The Damascus steel ingot glowed a deep, molten red within the forge. Ignis watched it closely through his Fire-Sight, gauging whether it had reached the precise temperature he desired.
Once satisfied, he drew the ingot out with tongs and laid it across the anvil, the air filling with the hiss of heat meeting cool metal. Then, with both hands gripping his hammer, the Salamander began to shape the steel into the outline of a blade.
Unlike the other smiths participating in the test, who relied on powered hammers, Ignis chose to work by hand.
His hammer was a new one—forged not long ago to replace the previous model, which he'd found too small and too light. This one was made from a dense, inert ether-alloy: heavy, durable, and capable of channeling both strength and precision.
It fit his massive, Space Marine–sized hand perfectly. And, true to the Salamanders' aesthetic sensibilities, he'd adorned it with intricate engravings.
One side bore the winged skull—an emblem of the Imperium, once etched on his power armor before he earned the right to display the Imperial Aquila. The other side carried the sigil of the Salamanders: the head of a fire-drake, carved so finely that it seemed ready to breathe flame at any moment.
To complete the piece, both engravings were electroplated with brass and polished until they gleamed like molten gold.
When Ignis had arrived for the test, the examiners' eyes had immediately been drawn to his hammer. For a man of his size, it was a perfect tool—but for a normal human, it was the kind of weapon you could use to knock down walls.
And indeed, it wasn't just a tool. To the Salamander, it was also a worthy weapon—the urban equivalent of a one-handed Thunder Hammer, minus the energy field.
After all, in a civilized city, carrying a combat knife everywhere might raise eyebrows. But a certified Blacksmith walking around with a blacksmith's hammer? Entirely reasonable.
And if anyone complained it was too big—well, perhaps the problem wasn't the hammer's size, but that of the "standard humans" around him.
Each strike rang out like a heartbeat—clang, clang, clang—as the glowing billet stretched and thinned, slowly taking on the graceful curvature of a long dagger.
The rhythmic precision of his blows soon caught the examiners' attention. In an age when powered hammers dominated the craft, seeing someone work with nothing but muscle, instinct, and raw skill was… extraordinary.
Each strike landed with exacting strength and placement, the blade's shape evolving flawlessly under his control. Even from a distance, the judges could tell—this was no amateur. This was the work of a master.
Some even whispered to each other—perhaps this man was a hidden disciple of a legendary smith, sent to "show off" and shake up the guild.
Ignis, immersed in the forge's symphony, paid them no mind. As he worked, he murmured softly to the steel in an ancient smith's mantra:
Clang—may your edge be sharp, your core steadfast.
Clang—may your form be perfect, your function flawless.
Clang—may you, like mankind, endure with strength.
He shifted the semi-formed dagger to the horn of the anvil, shaping a perfect curve into its spine with deliberate strikes.
Compared to the others—some fumbling, some cursing as their billets cracked or warped—Ignis seemed to exist on another plane entirely.
This soot-darkened giant, murmuring blessings to his creation, moved with serene confidence. Before long, a layered Damascus curved dagger lay gleaming before him.
When he proceeded to quench the blade—in water, no less—gasps rippled through the hall. Even veteran smiths felt their palms sweat. Water-quenching was a high-risk technique, notorious for cracking steel if handled even slightly wrong.
But when the steam cleared, Ignis lifted the blade, flawless and shining, to show the audience. Not a single fracture marred its surface.
The room broke into spontaneous applause.
After an acid etch, the blade's stunning wave-like Damascus patterns emerged in full splendor.
And he wasn't done. For the hilt, Ignis selected a block of dark maple. Into it, he hand-carved overlapping scale patterns, then inlaid fine silver wire into the grooves using a tiny hammer—a meticulous art known as silver damascening.
When he finally assembled the dagger, its beauty drew every gaze in the room.
The layered Damascus blade, hardened by the perilous water quench… the handcrafted, silver-inlaid maple hilt… together they formed not just a weapon, but a masterpiece.
Even senior guild members would need careful planning, material preparation, and several attempts to replicate such work. Ignis had completed it in one afternoon—perfectly, effortlessly, even finding time to embellish the handle.
The examiners exchanged brief, astonished words before announcing the obvious: Ignis had passed the test.
The Blacksmith Association offered to purchase the dagger at a premium, designating it as one of their official collection pieces.
Ignis merely nodded—unfazed. If not for the examiners stopping him, he would've gone ahead and forged a matching silver-inlaid sheath right there.
Given his skill, the Association processed his certification through a "special channel." Not only was his membership approved immediately, but the payment for his work hit his account within the hour.
Seeing the six-digit sum on the transfer, Ignis smiled. Nicole would probably be over the moon when she heard. The Cunning Hares' financial crisis would ease considerably.
Before heading back, Ignis decided to explore the neighborhood. The area was full of smiths carrying tools—unsurprising, given the guild's proximity—so his giant hammer didn't draw much attention.
In a steel supplier's shop nearby, he placed an order for a bulk shipment. With his new certification, commissions would soon flood in; better to stock up early.
After paying the deposit, he caught sight of something familiar—a pair of green twin-tails swaying down the street.
It was Qingyi, the petite security officer.
The mechanical detective—who often referred to herself as a "big-sized Bangboo"—seemed to be on routine patrol. Oddly, she was alone today. Slacking off again? Ignis wondered.
He approached her in a few long strides.
"Good afternoon, citizen. I'm Officer Qingyi. How may I assist you today?" she greeted him with a professional smile, voice polite to a fault.
Something felt… off. Her tone was overly sweet—far more so than usual—and she didn't even use his name.
Was this really the same Qingyi who used to barge into his workshop to waste time and chat?
"Oh, it's you…" Her tone relaxed immediately, reverting to its familiar laziness. "I thought you were some random civilian needing help."
"So you were on patrol," Ignis said with a faint grin.
"Of course. What, do I look like I'm out here dancing?" She glanced around, then noticed the sign nearby. "Blacksmith Association, huh? Oh—I see you just got certified. Congrats."
"You got that info fast," Ignis remarked, genuinely surprised.
"Well, duh. I can access the city's data networks anytime." She puffed up her chest a little, clearly proud. "I just looked you up out of curiosity. If you hadn't stopped me, I'd still be surfing the web while my auto-patrol mode handled the walking."
So that syrupy tone earlier… was her AI auto-reply. Figures.
"Got time to chat? There's a milk tea shop nearby," Ignis offered. "I've got a few things I'd like to ask."
"Fishing for intel, huh?" Qingyi smirked. "Eh, why not. I was planning to slack off anyway."
They soon found a seat. Ignis's cup was comically large, yet still looked small in his hands. One sip of double-sugar milk tea nearly choked him with its sweetness. Qingyi, meanwhile, poured herself hot water from a thermos at her hip.
"So, what do you want to know?" she asked. "As long as it's not classified, I'll answer."
"That guy, Razor—any recent activity?" Ignis's tone hardened. The memory of that Khorne cultist still gnawed at him.
"He's been quiet lately," Qingyi said, her artificial green eyes flickering faintly. "Our intel suggests he's recruiting again. Offering generous pay."
"Recruiting new members… his old crew must've fallen apart." Ignis narrowed his eyes. "And if the Bureau knows that, I assume you're already planting moles in his network?"
"That's the part I can't talk about," Qingyi replied, lips curling into a practiced professional smile. "But based on the intel we do have, his organization's gone dormant for now. Until he rebuilds, he's unlikely to cause trouble."
Ignis didn't need her to say more. He already understood—someone like Razor, who'd killed officers and fought the Bureau head-on, wouldn't be left alive for long.
Whatever his motives, he'd signed his own death warrant.
"I see…" Ignis murmured. "If I said I wanted to find him myself—for revenge—could you tell me where he is?"
"Mr. Ignis," Qingyi said, screwing her thermos lid shut. "I am a member of the Public Security Bureau. I can't give you that kind of information. But if you're really that determined, maybe check the Inter-Knot. With enough money, the information brokers there could probably tell you what color socks Chief Bringer wears on weekends."
Her face shifted abruptly—the neutral, customer-service smile returning. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patrol duties to attend to."
Ignoring Ignis's attempt to stop her, Qingyi stepped around him and walked off into the crowd, her mechanical tail light blinking faintly as she disappeared into the evening streets.