After a full day of rest, my body finally obeyed me again.
Only a dull ache remained in my shoulder where the poison sting had struck—but it was manageable. More importantly, my control over aura and mana had stabilized.
The forging could resume.
I began with the composite ingot—mithril fused with orichalcum. As I heated it, I slowly poured my aura and miasma into the metal, letting it sink in layer by layer before shaping even began.
This weapon would not be conventional.
The blade started narrow at the base, then gradually thickened toward the center before tapering into a sharp, reinforced point. Its primary purpose was thrusting—but I left enough edge for slashing when needed.
To the shaft, I planned something unusual.
Using brown steel, I forged a compact, axe-like blade and fixed it to one side of the handle. It turned the weapon into a hybrid—spear and axe combined. Not elegant, but brutally practical.
Siena's teachings echoed in my mind.
Utility over form.
With the design clear, I regulated the heat and began forging in earnest.
Pain flared at times. My shoulder protested. Once or twice, the hammer struck off-mark. But I pushed through it. Wasting days on excessive rest would dull momentum—and discipline.
Duracal intervened when necessary, ordering me to eat, to cool the metal properly, to step away before exhaustion ruined precision.
Two days passed like that.
When the spear was finally complete, it felt right in my hands. Balanced. Solid. Honest.
Testing came next.
Siena arrived with a familiar smug expression the moment she saw the weapon—her eyes lingering on the axe-blade fixed to the shaft.
Without ceremony, she attacked.
I shifted immediately into defense.
Her spear strikes were precise and relentless—straight-line thrusts aimed to pierce, not intimidate. I blocked, redirected, retreated, barely keeping pace. My focus narrowed until nothing existed beyond distance, timing, and survival.
After several exchanges, she stopped.
"The weapon holds," she said. "Defense confirmed."
Then she smiled slightly.
"Now attack."
I did.
Full force. No hesitation.
She evaded easily at first, stepping just beyond reach, deflecting when necessary. I adjusted—using the axe-blade to hook, to pressure space, to force her movement rather than chase it.
Eventually, she stepped back.
"That's enough," she said. "You pass."
I exhaled, tension draining from my body.
But my training wasn't finished.
For my final weapon, I turned to range.
I crafted a bow using red-prince tree wood—naturally flexible, resilient, and resistant to fracture. For the string, I used black-dot spider web. Duracal had shown me how extracting the gland, mixing the web with water, and heating it carefully transformed it into something far stronger and more elastic.
This required less forging and more sculpting.
Two days later, the bow was complete—though I had no arrows yet.
Bharam solved that problem.
He arrived carrying a bundle and tossed it at me.
"Training arrows," he said. "Blunt tips. No metal. Pain only."
Then he smiled.
"We're sparring."
We went into the forest.
I didn't land a single clean hit.
Most of his arrows struck true—each impact sharp, stinging, humiliating. Mine barely grazed him once or twice, never enough to matter.
By the time it ended, my body ached far worse than after forging.
That night, I fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
The forging had restarted.
And so had the suffering.