-entered differently.
That must be how things are.
There's simply no version of this story where Elara doesn't join the academy.
She knows who's here. Isolde. Adrian. The two that—by every turn of fate and plot—shape the foundation of her rise. She wouldn't abandon that stage. Not even if the script had changed. Especially not then.
Lucavion's fingers tapped once, idly, against the cup's rim.
Elara wasn't erased. She was upgraded.
Her motivation demands it. Her presence demands it.
And then, there's Eveline.
Archmage of the Frost.
Guardian of forbidden tomes. Doting mistress of a girl she sees more as daughter than disciple.
If Elara wanted in, Eveline would move kingdoms.
'Nah….that is a little bit overkill.'
She wouldn't do that, but in a sense she is quite fond of Elara even if she doesn't show it. In Shattered Innocence, the writer described her as such at least.
"I need to attend the Imperial Academy."
And Eveline would've smiled, just so, like it had been her idea from the beginning.
No summons. No entrance exam. Just an emblem. A family name. A place pre-arranged through channels no commoner ever sees.
A noble's path.
Lucavion set the cup down, watching the steam drift like thoughts he didn't want to name. That's the only explanation that fits.
'Heh…'
The sound escaped him, soft, sardonic.
Of course.
The moment he'd interfered—Stormhaven had never stood a chance.
He remembered it clearly. That fractured battlefield, mana screams and steel clashing in the downpour. The cries of adventurers and how he had dealt with that Kraken.
In the essence it was a catastrophe for the city of the Stormhaven.
And Lucavion had stepped in.
A flicker of void. A single deflection.
Duke Thaddeus lived with both arms intact.
And Aeliana?
She lived. Because of him.
She wasn't supposed to. Her death was a catalyst. A tragic domino that spiraled into Elara's awakening and reshaped the central arc.
And he'd broken that domino with the ease of someone tired of the script.
He splayed his fingers against the projection glass, watching the faint glow dance across his knuckles. The afterimage of runes still shimmered there, like echoes refusing to vanish.
A butterfly flaps its wings...
And the future splits.
He hadn't just nudged a thread.
He'd cut the weave.
And the story—this story—was still trying to catch up.
Lucavion smiled to himself, slow and dry.
"So it was going to be like that… how ironic…"
Of course it was.
She wouldn't come in as herself. Not the girl from the slums with soot on her fingers and defiance in her stare. No, the academy wouldn't see her—they'd see a noble's heir. Another polished prodigy with a name that opened doors.
New clothes. New name. New face, maybe. A subtle glamour. A recrafted identity. Something elegant and forgettable enough to pass beneath the radar—until she wanted to be seen.
And when she did want to be seen?
Well… that was the moment he was waiting for.
He chuckled under his breath. "And maybe I won't recognize her. Not at first. Or maybe I'll know it's her the moment she tries to lie with her eyes."
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until a voice stirred behind him.
[What are you saying?] Vitaliara's tone slid in like a feline's paw—curious, mildly accusatory, but too lazy to be serious.
He didn't turn. Just rested his forearms on his knees, still watching the swirl of runes fade into nothing. "Just thinking to myself."
[Hm.] A flutter of tail against the cushion. [Those who speak to themselves are usually called crazy in the forest.]
He shrugged, not even bothering to hide the smirk. "It's a facade of words crafted by people who can't bear to be alone with their thoughts."
[Ooooh.] She stretched lazily across the back of the couch. [Now you're just being poetic to deflect the fact that you're talking to invisible people.]
"They're not invisible," he said mildly. "They're just delayed."
[That's not better.]
Lucavion tilted the cup slightly, watching the last curl of steam fade like a breath too tired to stay.
Then, without missing a beat, he murmured, "How are you faring, by the way?"
[That's a clumsy deflection,] Vitaliara drawled, the tip of her tail flicking lazily over the back of the seat. [But I'll allow it.]
He gave a noncommittal hum—neither in agreement nor denial. Just enough to say, yes, and?
She rolled onto her side, feline form half-melted into shadow where the ambient light dipped low. [I sense a lot of mythical beasts around.]
Chapter 709: Borough
[I sense a lot of mythical beasts around.]
Hearing that Lucavion glanced sideways. "And?"
[Most of them are asleep. Domesticated. Suppressed. Some barely even realize what they are anymore.] Her voice lost some of its casual edge, a flicker of old disdain bleeding through. [And the ones who do? They keep their auras sheathed so tightly they may as well be furniture.]
Lucavion leaned back, setting the empty cup down. "Sounds like nobles."
[Sounds like fear,] she corrected. [And conditioning. You can tell a lot about a society by how it treats its strongest.]
He said nothing for a moment. Then, "And what does it say about us?"
[You're indoors, drinking tea.] She rolled back onto her stomach, chin resting on her paws. [You tell me.]
Lucavion let out a short exhale that might have been a laugh, if one was generous.
"Comfort is a kind of captivity," he said absently. "The chains just happen to smell like honey and clean linen."
[And that's why you don't let yourself rest.]
"No," he said, rising slowly to his feet and letting his fingers brush along the glass once more. "That's why I do. Because rest is rare. And power? That comes from knowing exactly how long you can stay still before you strike again."
[Oh, how very noble of you.]
"I am the noblest," Lucavion said with an utterly straight face, his voice dipped in just enough arrogance to make it unclear if he was serious or mocking the entire concept.
[Vomiting levels of nobility,] Vitaliara scoffed. [Truly, I'm humbled to be in your sainted presence.]
He gave her a mock bow, lips twitching with something dangerously close to amusement. But before he could indulge the banter further, the Resonance Conductor pulsed softly—once, then again, rhythm steady and official.
"Sir Lucavion," came the voice. The assistant's tone was perfectly clipped, perfectly timed. "Your forge consultation has been scheduled. You are expected at the Iron Spire within the next thirty minutes."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow, then turned to Vitaliara with a sigh that was far too elegant to be sincere. "And so the page turns."
[Blacksmith?] she asked, hopping down from the couch with a casual flick of her tail.
He stretched his shoulders slightly, then reached for his coat. "Apparently it's time for me to be armed like a proper threat."
[You already are one.]
He didn't deny it.
Just as he pulled the coat into place, he paused by the interface glass, staring for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
'Let's see if this part of the story has also changed.'
From here on, things were supposed to spiral—slowly at first. Like a match waiting for the wrong breath.
'So far, everything's followed the script. The banquet, the sponsor offers, even the tailored silence.'
He stepped toward the exit as the doors hissed open, light trailing in through the hall like a path waiting to be walked.
******
The walk from the accommodations to the forge district wasn't far—at least, not by imperial design. Within the inner borough of Arcania, even the layout obeyed intention. The Academy's facilities were woven into the highest veins of the capital like organs within a divine body—each step from luxury to purpose, from velvet to steel, by calculated transition.
Lucavion and the others walked in a loosely held line, the hush of magic-soaked stone under their feet barely echoing. Their formal coats fluttered in the gentle upward breeze that filtered through the hovering garden-terraces above, bringing with it a scent of silverroot trees and some kind of crystal-laced incense Lucavion couldn't place.
Then they stepped beyond the quiet gates of the Sanctum.
And the world… opened.
Even Lucavion paused.
They had entered the heart of the Imperial Borough. No longer just the inner ward of the Academy—but the summit of the empire's ambition.
Massive bridges arched overhead between floating platforms, each one a minor palace unto itself. Airships drifted lazily through the sky, trimmed in gold and sapphire, bearing noble crests like birds displaying their feathers. Automaton sentries, fashioned from living bronze and cloaked in illusion, moved with eerie grace through the air, eyes glowing faintly behind filigree masks.
The buildings here weren't just tall—they were composed. Each one a monument to mastery. No single wall lacked detail; every spire, every rune-carved arch, every floating lantern seemed placed by a master artisan's hand. And between it all—
Beasts.
Not in cages. Not on chains. But resting silently.
'Oh….So these are the tamed monsters…..Is the Empire trying to show off, or are they somehow modified?'
A feathered serpentine wyrm coiled in the shade of a crescent-shaped library tower.
A massive, lion-bodied creature with iridescent wings curled at the base of a fountain, as still and regal as a statue—until one eye flicked open.
Elayne slowed slightly beside Lucavion, her gaze drifting upward to a tower wrapped in vineglass and humming with power. Mireilla's posture stiffened clearly her experience as an adventure kicking in.
[They're not here,] Vitaliara murmured, her voice curling low into Lucavion's mind like a whisper meant for locked doors. [Not directly. Not in sight, at least. The ones I sensed earlier… they're deeper. Beneath. Beyond. Hidden.]
Lucavion's gaze scanned the ridge of the nearest platform—nothing but runed stone and glowing lanterns. No serpents. No claws. No roaring terror.
Just silence wrapped in perfection.
"Then the ones we can see?" he asked quietly.
[Window dressing,] she said, with a flick of her tail. [Old blood, maybe—probably altered. Clipped. The true ones wouldn't laze in open plazas like trained cats.]
He nodded, just faintly, the edge of a thought forming.
'So the beasts that matter know how to stay quiet.'
[Exactly.] Her voice dropped a shade. [You don't notice us unless we want to be noticed.]
He glanced again at the creatures nearby. The feathered wyrm lay perfectly still in the shade, its scales refracting subtle colors with every breath. The leonine-winged beast at the fountain didn't move—but its presence did. It wasn't radiating aura. It wasn't baring fangs. It wasn't doing anything a true apex would do.
Which meant only one thing.
"They're not wild," Lucavion murmured. "They're aware. And they've made a choice."
[Or had it made for them,] Vitaliara replied, her tone laced with something older. [Either way, they don't feel like us.]
Lucavion's brow twitched slightly.
This was something that was most likely the doing of the current emperor.
'Sigh….How far you are planning to go?'
The final stretch of the bridge curved downward into a spiral—a gradual descent as though ushering them, not toward a forge, but into the heart of something far older, far deeper.
Lucavion's boots struck the obsidian-veined steps with practiced ease, but even he slowed as the Iron Spire came fully into view.
It was breathtaking.
No smoke. No soot. No roaring bellows.
Instead, a vertical tower of glass-forged obsidian and shimmering silver latticework rose from the stone like a blade piercing the sky. Runes pulsed across its surface in deliberate, rhythmic waves—every line a channel of pure mana. It didn't just hum with power.
It sang.
The gates were wide open, if they could even be called gates. They were more like a pair of massive, floating arcane conduits, their edges laced with goldlight, hovering without hinge or anchor. As Lucavion stepped forward with the others, a gust of warm air washed over them.
And with it came the sensation.
Mana.
Raw. Ancient. Alive.
It wasn't the usual presence of ambient aether. This wasn't residual spell energy left over from a few recent castings. This was deep-forged leyline power channeled into sanctified flame. Elemental pressure curled across their skin like a second atmosphere.
Even Caeden's posture shifted—rigid, alert.
Elayne stopped entirely. Her fingers brushed the side of her neck as if calming something beneath the surface of her own control.
Mireilla frowned, eyes narrowing. "...This place's mana is thicker than a dungeon core."
Toven didn't speak. He just stared, mouth slightly open.
Lucavion stepped through the threshold—and felt it.
Not heat. Not pressure.
Presence.
A slow, encompassing gravity. Like walking into a cathedral, except it didn't smell of incense or sanctity. It smelled of ore. Of molten light. Of ritual tempered by fire.
[This forge…] Vitaliara whispered. [There's something divine here.]
Chapter 710: Forge
[There's something divine here.]
The words weren't a warning.
They were recognition.
And the moment Vitaliara whispered them, Lucavion stilled—truly stilled.
His gaze swept the forge again, slower this time. Deeper. Not just admiring the architecture or sensing the mana, but listening beneath it. To the cadence of heat. To the rhythm of molten aether. To the deliberate, sacred stillness that only came from one kind of hand.
'Old man…'
His jaw tensed just slightly, eyes narrowing.
'So you're here too.'
Of course he was. This forge wasn't just powerful—it was aligned. Structured like a ritual. Precise, but full of soul. Only one man he knew had ever worked iron like it was prayer and made even the gods feel unnecessary.
A certain old man that he had met before.
The forge-mad hermit of flame and purpose. The man who once scolded Lucavion for sharpening a blade "like a butcher folding arrogance." The man who had refused to forge for kings but once made a sword from the blood-steam of a dying wyrm just because it challenged him.
Lucavion hadn't seen him in years.
Hadn't expected to, either.
After all he knew that old man would be coming here.
His hands relaxed at his sides, though tension still coiled behind his spine like a waiting blade.
Because if he was here… then this part of the story hadn't changed.
Not yet.
He would need to see.
Lucavion stepped forward, boots echoing softly against the sanctified floor as the rest of the group followed him deeper inside. The heat rose not as discomfort, but as welcome. The scent of forged legacy filled the space—old iron, new flame, and magic that believed in itself.
Toven was still too in awe to speak. Mireilla's posture was alert again, her fingers twitching faintly, perhaps in recognition of what true craftsmanship felt like. Elayne, ever-silent, moved with the stillness of someone watching for patterns within patterns.
The interior of the forge unfurled like a cathedral carved into flame.
They stepped past the threshold—and silence met them, not from absence, but reverence. The forge breathed, and every blacksmith within it moved to that rhythm. Each hammerfall was deliberate, each spark a verse of ancient scripture flung into the air.
The hall split into distinct chambers connected by arc-lined pathways of glowing obsidian. Masterwork anvils—few in number, each carved with binding runes older than most bloodlines—sat in elevated alcoves, surrounded by thin veils of heat-distortion and ambient magic.
The space wasn't crowded. It didn't need to be.
There were fewer than a dozen smiths within view—and each one bore the mark of someone who had earned the silence they worked in. Their coats were etched with a triple-forge insignia, their tools bound in mana-threaded leather. They moved with a precision that made it clear: this was not just labor.
This was craftsmanship made holy.
Weapons hung along a curved glass wall—displayed like relics. Each one unique. Some hummed faintly, alive with contained enchantments. Others rested in serene stillness, as though sleeping, waiting to be claimed by the right hand. There was a glaive of golden boneglass, an obsidian scythe with hollow rune-chambers down the shaft, and a dueling spear folded from dawnlight alloy that shimmered only when ignored.
The raw materials were behind transparent arcane seals: chunks of pulsating mana ore, harvested monster cores, folded celestial alloy, and a single piece of what looked like starmetal—lightless, too dark to be natural, and too cold to be inert.
Toven let out a quiet whistle. "This place makes the royal forge look like a beginner's furnace."
Mireilla didn't reply, but she looked like she agreed.
Kaleran finally came to a stop before a wide dais with the crest of the Empire's Arsenal burned into its floor—a ring of blades circling a core flame.
He turned to face them, hands clasped behind his back.
"This," he said, his voice steady and formal, "is Solvaris Emberhold."
The name settled into the chamber like an invocation. Even the forge-flames seemed to pulse at its mention.
Kaleran continued. "The seat of the Empire's highest forge-circle. Weapons crafted here are not merely enchanted or reinforced—they are written into the Empire's doctrine. This place births the arms of generals, champions, and chosen few."
Lucavion felt it more than he heard it—the pull.
That pressure of divine weight wasn't here in the front, where even nobles could walk and gawk. It was further in. Beneath the layer of ceremony and gilded commission.
Deeper.
'That's where you are, isn't it?'
Lucavion's gaze lingered past the ring of blazing forge-lights and the etched platforms of heat-bound steel. Beyond the enchantments and ceremonial craft, he could still feel it—that subtle draw, that coil of pressure not born of mana but of memory. Somewhere in the depths of this sanctified structure, the old man was working.
Not instructing. Not supervising.
Forging.
It wasn't something that could be mistaken. The divine weight Vitaliara sensed wasn't some metaphor. It was real—etched into the metal with every blow of a hammer that never asked for permission to change the world.
A rhythm unlike any other.
That was the description in the novel, though that is for a sooner future.
But for now, the path inward was closed. A barrier of respect—or bureaucracy. Either way, not yet.
Kaleran gestured, drawing the group's attention once more. "You will now be shown the available material catalog. Your options are limited by two factors—your point balance, and your resonance affinity."
He stepped aside, and several robed assistants emerged from the far walls, each leading a floating slab of arcane glass that displayed shimmering projections of materials: refined elemental ore, magically inert alloys for pure reinforcement, woven mana-silk for lightweight armors, spiritsteel laced with soul-echoes, even adaptive crystal that could remember and return to its original shape after a shatter.
Toven's eyes nearly fell out of his head. "I want everything."
Mireilla crossed her arms. "You'll be lucky to afford a sheath if you don't focus."
Kaleran ignored the muttering. "These are the materials you may choose from—unless your assigned blacksmith determines you are compatible with something rarer. If such a match occurs, it will be made clear to you. You will then be brought to the negotiation chamber to confirm the cost."
Lucavion's gaze flicked over the projected ore lists, but only as a formality. Nothing here sang to him yet. The metal he was meant to carry was elsewhere. Below.
"As for your forge-masters," Kaleran said, gesturing with one gloved hand, "you will each be paired now."
From across the open floor, five blacksmiths approached—each different in form and bearing.
One was tall and wiry, his hair shot through with copper strands of mana-burn. He moved with twitchy precision, like a man who hadn't slept in three days and didn't need to.
Another, a woman with iron tattoos crawling up her throat, carried three forging hammers at her hip and the air of someone who once beat a knight unconscious with all of them at once.
Each of them looked at the candidates not like nobles or prodigies—but like potential disasters waiting to happen to their tools.
The assignments began.
"Caeden Roark," Kaleran called. A smith with frost-rimed pauldrons stepped forward, eyes already measuring him.
"Mireilla Dane." The hammerwoman nodded sharply, beckoning her forward with no words.
"Elayne Cors." A lean smith with gemstone-threaded gloves raised an eyebrow as she stepped into view.
"Toven Vintrell." Toven brightened—then paled slightly as a hulking forge-master built like a mountain crossed his arms and said nothing.
Finally—
"Lucavion."
Chapter 711: Forge (2)
"Lucavion."
Lucavion didn't respond immediately. He simply turned, hands relaxed at his sides, gaze already sweeping the edges of the forge where the real fire was kept.
Kaleran took a measured breath. "Due to your exceptional performance during the entrance trials," he said, each word deliberate, "you will be granted the right to commission your weapon from the Empire's highest-ranked blacksmith."
That drew a reaction.
Toven actually stopped mid-fidget, blinking.
Mireilla glanced up, her expression unreadable but no longer indifferent.
Even Elayne's gaze lifted from the glass projections.
Lucavion… merely raised a brow.
Kaleran continued, unbothered by the shifting tension. "This is not a courtesy. It is a recognition. The individual you will be working with has forged blades for High Generals, Grand Magi, and the imperial bloodline itself."
There was a slight pause—almost as if he were preparing them for a name.
But then Kaleran looked to one of the nearby attendants and gave a curt nod. "Summon Mister Harlan. Let him know the old man's time is needed."
The title struck the air like flint on stone.
Lucavion felt it immediately.
He could sense the shift behind the words—like the forge itself stirred just faintly in anticipation.
The others wouldn't know what that name meant. Not truly.
But Lucavion did.
He knew exactly who was being referenced without ever needing to hear the full name aloud.
The old man didn't go by titles. Not forge-lord, not master, not flame-binder.
Just Harlan.
To call him anything else was to pretend he belonged to something.
And he never had.
The tension in the air shifted the moment the attendant returned from the deeper chamber.
He approached with careful steps, as if aware that delivering anything short of reverence might get him burned—if not by the forge, then by the expectations around it.
"Master Harlan is currently working," the man said, voice polite but tight. "He… hasn't yet responded to the summons."
Kaleran's eyes narrowed—just slightly, but enough for the air to cool in contrast to the forge's heat.
"We informed your circle in advance," Kaleran said, his tone not angry but cutting. "Today's audience was scheduled. Approved."
The attendant shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the deeper end of the forge—the silent arch that Lucavion had sensed from the start. "I understand, Master Mage. But when Master Harlan is in the inner crucible, he does not take interruptions. Not even from the Directorate."
Lucavion gave a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. Of course.
Kaleran's jaw set, the faintest sign of displeasure flickering across the otherwise unreadable lines of his face. "Check again."
The man bowed slightly. "Yes, sir. I'll see if he's… nearing completion."
And with that, he turned and made his retreat—quick, but not rushed. Just enough to suggest he had no illusions about how long it would take. Or how welcome the news would be.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Silence bloomed around them like a waiting flame.
Lucavion remained still, arms loosely folded, gaze lingering on the sealed archway. He didn't look irritated. Just… patient. If there was one thing Harlan taught, it was that steel didn't rush.
Lucavion's gaze stayed fixed on the archway, but his mind slipped backward—uninvited, yet welcome.
Two years ago.
Maybe a little more.
A city smaller than it deserved to be, tucked between hills and trade routes that time had forgotten. He'd gone there chasing rumors, not of monsters or mages, but of metal. Of a smith who didn't sell. Who chose his customers with the arrogance of a god and the eyes of a judge.
Lucavion had walked into that forge without appointment, without pretense—just an unfinished blade on his back and a challenge in his eyes.
The old man had looked at him once.
Just once.
And without a word, tossed him a bent training blade and pointed to the forge's rear courtyard.
Lucavion had swung.
A rough welcome. But the first of many nights spent over molten metal, hammer strikes that echoed like heartbeat, and silence broken only when truth demanded it.
[Hard to believe we found him there,] Vitaliara murmured now, her voice curling through his thoughts like rising steam. [A forge that looked like it hadn't seen a customer in five years, tucked behind an apothecary and a broken tavern sign.]
Lucavion's lips curved, faint. 'Yeah. And he still had the nerve to act like I was the lost one.'
[Because you were.]
'Maybe. But I found fire.'
[And he found something sharp enough to tolerate.]
Lucavion didn't reply to that.
Because it was true.
And then—
The attendant returned.
This time, he was not calm.
He moved quickly, face damp with sweat that hadn't come from the forge's heat. His collar was slightly askew, and his steps betrayed the stammer of someone who had just been seen through too quickly and spoken to too directly.
Lucavion didn't need to ask.
He already knew.
The old man had replied.
Probably with something like "He can wait. The metal doesn't." Or worse.
The attendant bowed stiffly to Kaleran. "Master Harlan has said… he's busy."
Kaleran's expression didn't flicker—but something behind his eyes shifted. A sharper stillness. "This meeting has been scheduled for over a month. He was briefed. He agreed."
The attendant wrung his hands, still slightly singed at the fingertips. "Yes, sir, but he says he's working on a time-sensitive piece. That if he steps away now, it'll ruin the structure. He was very clear about it."
"Time-sensitive?" Kaleran echoed, voice clipped as cold steel. "He was hammering a sword the same hour I met him fifteen years ago. He is always working on something time-sensitive. That's not an excuse. It's his existence."
The attendant looked caught between anvil and flame. "Sir, with respect, he said—'Tell the boy I'm aware, but the metal listens before I do.' And then he… waved me away."
Lucavion was already biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Kaleran sighed through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to incinerate someone. "And I suppose his inner crucible is still locked."
"Yes. Triple-sealed," the attendant confirmed. "You know how it is when he—"
"I know," Kaleran cut in. "I just thought perhaps this once, he would remember that the rest of us are bound by linear time."
There was a beat.
Then Lucavion tilted his head, calm as dusk.
"Well," he said, "if he doesn't want to come to us—how about I go to him?"
Both Kaleran and the attendant turned at the same time, necks snapping like marionettes mid-swing.
The look they gave him was somewhere between disbelief and the quiet despair usually reserved for children about to touch an open flame.
The attendant gaped. "You—what?"
Kaleran spoke slowly, like addressing someone dangerously concussed. "You do realize why no one goes to him while he's working. That the heat beyond the crucible door isn't just forge-heat. It's condensed divine resonance. That entire section is lined with mirrored mana-steel and still glows white. If anyone could walk through it without vaporizing, don't you think we would have by now?"
Lucavion didn't flinch.
Instead, he raised one hand casually—almost like shrugging off a coat.
A faint shimmer rose around his fingertips, then coiled around his palm, dark and silent.
Not flame.
Absence.
The [Flame of Equinox] flickered into being, void-black fire with a silver-blue sheen that didn't glow so much as consume the light around it. A heat that wasn't hot. A fire that didn't burn—it unmade.
Lucavion glanced at the faint edge of it, then at them. "I'm pretty resistant to fire."
Chapter 712: Forge (3)
"I'm pretty resistant to fire."
The attendant actually took a step back, hearing that and seeing the black flames moving.
Kaleran's face tightened. Just slightly. But in the forge's flickering light, it looked like steel hardening under pressure.
"You will not go in there," he said, voice low, sharp, final. "That would be a violation of rank, of order, and of basic respect. Harlan may be a relic, but he is still the Empire's highest-standing forge authority. You do not walk uninvited into his crucible."
Lucavion didn't even look at him.
He just let the Flame of Equinox twist once more around his fingers—faint tendrils of unmaking licking the air, distorting the heat already present with something older, colder.
Kaleran stepped forward, voice rising just slightly. "Lucavion—"
"Don't bother," Lucavion said, already moving.
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't need to.
The sheer casualness of it hit harder than defiance. Like he wasn't arguing. Just done waiting.
And with a single flex of motion, he vaulted the low arcane boundary before anyone could finish a ward or warning. His coat trailed behind him, catching light like midnight silk, and the moment his boots touched the platform just before the sealed crucible path—
The moment Lucavion's boots landed on the obsidian platform before the sealed crucible path, the forge shifted.
Not violently. Not with alarm.
But like something immense had just turned to watch.
The heat in the air didn't rise—it concentrated. Dense. Intent. The distant runes above the crucible door flickered, then held steady in a muted gold. Waiting.
Kaleran moved forward at once, cloak flaring behind him like a wing of shadow. "Lucavion!" His voice cracked like a whip this time, unmistakably commanding. "You are breaching protocol. You have no clearance to enter that corridor. This is a direct violation of imperial structure—"
"Master Harlan will not like this," the attendant stammered from behind, wide-eyed. "He will be offended. If you walk into that space uninvited—"
Lucavion lifted one hand.
Waved it absently. "Blah, blah. Fire, offense, imperial tragedy, breach of something." He didn't even slow his stride. "If he doesn't want to see me, he won't let me through. I know him well enough to trust that."
His voice dropped slightly, just enough for the words to hit with weight.
"But I'd rather speak to him face to face than keep playing this pathetic back-and-forth through middlemen who leave covered in soot and excuses."
He stepped again.
The edge of the crucible corridor shimmered ahead, runes etched into mirrored steel walls glowing like heat through breathless stone. The barrier of divine resonance rippled in his wake—testing him, touching at the edges of his presence.
The Flame of Equinox, still flickering low and controlled, pulsed once. The fire around him parted.
Lucavion didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
Kaleran's voice was behind him, sharp and brittle. "Lucavion, if you walk through that door—"
"Then maybe," Lucavion said without turning, "he'll finally answer properly."
And with that, he crossed into the crucible.
Into the real forge.
Where the old man waited—whether to burn or to listen.
As Lucavion stepped deeper into the crucible corridor, the air shifted—again.
It didn't burn.
Not yet.
But it compressed.
Like he was walking through the chest of a slumbering giant, each breath tighter, each step heavier, the atmosphere humming with unseen weight.
[It's hot,] Vitaliara murmured from his shoulder, the usual lilting edge of her voice dulled by the sheer pressure around them. [Like—actually hot. Not annoying bathwater hot. Molten god-metal hot.]
Lucavion didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The sweat didn't bead. His skin didn't sting. Not yet. His resistance was holding, even if he could feel the difference—this wasn't mortal flame. Not anymore.
He'd known heat.
When he forged his core, when the [Flame of Equinox] first rose from the depths of his broken channels, his body had scorched from the inside out for hours. He'd sat in a pool of flame with nothing but breath and will holding him together. Fire had become part of him—obedient, familiar, instinctive.
But this fire wasn't familiar.
It didn't want to be.
The heat here was not alive.
It was bound. Angry, dense, a thing that had once been free and had since been hammered into shape over centuries. It radiated purpose—not wrath. And it did not yield.
Not even to him.
Lucavion kept walking.
The corridor opened ahead into a great forge hall walled in blacksteel and mirrored aetherglass. The floor glowed faintly from underneath, runes whispering in slow cycles. The central anvil was massive, carved into volcanic stone veined with living silver, and behind it—
Bang.
The first hammer fell.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap trapped in chains.
Then again.
Bang.
Another blow—steady, exact. Like a judge delivering the same verdict it had delivered a thousand times before.
Lucavion stepped into view.
And—
"…Noble kids…" came a voice—rough, low, like someone chewing gravel and spitting judgment. It came not from the heat, not from the walls, but from behind the anvil, hunched over iron that glowed white with inner heat.
The old man didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
"Tch," the voice muttered. "No discipline. No timing. No damn respect. Always interruptin'. Always thinking they're entitled to forge-time like it's a bathhouse ticket."
Another bang.
"Would've sent 'im home if the damned directorate didn't stamp the request with six signatures and a damn seal. I know a waste of ore when I see one."
Bang.
"First-rank my ass. Probably another pampered brat with a bloodline he couldn't even explain and a fancy title to shove down my throat."
Lucavion exhaled—slow, through his nose.
The hammer struck again—bang—but the steel beneath it was no longer the only thing resonating with heat.
The forge pulsed. Not violently, but rhythmically. Like a second heartbeat had entered the room.
Harlan didn't stop.
Not for breath.
Not for presence.
Not even for the wrongness in the way the fire bent slightly around the boy who stood just past the threshold.
"Tch. Probably came here to ask for some sword with wings and glowing runes. Godsdamn peacocks, the lot of you," he muttered, wiping a thick forearm across his brow without even glancing up. "Bet he wants it blessed by a dragon's last breath or some other steaming nonsense."
Lucavion cleared his throat.
Just once.
A sharp, quiet cough.
Not a request. Not an apology.
A note. Played into the room.
The hammer paused.
Just briefly.
Then dropped again—bang—but slower this time. A beat behind the rhythm.
And then—
"…Who the hell said you were allowed to enter this place?" the old man barked, finally looking up from his work. His eyes, pale and scarred with mana-burn around the edges, narrowed at the silhouette standing inside his crucible.
He squinted slightly, then muttered again.
"Hmph. You're still standing. I'll give you that." His gaze sharpened, jaw twitching. "You shouldn't be able to. Not here. Not that close to—"
He stopped.
Because now he saw the fire.
Not his.
Lucavion's.
The [Flame of Equinox] curled subtly around his wrist, silver-blue veins of void-light flickering like whispers in the forge's heat. It didn't challenge the room.
But it didn't yield either.
Harlan's posture shifted. Almost imperceptibly.
Not softening.
Just… adjusting.
Like a predator realizing it had misjudged the weight of something in the brush.
Lucavion's mouth tilted into a smile that wasn't quite friendly.
"Old man," he said evenly, "your senses are getting duller, it seems."
The hammer stopped mid-air.
Harlan froze.
Completely.
No breath. No sound. No shift of flame.
Just a sudden, absolute stillness.
"…You…"
Chapter 713: Blacksmith
"…You…"
Lucavion tilted his head, just slightly. One brow arched, his voice rich with mockery and undertone.
"Me?"
He took a half-step forward, not aggressive—just present. The kind of presence that didn't beg for attention but rearranged the air until it was the only thing that could be noticed. The heat shifted with him, not out of deference, but out of curiosity. Even the forge seemed to lean forward.
Harlan didn't move immediately.
But his neck turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
The full weight of a smith's scrutiny met Lucavion's gaze, those pale, mana-scored eyes dragging across every detail of the young man's face like a blade measuring its scabbard.
And then—
Lucavion smiled.
Not warm.
Not kind.
Just wide enough to be a dare.
"I'm the brat," he said, letting the words drop like coins into a well. "The peacock. The one with bloodline I couldn't explain. First rank. Stamped letter. Glowing rune expectations and dragon breath dreams." He opened his arms theatrically, the flicker of his void-fire trailing like ink in molten air. "The Empire's walking offense. Here to waste your time."
A beat.
Then Lucavion took another step into the forge's breath, letting the warmth press against his skin like a half-forgotten memory.
"Still can't remember me, old man?"
The words hung in the air—low, steady, edged with something beneath the smirk. Not anger. Not quite. But something older. A weight carried across years and silence.
Harlan's gaze sharpened. There was a flicker—small, quick—behind the mask of his expression. Like a gear catching.
Lucavion tilted his head, voice dipping into memory's rhythm.
"Rackenshore. The boy with the estoc that was too long for his arm and a core that wouldn't settle. The one who showed up every other day just to get barked at for swinging wrong. You said—what was it—ah, right…"
He raised his voice an octave in mock imitation.
"'Sword's not a damn broomstick, boy. Stop sweeping the wind like you're chasing ghosts.'"
A pause.
Then his tone dropped again. Quiet. Real.
"And you still let me swing. Again and again. Even when I didn't get it right. Even when I was smiling while I fought."
That smile—the one Lucavion wore now—flickered. Just a breath of something behind the bravado.
"I came to you, not for polish. Not for flair. But because you were the only one who didn't flinch when you saw the beast in me."
A nod toward the forge.
"And when I asked you to make me a blade from the wyrm's scales, you said, 'You'd burn before you ever earned it.' Remember that?"
He raised a hand, and the [Flame of Equinox] curled up his arm, gentle but absolute—fire refined, no longer snarling, but listening.
"Well, I earned it. And you made it. I held that weapon like it was part of me, and I carved a path through this damned empire with your craftsmanship in my hand and your judgment in my head."
Lucavion stepped forward again, the floor beneath him glowing faintly in recognition—runes in the stone pulsing with faint light.
"So," he said, voice low, almost a whisper, "what is it now?"
He stopped a blade's length from the anvil.
"Do you still not see me?"
Harlan stared.
And the fire behind him cracked once. Not in protest.
In memory.
The old man's shoulders shifted, ever so slightly, and the hammer in his hand lowered—just an inch.
"…You grew up," he muttered, like the words tasted strange in his mouth. "Didn't think you would. Figured the fire would kill you first. Or the blade."
Lucavion gave a dry chuckle. "It almost did. More than once."
"But it didn't."
Harlan's voice was quiet now. He looked away, just for a second. Not in shame. In acknowledgment.
Harlan's gaze drifted back to Lucavion's face—slow, deliberate. Not searching. Confirming.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, the lines in his weathered face deepening with something unreadable.
"That scar…" he murmured, voice lower than before. "I see you've gotten rid of it."
Lucavion's expression didn't change immediately. But the firelight caught the edge of his mouth as it curved, just faintly.
"Yeah…" he said, his voice quiet, not triumphant, but resolved. "I cleared that remnant of the past."
He raised a hand briefly, brushing two fingers along the now-smooth line where the scar once cut across his jaw. The gesture was casual. Almost meaningless.
But it wasn't.
Not between them.
Harlan's eyes lingered there for a second longer before he let out a rough, humorless chuckle.
"Heh… kid…" His voice caught slightly. "I see that you really have grown up."
He didn't say it with pride.
He said it like someone digging through old coals and finding the fire still burning underneath.
Then, silence.
Just for a breath.
And then Harlan's eyes met his again—this time, fully. Not with doubt. Not with disbelief. But with weight.
"To think that it was you…" he muttered, almost to himself…
Then his eyes narrowed, still staring at Lucavion like he was trying to burn through him to the bones—not with heat, but with memory.
"They mentioned," the old man muttered, "some kid topping the imperial entrance. Said he was a swordsman. Broke all records. Used some damn strange flame."
Lucavion arched a brow. "And you didn't think to check who it was?"
Harlan snorted, brushing ash from his forearm with a jerk of his elbow. "Didn't have time to chase academy drama."
Lucavion blinked once. Then tilted his head slightly, arms folding. "It was broadcasted across the Empire, old man. Diviners were practically shoving it into teacups. The forge you live in has two crystal mirrors. Don't lie."
The old man's face shifted—just for a second.
Gone was the muttering grump. Just for a breath, a colder silence wrapped around his jaw, around his shoulders. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't shame.
It was distance.
A distance he had chosen.
"…Nah," he said flatly. "Didn't watch it."
Lucavion didn't miss the pause between the words.
Didn't miss the look in his eye.
He let the moment stretch, then said—calmly, without accusation, "Busy as ever, then."
Harlan grunted. "Work doesn't stop 'cause the Empire's got a new poster boy."
Lucavion chuckled, dry and brief. "Of course not. You're the only man I know who'd miss the collapse of a kingdom because you were arguing with a piece of iron."
"That iron was being a bastard," Harlan muttered.
Just as the forge's rhythm began to settle—less clash, more conversation—a pulse of mana flickered at the crucible corridor's edge.
A soft shimmer, then the quiet hum of layered enchantments activating.
Two figures emerged through the shimmering veil—one walking like the air obeyed him, the other walking like it might set him on fire if he breathed too hard.
Kaleran stepped into the forge chamber first, his boots not quite touching the floor—levitation sigils whispering at his heels. His slate-gray cloak was now charred faintly at the edges, his usual calm expression drawn tight with layered restraint.
Behind him, the attendant arrived panting, a protective charm glimmering faintly around his chest and brow, sweat running down his face in rivulets. He looked one flicker of flame away from bolting.
And both of them froze at the threshold of the forge heart—where the temperature became intent.
The attendant looked around wildly, spotted Lucavion standing comfortably in front of the crucible's central anvil, then turned quickly toward Harlan.
"I—I apologize!" he blurted, voice higher than usual. "Master Harlan, I didn't mean for him to offend—he moved without clearance, I tried to stop him, I truly—"
Harlan didn't even look at him.
The hammer was still in his hand. The forge still glowed like a god's throat. And the old man raised his voice just enough to cut through the apologies like a hot blade through butter.
"Boy," he said to the attendant, "if you waste more air, I'll forge you into a bellows and use you properly."
The poor man shut up immediately.
Kaleran, unfazed by the rebuke, stepped forward with more caution—still upright, still composed, but wary. "Lucavion," he said evenly, his tone edged in a strained civility. "You've had your dramatic moment. If you'd kindly step back, I'll ensure your discussion with the Master is conducted with the appropriate timing and respect."
Lucavion didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"Too late."
Chapter 714: Blacksmith (2)
"Lucavion. You've had your dramatic moment. If you'd kindly step back, I'll ensure your discussion with the Master is conducted with the appropriate timing and respect."
"Too late," he said casually. "We already talked."
Kaleran exhaled once through his nose—controlled, but sharp—and then stepped forward with the practiced grace of someone trained to navigate political landmines barefoot.
He gave the old man a curt incline of the head. "Master Harlan," he said, the title crisp with formality, "I attempted to stop him. I did not authorize this breach, nor condone it."
The old man finally turned toward him, pausing just long enough to look—not in anger, not even with irritation, but in that unsettling, forge-born stillness of someone who had seen far too many men try far too hard.
And then—
Clang.
Harlan dropped his hammer.
It hit the floor with the weight of an oath, sparks leaping once around the anvil, and the resonance rang through the chamber like a chime struck by judgment.
"Nah," Harlan said simply. "It's fine."
Kaleran stiffened. "...Pardon?"
But Harlan was already walking.
Slow, heavy-footed steps across the forge floor, soot clinging to his boots, the echo of heat clinging to his back. His broad shoulders rolled slightly as if shaking off twenty hours of fire and silence. His hands, scarred and calloused, flexed once before falling back to his sides.
The attendant's mouth opened, confused. "M-Master Harlan…?"
The old man didn't stop. Just called over his shoulder:
"I'll take a break now. Will you stop me?"
The attendant's eyes went wide, and he immediately began shaking his head, frantic. "Of course not, sir. Absolutely not, I—"
"Good."
And Harlan kept walking—straight toward the far wall, where a small stone bench sat beneath an ancient cooling glyph carved into the wall like a personal signature. He dropped onto it like a mountain deciding to rest and exhaled once, long and low.
Lucavion watched him the entire time.
Still smiling. Still silent.
Kaleran glanced from the bench… to the anvil… then to Lucavion again.
His jaw flexed, the muscles at his temple twitching like a man resisting the urge to swear in ten different dialects of Imperial High Tongue.
"You've ruined his mood," he said flatly, eyes narrowing. "He's done for the day. That was the one chance to begin forging a weapon under Harlan. And now it's gone."
Lucavion didn't respond.
Not with words.
Just a faint smirk.
Not wide. Not smug. Just enough to mean something.
Kaleran's brow furrowed deeper. "Did you not hear me?"
Still no answer.
The silence stretched—
Until Harlan's gravel-thick voice rumbled from the cooling bench without looking back:
"What are you waiting for, boy? Follow me."
The words dropped into the chamber like a smith's final blow—blunt, loud, and undeniable.
Kaleran froze.
The attendant actually let out a confused little choking sound.
Lucavion turned smoothly, caught Kaleran's stunned stare, and flashed two fingers in a lazy peace sign.
"See?" he said cheerfully, already walking. "Everything's good now."
He pivoted with that same loose, deliberate gait—the one that said I planned this the whole time, whether or not he did—and strolled after the old man.
The forge doors behind him whispered closed.
And all Kaleran could do was watch the flames part for someone they weren't supposed to welcome.
Again.
*****
Harlan walked with the weight of an old furnace finally given leave to cool—each step slower than his age demanded, but deliberate, as if time itself respected his pacing. The heavy doors of the inner forge whispered shut behind them, sealing away the crucible's breath with a soft exhale of power.
Lucavion followed, hands in his pockets, his stride casual but alert, as always. He didn't rush. He didn't speak. He just matched the old man's rhythm with a loose-limbed ease, letting the silence between them simmer until Harlan broke it himself.
They passed the rune-marked archway that separated the heart of the forge from the rest of the building, the oppressive weight of enchantments fading to a tolerable warmth. A modest stone corridor opened into a lounge—a place not meant for nobles or officers, but for smiths between commissions. Worn benches, scuffed floors, a kettle that had probably seen more wars than the entire central command.
Harlan moved to one of the low-backed chairs against the wall, groaning as he dropped into it. His shoulders slumped, his hands settling on his knees. The light was softer here—less fire, more memory.
He didn't look at Lucavion when he finally spoke.
"So," he said, as if dragging the word from the coals, "how the hell'd you end up here?"
Lucavion shrugged as he leaned against the nearby pillar, one foot kicked back behind the other like they were discussing tavern rumors.
"Heard the Academy was opening entry trials to, quote, 'anyone sufficiently capable, regardless of background,'" he said with a faint grin. "Figured I'd show up. Give it a try."
Harlan grunted. "That's a polite way of saying you stormed in, set the grading array on fire, and walked out with three medals and a violation report."
Lucavion looked innocent. "I'm sure it was only two medals."
"You set the fire, didn't you?"
Lucavion let the silence drag for a moment, his grin simmering into something subtler—still cocky, but tempered, like a flame set low beneath a sealed pot. He rolled his shoulder once and then gave a light exhale, as if brushing soot from an old habit.
"That's who I am," he said, simply. "I walk in, light something on fire—intentionally or otherwise—and walk out with a few more people confused about how I got there."
He didn't elaborate. Not on the details, not on the scars under the coat or the truths beneath the grin. And he especially didn't mention the second core pulsing quiet and slow beneath his ribs.
Harlan, still leaning back in the low-backed chair, watched him with a half-lidded eye. He scratched his beard absently, the motion half-thoughtful, half-tired.
"That part of you doesn't seem to change, at least," he muttered, voice rough as furnace stone. "You still have that fire in you, lad."
Lucavion chuckled at that—low, amused, not disagreeing.
"And you," he said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, arms crossing loosely over his chest, "what about you, old man? You were supposed to vanish into some backwater forge and die yelling at copper-blenders. How'd you end up here?"
That question broke the mood like a hammer hitting a cold spike.
Harlan's face didn't just still—it soured.
His jaw clenched. His fingers flexed once against his knee before settling again, tighter than before. The air around him grew still in that peculiar way it did when a forge was cooling too quickly—dangerous in its quiet.
"It's a long story," Harlan said flatly.
Lucavion's brow arched.
"Long enough for you to not have time," he said, tone light, "or long enough for you to not be allowed to talk about?"
Harlan's eyes snapped to him—just for a second.
But that second was enough.
The silence after that wasn't empty. It hummed, quiet and sharp, like a blade resting against the inside of the tongue.
Lucavion didn't press. He didn't need to.
He just nodded once, his expression unreadable now, save for the faintest glint of understanding.
"Figured it so."
Chapter 715: Blacksmith (3)
The old hall reemerged from the quiet corridor with all the heat of its purpose still alive—metal clashing, runes sparking, whispers of aether curling through the air like breath held between hammer strikes. But the moment Harlan stepped into view, the rhythm faltered.
Not because he demanded it.
Because presence carved space.
The blacksmiths paused.
Not all at once—but like dominos in silence. One stopped mid-swing, another lifted her head from a glowing blade, a third turned away from a cooled crystal mold. Eyes followed. Movements stilled.
Even among masters, Harlan was the line between fire and flame.
One of the oldest smiths—tattoos inked in liquid steel across his arms—straightened his back and gave a nod deeper than ritual. Another pressed a hand to her chest, a subtle mark of recognition. Even the apprentices, those who had only heard his name in murmurs and warnings, stiffened unconsciously like the forge itself was watching through him.
Harlan didn't blink.
He just waved a hand dismissively.
"Don't stop your work," he muttered, voice low but carrying. "I didn't die. Don't need a damn funeral procession every time I walk through a door."
And just like that, the sound of steel resumed.
Not fully.
But enough.
Lucavion stepped in after him, unhurried, hands still tucked in his coat. He scanned the hall once, letting the familiarity settle—not with nostalgia, but with a kind of internal clock ticking into place.
The others noticed him, of course.
Elayne's gaze flicked up from the scroll she was reviewing with her assigned rune-crafter. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing—just returned to the task with that cool, clinical stillness of hers.
Caeden nodded once from across the room, a respectful acknowledgment, but didn't break his stance.
Toven did a full double-take, halfway into arguing with a blacksmith over the structural viability of dual-element swords. "What the—?"
Mireilla didn't look up.
She just muttered under her breath, "Of course he's walking in with the forge master. Because why wouldn't he."
Lucavion grinned.
Didn't say a word.
He just followed Harlan as the old man headed straight to the central working dais—the very spot Lucavion was supposed to have been escorted to. Except this time, it was Harlan who set the rhythm, not protocol.
They reached the central dais without ceremony, but not without notice. Even as the rhythm of work resumed, the undercurrent shifted—attention, curiosity, something on the edge of deference bleeding into the air like heat rising off steel.
This dais was the heart of the armory floor, where weapons both tested and sealed lay—each blade a story, a failure, or a triumph buried in runes and iron. Racks lined the wall behind it, blades of every shape and purpose locked into enchanted braces, their auras restrained but not dormant.
Harlan stopped. Said nothing. Just looked.
Then, without warning, he reached to the second tier of the rack, his callused fingers curling around the hilt of a straight, narrow blade—not ornate, not crowned with aether, but old. Balanced. Worn in the way only a weapon used in real war ever could be.
With a single twist, he yanked it free.
And threw it.
Lucavion caught it without looking.
His hand rose clean and fast, fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip just as the blade finished its first revolution midair. Not even a ripple of surprise touched his face.
Harlan snorted.
"Still fast," he muttered. "Good."
Lucavion gave the sword a light test flick, feeling its weight shift with a familiarity he hadn't known he missed. "Still predictable."
"Oh, shut up," Harlan growled, stepping up onto the dais and folding his arms. "If you hadn't caught it, I'd have claimed you were a body-double sent to waste my time."
Lucavion turned the blade once in his hand, wrist shifting into a high reverse stance, then letting it drop to low guard. He rotated, stepped, shifted.
It wasn't the estoc. Wasn't tailored.
But it listened.
Not enough to obey him. Just enough to test him.
Harlan watched, eyes narrowing.
"That one's got history," he said, voice rougher now, like stones grinding under memory. "Made it during the border siege, right after the Rackenshore fallback. Damn thing held back five awakeners when we didn't have a name for them yet."
Lucavion's brow arched slightly, the blade still turning effortlessly between his fingers. "Didn't know you kept your relics in the open."
Harlan grunted. "They're not relics. They're reminders."
Another beat.
Then the old man took a step closer.
"I want to see it," he said flatly. "Not the flash. Not the Academy tricks. The you that walked through fire and didn't come out crawling."
Lucavion's grip tightened.
And then, without warning, he moved.
The blade cut through the air with a sound like silk catching wind. His body shifted low, then burst forward with a single snap of motion—quick-step, pivot, strike. The weapon hummed in his grip, the momentum of his movement compensating for its unfamiliar balance. Two feints, one real attack—then he reversed his footing and caught the blade along the flat, spinning it around into a mirrored draw stance.
Harlan's eyes didn't widen. But they sharpened.
"…You used to lead with your shoulder," he said. "Telegraphed everything. Sloppy as hell."
"I stopped doing that," Lucavion replied, not quite breathless.
"You stopped smiling when you did it," Harlan muttered. "That's what changed."
Lucavion exhaled through his nose. "Nothing wrong with enjoying the fight."
"There is," Harlan said, and this time the weight dropped in his voice. "When it's all you have left."
The blade stilled.
Lucavion didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"That's not the case anymore."
Harlan stared at him.
And for a long moment, nothing moved. Not the forge, not the other smiths, not the flames behind them.
Harlan's gaze lingered on Lucavion for a beat longer, something unreadable swimming in the forge-glow of his eyes.
"I hope that's the case," he said quietly, not with softness—but with caution. Like he was setting the words down instead of throwing them.
Lucavion didn't reply.
Didn't smirk. Didn't scoff. Just held the silence, steady and unreadable.
That was answer enough.
Harlan clicked his tongue once, then turned toward the center of the dais. His fingers flexed at his sides. Not in anger—but in readiness. In ritual.
"Well," he muttered, "if you're serious about getting a new blade, I need to see if you still deserve one."
Lucavion arched a brow, amusement flickering like cinder-light in his gaze.
Harlan didn't wait. He walked past Lucavion, eyes scanning the rack again before plucking the same old blade from earlier, then gestured with it.
"Start simple," he said, his tone businesslike. "Just movement. Flow. I want to see how far you've bent your spine to those academy types."
Lucavion obliged. He stepped forward into the working ring, his body already loosening, his stance falling into place like a habit that never left. The blade turned once in his hand—then twice, its balance adjusting instantly to his control.
But before he moved, Harlan lifted a hand, frown deepening.
"Wait."
He gestured sharply.
Lucavion paused, confused for a breath.
Harlan motioned toward the scabbard at Lucavion's side. The real one.
"The sword," he said. "The one I made for you in Rackenshore. Show it."
Lucavion's brow twitched just slightly.
He reached down and unbuckled the sheath with a slow, deliberate movement, then presented it forward.
Harlan took it without reverence—gripped it like a surgeon checking for fractures. He unsheathed it halfway, let the edge catch the light, ran his thumb along the spine, the hilt, the seam. Inspected the pattern of Abyssal scale fusion with a craftsman's instinct.
His eye twitched.
"This…."
Chapter 716: Blacksmith (4)
Harlan's thumb paused midway along the blade.
A sound escaped him—not quite a grunt, not quite a breath. It was something heavier. Something strained. Like recognition pulled from deep iron memory.
"…This," he muttered, his voice low and edged, "shouldn't look like this."
He turned the blade toward the light, the aetherlamps catching every ridge and hairline scar etched into the steel—not careless scratches, not jagged abuse. These were lines carved by survival. The metal bore them like old warriors bore scars: unapologetically.
Lucavion didn't flinch.
"She and I," he said calmly, "have seen our fair share of battles."
Harlan said nothing.
But he looked again.
Closer.
The marks weren't chaotic. They weren't from missed parries or mishandled swings. They were focused—layered into precise angles of defense, the kind you only see when someone knows their weapon, trusts it to take the blow.
He examined the edges—still honed, still aligned. No fraying on the channel work, no core resonance flaws. The maintenance was immaculate.
This wasn't neglect.
It was war.
Harlan's brow furrowed, deeper now, his thumb tracing a deep groove near the mid-blade where scaled reinforcement met the alloy core.
These weren't the kind of marks a blade should have. Not from beasts her tier.
Not from battles she was meant to survive.
"This sword," he said under his breath, "was made from a peak 3-star monster. A Lesser Abyssal Wyrm. I remember the scale. I remember how long it took to forge it right."
His gaze shifted—barely, but sharp.
"And yet—"
He turned the blade again. A long scratch ran diagonally across the fuller, almost invisible until seen from a certain angle. At its edge, the faintest shimmer of mana-stress ripple danced—frozen at the point of impact.
"There," he murmured.
He didn't look at Lucavion when he said it.
"There's even one that exceeded that."
Lucavion's voice was quiet. "Yes."
Harlan stared at the mark, eyes hard, old calculations running like furnace arithmetic behind his skull.
"Five-star rank… maybe more," he muttered. "Not just aura suppression. Not just bursts. This blade clashed with force that would shatter most mid-tier aetherglass weapons outright."
He looked up now. Not angry.
Just… different.
Like he was seeing the man before him—and the road behind him—for the first time at the same time.
"And it held?" Harlan asked.
Lucavion's hand traced the sheath once more, almost fondly. Then, with that familiar tilt of his head and the irreverent ease only he could wear in the presence of a forge legend, he said—
"What can I say?"
A smirk edged his lips. "I'm a master swordsman."
Harlan's eyes narrowed, his face hardening with that weathered stone glare only decades of iron and idiocy could forge.
"Cocky little bastard."
Lucavion grinned wider. "Takes one to recognize one."
But beneath the banter, the old man didn't look away from the sword.
He saw it now—not just the steel, not just the marks.
The truth.
That this blade, forged from the remains of a 3-star beast, had no business surviving the fights it had seen. Against monsters and men that should've shattered it. Broken it. Reduced it to shards and regrets.
But it hadn't.
Because of him.
Because of the way Lucavion fought—not just with power, but with precision. Because he understood his weapon like it was breath and extension. Because he never overstepped the blade's limits, never misaligned its strengths.
Any fool could swing a sword.
But it took rare talent—true sword mastery—to protect the blade itself through battle after battle.
Harlan's expression didn't soften.
But his stance did.
"…Tch," he muttered. "You're the kind of bastard every blacksmith dreams of and dreads."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I'm flattered."
Harlan shot him a look. "Don't be. It means we get excited making something for you, knowing full well you're going to take it places it has no right surviving."
He glanced again at the blade, then back to Lucavion.
"But the difference between you and most is—you bring it back."
Lucavion's smile eased then. Not smug. Just… quieter. Surer.
"I don't lose things that matter."
Harlan's mouth twitched—barely.
Then he straightened, cracking his shoulders.
"Let's see if that still includes your own hide."
And once more, he raised the test blade. Not to judge the sword this time.
To judge the man.
The clang of boot against stone echoed as they circled—slowly at first. No crowd gathered; none dared interrupt. The heat of the forge had quieted, as if every flame, every rune, held its breath.
Lucavion shifted first, drawing no steel, simply lifting his stance. One hand open, the other resting near his hip—loose, fluid, relaxed.
The sword remained sheathed.
Harlan narrowed his eyes.
"Don't tell me you're too good to draw now."
Lucavion grinned. "I'd just hate to scratch that practice blade of yours."
He stepped forward lightly, as if weight meant nothing, his coat trailing behind like a shadow waiting to strike. The air between them tensed, not hostile—but aware.
Harlan moved first.
A simple forward thrust, testing range and response. The kind of move meant to check reflexes, not cut through armor.
Lucavion tilted his shoulder, let the strike pass with a slip of breath, and pivoted. His hand never even touched the hilt.
'His footwork,' Harlan thought, adjusting with the next swing, this one sharper—angled. 'Cleaner. Less waste. Before, he used to dance like the floor was showing off through him.'
Lucavion moved again, tapping Harlan's blade gently with two fingers mid-air. A parry that was half statement, half provocation.
"Sure you want me at full speed, old man?" he asked, mischief threading the words.
"Tch." Harlan rolled his shoulder and stepped in harder this time, blade sweeping low then high. "Don't insult me. I'm not a museum piece yet."
Lucavion caught the edge of the blade with his forearm bracer and leaned back just enough to let the force pass.
"Of course not," he said smoothly, dodging with almost lazy grace. "But in the interest of preserving your pride…"
He grinned.
"…I'll keep things light."
The steel rang again—this time faster, sharper.
And Harlan felt it. Not strength. Restraint.
Lucavion wasn't showing off.
He was pulling back.
'So he knows how strong he is now,' Harlan thought grimly. 'And worse—he knows how to hide it.'
The old blacksmith stepped harder into his next attack, a wide arcing cut that would've thrown any younger opponent off balance. Lucavion met it with a half-turn and an open palm, redirecting the momentum with barely a shift in his stance.
'This isn't just technique anymore. He's controlling the tempo. Like the blade isn't the weapon—he is.'
They continued—cut, parry, step, sweep. Fluid motion that didn't belong in a forge. It belonged on a battlefield or a stage reserved for champions.
And all the while, Harlan watched.
Not with pride.
Not yet.
With appraisal.
'He used to lean into power. He used to smile when he got hit. Like pain was proof of life. Now… now it's different. He's reading me as much as I'm reading him. Playing the fight like a smith tests metal—tap, ring, bend, measure.'
Lucavion spun once, not flashy, just evasive. His coat snapped behind him like a flag caught in a gust. Harlan lunged to catch the moment—but Lucavion was already gone. His boot tapped the ground lightly behind Harlan's stance, his voice low and near his ear.
"Slower than I remember."
Harlan turned, blade raised.
Lucavion stepped back with a smile that barely tugged the corner of his mouth.
Harlan didn't follow.
He stopped.
Lowered his weapon.
"…You bastard," he muttered. "You really have grown."
Lucavion gave a faint, theatrical bow. "I aim to exceed expectations."
Harlan exhaled through his nose, staring at the boy—no, man—in front of him.
'Three years ago, he fought like a wildfire,' Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'As if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.'
Back then, every swing Lucavion made carried a kind of beautiful recklessness—raw, untamed, dangerous in its refusal to care about the consequences. He had bled just to feel alive. Had smiled at the taste of pain because it meant he hadn't disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.
He swung to burn.
But now…
Now the fire was different.