I began with mithril.
I heated it slowly, then stretched it—thick at first, then longer with each pass of the hammer. I repeated the process again and again, stopping only when the length matched the image I had fixed in my mind.
Only then did I stop.
Next came orichalcum.
I worked it the same way, stretching it to the exact length of the mithril. When finished, I divided it into two equal sections. I checked the measurements repeatedly—once, twice, then again. By the time I was satisfied, evening had already arrived.
From that day onward, my breaks grew longer, stretching into the night. Not for rest—but for preparation.
At night, I practiced the Beast Breathing technique, circulating my dark aura into the metals. When I shifted into the Beast Skin absorption technique, I did the same, imprinting familiarity—ensuring the materials would not reject my hand.
By morning, I began tempering.
Every step was checked twice. Length. Composition. Heat.
I only had one chance.
The problem appeared on the third day.
This was the day I attempted fusion.
I placed the mithril at the center—the spine of the blade—and layered the orichalcum along its sides. As I heated and pressed the metals together, thin fumes began to rise. The surface chipped slightly under the hammer.
My chest tightened.
I called for Duracal.
He arrived, looked once, and sighed.
"Five years," he said calmly. "And you still rush when fear appears."
He examined the blade again. "Your ratio is off. Slightly."
I froze.
"It's good you noticed now," he continued. "If this happened later, the entire sword would have been lost."
He straightened. "Measure again. Properly. No tension."
Then he returned to his work.
I checked the ratios again.
The error was small—less than one percent—but enough to ruin everything.
I exhaled slowly and began again.
The fusion took the entire day.
By nightfall, the metals had become a single, thick ingot—stable, unified. Over the next two days, whenever time allowed, I poured my dark aura and miasma into it, slowly, patiently.
On the fourth day, I separated a portion for the spear tip.
The rest became the blade.
I began hammering with a clear purpose.
A single-edged sword. Curved. Designed to carry momentum—cutting like flowing water rather than striking straight.
Duracal instructed the others to suspend my combat training. Every ounce of my focus belonged to the blade.
By evening, the sword had taken form.
That night, I inspected it by candlelight. I searched for cracks, stress marks, uneven hammer lines.
There were none.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself to breathe.
The next morning, I sharpened the blade.
Each pass against the whetstone was deliberate. Careful. Controlled. Afterward, I fitted the handle—glue, pin, shaping it until it rested in my grip as if it had always belonged there.
Six days.
That was how long it took.
When it was finished, my hands trembled—not from weakness, but exhaustion.
I presented the sword to Duracal.
He glanced at it once.
"That blade holds your blood and sweat," he said. "It's good."
Then he nodded toward it.
"Now connect it."
I channeled my aura into the blade—
and felt it respond.