Four years passed—not swiftly, and never gently.
Under Duracal, forging stopped being endurance and became responsibility. I was permitted to sell weapons now, but only after they survived his inspection.
"If someone dies because of a blade," he said, "that death belongs to the blacksmith."
He taught me refinement—how improper tempering weakened a weapon from within, how etching altered balance, how fusion demanded precision rather than strength. Forging was no longer about striking harder. It was about judging correctly.
The years reshaped me.
My body thickened with labor. My hands hardened beyond pain. My dark aura stabilized in my abdomen, while my miasma mana anchored within my heart, circulating in a slow, imperfect figure-eight.
My dark aura matured to the level of a knight.
My miasma mana stabilized at the level of an apprentice.
These were states of control, not measures of dominance.
Failure still came.
Once, after months of preparation, a blade fractured during metal fusion. The measurements had been off—barely—but enough. The moment the metals cooled, a thin crack split along the seam.
Duracal said nothing.
He only tossed the ruined blade into the scrap pile and handed me more work.
That night, I forged until my arms went numb. Then I forged more. When I collapsed, he didn't stop me—he simply waited until I stood again.
"You didn't measure correctly," he said at dawn. "So you'll measure exhaustion instead."
I didn't argue.
Beyond the forge, my understanding of weapons deepened. Sword, spear, bow—each answered to my hands. None felt foreign.
None felt complete.
Standard swords did not suit me.
Double-edged blades demanded restraint I did not fight with. My movements relied on momentum, arcs, and commitment. A single-edged, curved blade matched my instincts.
Duracal taught me metal fusion—the binding of incompatible strengths into one form.
That knowledge shaped my resolve.
I chose mithril and orichalcum.
Mithril for aura conduction.
Orichalcum for endurance.
Alone, each was flawed. Together, they demanded perfection.
I saved for years—nine gold coins each month. With Duracal's recommendation, the Handiworks Trading Company agreed to supply the materials.
When I asked him to guide me, he refused.
Not coldly.
Not dismissively.
"Your weapon," he said. "Your blood. Your sweat."
Most weapons awakened only after being wielded. I chose a slower, harsher path—tempering the blade from its first strike with my own dark aura and miasma.
Duracal warned me once.
"Few finish what they begin."
That night, sleep never came.
The forge's heat lingered in my bones. My thoughts circled endlessly—measurements, balance, failure.
When morning arrived, my hands were already shaking.
I lit the forge myself.
The hammer fell.