The sword responded the moment I guided my dark aura into it.
Not violently.
Not greedily.
Smoothly—like it had always been waiting.
The connection settled into place without resistance, as if the blade recognized me rather than merely accepting my power. There was no rejection, no instability, no unfamiliar pressure pushing back against my control.
I exhaled slowly.
Normally, new weapons resisted aura. They needed time—days, sometimes weeks—of repeated use before the metal stopped fighting the presence forced into it.
This one didn't.
From the very first strike of the hammer, I had poured both my dark aura and miasma into the metal. Not in excess. Not recklessly. Layer by layer, strike by strike, heat cycle by heat cycle.
The blade had never been empty.
I tested it again, increasing the flow.
Still nothing went wrong.
No vibration.
No backlash.
No strain.
I stepped forward and slashed at the practice dummy without channeling any aura. The blade cut cleanly through dense wood, leaving a smooth, controlled edge. There were no chips, no bends, no marks along the blade.
Then I channeled my aura again and struck.
The cut was deeper. Sharper. Cleaner.
Behind me, I felt a presence.
"When a blade accepts aura that easily," Rathen said, "it's either exceptional—or dangerous."
I turned to see him standing nearby, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the sword.
"It was never empty," I said simply.
His gaze sharpened.
"So you raised it on your power," he muttered. "That explains it."
He stepped closer, inspecting the blade without touching it.
"Remember this," he said. "A swordsman who relies too much on a weapon's nature forgets his own fundamentals. Power should follow skill—not replace it."
"I understand," I replied.
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded and stepped back.
I continued testing—thrusts, controlled slices, angled strikes. The sword responded the same way every time. Stable. Predictable. Honest.
Satisfied, I turned back toward the forge.
"I'll begin forging the spear next," I said.
Duracal stopped me.
"No," he said flatly. "You're done for now."
I looked at him in surprise.
"You've spent seven days focused only on that blade," he continued. "Take two days. Cool your body and your mind."
Then he added, almost casually, "The traveling market arrived in the north this morning."
That changed things.
The traveling market wasn't a simple gathering. Hundreds of merchants moved together, guarded by mercenaries, adventurers, and sometimes even knight orders. Weapons, potions, monster materials, and rare texts—all passed through briefly before vanishing again.
The next day, I went.
Stalls lined the open grounds—temporary, exposed, meant to be packed and moved at a moment's notice. I wandered without purpose at first, buying only street food, observing the flow.
Then I saw it.
A small book, tucked among miscellaneous volumes.
Miasma — Applications and Classifications
My breath caught.
I approached the stall and asked about it.
The merchant shrugged. "Came from a northern demon trader. Humans don't buy these. Dangerous topic."
"How much?" I asked.
"Ten silver."
I paid immediately.
When I asked why it was so cheap, he snorted. "No one wants to touch that knowledge. It just takes space."
I returned home quietly and waited until night.
By candlelight, I opened the book.
It described how demons used miasma the same way humans used aura or mana—storing it, shaping it, releasing it. Elements existed within miasma as well, though their expressions differed. Fire, water, decay—each carried a distinct hue.
But none matched mine.
Brown-red. Dense. Unfamiliar.
I closed the book.
The blade had accepted my miasma without resistance.
It did not know whether it had been forged for aura or for miasma. From the beginning, both had existed within it—present in the air, the heat, the strikes.
Perhaps that was why it accepted whatever I poured into it.
With that thought lingering, I lay down to rest.
Tomorrow, I would continue.