Chapter 60- En Garde, Allezz
Leo scrolled through the list of materials he currently possessed, the holographic panel hovering faintly in the dim light of his virtual forge. The inventory was modest by the standards of the higher realms, yet each entry carried weight.
[Starfall-Uru Composite] — Legendary
[Dragon’s Fang] — Mythic
[Lightning Kirin’s Feather] — Legendary
[Aegis Stone] — Legendary
[Heart of the Dwarven Forge] — Legendary
[Starfall Shard] — Rare
SOUL CRYSTALS (SEALED SPHERES)
[Soul Crystal Sphere — Divine Zephyr Cheetah] — Mythic
[Soul Crystal Sphere — Titan Ape] — Legendary
[Uncommon Decorative Crystals ×2] — decoy purchases
SOUL RECEPTACLE (12/18)
[Inverse Fragment] — Epic | SEALED (corrupted)
[Direfang Warg] — Vivid
[Goblin Blood-Chanter] — Vivid
[Faint Goblin Souls ×8]
MONSTER DROPS
[Cinder-Hide] — Rare | Fire-resistant · durable (Ursa)
[Bear’s Heart Core] — Fire essence (Ursa)
FORGE RUINS RELICS
[Iron Ring] — Pre-Imperial Script, seven-dot symbol · trial key
This was the sum of his assets. Not a king’s treasury, but enough to begin something ambitious if he chose carefully.
Leo’s gaze settled on the Starfall shards. The hammer resting on the table beside him hummed faintly, as though recognizing its distant kin.
I don’t know what materials will be compatible with these souls," he muttered. "Let’s first check if I can see any attributes related to their nature.
He focused on the panel and began probing the souls one by one.
[Soul — Direfang Warg (Vivid)]
Tier: Elite
Level: 24
Soul Tier: Vivid
[Abilities/Skills]
Night Vision
Shadow-Tied
Dire Fang
Shadow Lunge
[ELEMENTAL ATTRIBUTES]
[Darkness: S-grade]
[Wind: B+-grade]
[LORE]
In the warrens it was called "the one that hunts the dark," an apex predator that owned the night hours. Its soul still carries that hunger: swiftness, darkness, and the instinct to strike where light does not reach.
Leo grimaced. Other latent abilities hovered at the edges of the soul’s structure. He hoped the forge would not force them all into the final product.
"Damn. I don’t want a pair of boots that might give me night vision whether I ask for it or not. This looks like a mess."
He turned to the only other vivid-rank soul in his possession.
[Soul — Goblin Blood-Chanter (Vivid)]
Tier: Elite
Level: 22
Soul Tier: Vivid
[Abilities/Skills]
Blood Frenzy
Ritual Bone Staff Magic
Weak-Spot Curse Sense
Blood Pact Aura
[ELEMENTAL ATTRIBUTES]
[Blood: A-grade]
[Metal: C-grade]
[LORE]
In the warrens it was called "the one who bargains with the blood devil," a shaman who bought its strength with its own blood. It stood at the center of the fighting circle, staff raised, chest painted in dried gore, and made the weak go mad with hunger for war. Its soul still carries that hunger: frenzy, sacrifice, and the instinct to spend everything when the hour is desperate.
This one offered better odds. Blood Frenzy or Blood Pact Aura both seemed useful for armor—aggressive, resilient, and willing to trade vitality for power.
"Let’s see how it goes," Leo decided. "I’ll try forging with the faint-rank souls first. Once I succeed with those, I’ll move on to the vivid ones."
He examined the lesser goblin souls.
[Soul — Goblin (Faint)]
Tier: Common
Level: 15–20
Soul Tier: Faint
[Abilities/Skills]
Claw Scrap
Blade Stab
(survival instinct)
[ELEMENTAL ATTRIBUTES]
[Metal: D-grade]
[Mud/Earth: D-grade]
[LORE]
In the warrens they were called "the ones who refused to die"—small, mean creatures that threw themselves at bigger prey in twos and threes, surviving on spite and numbers.
Any metal would probably accept them. The real decision lay in choosing the base materials for the boots and the armor.
Leo lifted a palm-sized stone of legendary grade.
[Ding~]
[Aegis Stone]
Tier: Legendary
Origin: Heart of a fallen guardian’s shield
Description:
A palm-sized white stone, smooth as river-polished bone, warm to the touch even in cold air. It hums faintly when danger approaches—a guardian’s reflex that never fully died.
Properties:
• Protection: Passively strengthens whatever it is forged into
• Guardian’s Ward: Absorbs a portion of lethal blows meant for the wearer
• Steadfast: Resists cracking—grows denser the more it is tested
"This can work," he murmured. "If I combine it with the right supporting materials, it should reinforce the metal itself. Perfect for armor."
For the boots he selected another piece.
[Ding~]
[Starfall Shard]
Tier: Rare
Origin: Fragment of Starfall Iron
Description:
A fist-sized sliver of black-flecked metal, still carrying the cold burn of something that fell a very long way.
Properties:
• Swiftness
• Resonance
• High Mana Conduction
This will do.
Both materials, however, were limited in quantity. He would need more base stock if he intended to craft complete sets.
"I should check Hugh’s smithy now that I’m back in Ironhaven. See how the old man is doing and whether he still keeps decent stock."
He glanced at the system clock. Nearly morning.
"I should log out. Otherwise that old man Rook will probably skin me alive."
The virtual world dissolved.
...
Leo opened his eyes in the familiar gloom of his real-world smithy. The air smelled of coal dust, oil, and old iron.
"I’m basically living in my smithy," he muttered. "Should I just move out of the apartment?" He sighed.
The alarm went off at 5:30. Leo killed it on the first ring. He splashed cold water on his face, grabbed a piece of bread and a hard-boiled egg, and ate while walking out the door.
Outside, dawn had not yet broken. Streetlights still painted long yellow paths across the quiet town. Only a few early bakers and café owners were unlocking their shutters.
Leo pulled the headphones up from his neck and slipped them over his ears. LE SSERAFIM’s "ANTIFRAGILE" cut through the quiet morning, the chorus sharp and bright.
"Anti-ti-ti-fragile... fragile..."
He jogged with the music on for twenty minutes until the familiar steel-mesh glass door and brass plaque of the salle came into view. He stepped inside and pulled the headphones back down around his neck.
Rook sat on an overturned bucket in the middle of the room, long white hair pulled back, thick beard, arms folded. The old man’s eyes were the color of ash that still held heat. A towel rested across his shoulder; he was lightly sweating, as though he had just finished his own drills.
"Brat. Why have you arrived only now? I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes already."
Leo looked past him to the large wall clock and pointed.
"But there are still three minutes left before six."
A vein stood out on Master Rook’s forehead.
"When I tell you to come, you should arrive fifteen minutes early. Where is your discipline? Where are your manners?"
"Huh...?"
Leo stared, momentarily speechless. The old man possessed a thoroughly warped concept of punctuality.
"Okay. Give me one hundred push-ups right now as an apology for making me wait."
"Ah... what now?"
"What, did you go deaf?" Rook barked. "Did you not hear me? One hundred push-ups. Right now."
Leo stood frozen for a second under the weight of that sharp gaze. Then he dropped into position and began counting.
Rook watched every movement—breath, form, the set of the shoulders—looking for the first sign of struggle. Leo finished the hundred without breaking a sweat. The old man’s eyes narrowed, then relaxed into something almost like approval.
"Okay. Let’s get back to business. First, go change into these."
He tossed over the standard training uniform worn by every student at the salle.
Leo returned a few minutes later, dressed and ready.
"Brat."
"Master Rook."
"Show me that swing."
Rook tossed him the wooden waster without ceremony. Leo caught it—and his body did what his body always did with any weapon shaped like a sword. He gripped the handle as though it were a hammer.
"The swing you used yesterday," Rook said. "Again."
Leo swung. The movement came in a great, whole-body arc—hips, shoulders, and arms firing together, power converging into the wooden blade.
It was by no means a weak strike.
Rook watched in silence.
"Again."
Again. And again. And again, until Leo’s breath came short and his arms began to strain.
While Leo was still mid-swing, Rook moved. There was no warning. One moment the old man stood several paces away; the next he was inside the arc of the cut, hands closing over Leo’s wrists. The entire momentum died as though the air itself had turned solid.
Rook looked him in the eye.
"Why is your swing like that? What is your profession? Do you work on a construction site? Have you spent your whole life dismantling buildings using hammers or something?"
Leo answered between gasps. "I’m a blacksmith. I own a blacksmith’s shop across the main street on Penn Avenue."
Master Rook fell silent. Understanding settled across his features.
"Sigh... No wonder you swing like that."
He took the wooden sword and demonstrated a clean cut.
"A hammer builds power through mass. A blade, however, is sharp. The lighter it is, the faster it becomes. Its power comes from sharpness and swiftness. The faster it travels, the more powerful it becomes."
He looked at Leo.
"Having power behind the strike is good. But you are ignoring sharpness and swiftness. You are simply brute-forcing your way through, as if you mean to smash everything in front of you."
Master Rook shook his head.
Listening, Leo felt something shift inside him—something just beyond the reach of words.
A hammer crushes because it is heavy. A sword kills because it is sharp. One relies on force. The other relies on speed. Swing a sword like a hammer, and you have already dulled its edge.
His mind burned with the half-formed insight. It hovered at the edge of understanding, ready to slip away if he grasped too hard.
For the next hour Rook made him swing. Every time Leo completed a cut, the old man simply said, "Again."
He corrected posture constantly: feet apart, weight forward, knees soft.
En garde.
Be rooted like a tree—not planted like an anvil.
"Your heels." Tap. "They keep sinking." Tap. "You have to get rid of that Anvil feet. An anvil doesn’t move, boy—and a dead man doesn’t move either."
Leo’s ankles would be bruised by noon.
Footwork came next: advance and retreat, weight always on the balls of the feet, the body a coiled spring that never fully unwound. Then grip—Rook pried Leo’s fingers from the waster with the patient cruelty of a man unwinding wire, forcing him to hold the sword lightly, alive, "like a bird you’re not allowed to crush." Then the guards, the lunge, the edge alignment—the flat of the blade an extension of the arm, the edge where the edge belonged.
Rook demonstrated the lunge. A single step, a perfect line, a recovery—over before Leo’s eye could fully trace its shape. The old man did not sweat. Somehow that was the most terrifying part of the morning.
Every instinct fought the new form. Hips locked. Weight sank into the heels. Shoulders tried to steal the swing before the wrists could lead it. In the ache of his muscles Leo could feel how deeply the smith was sunk into him.
"I’ve been hammering since I was a kid," Leo said. "It’s not going away anytime soon."
"Then you have to keep swinging the sword," Master Rook replied. "Once you have the basics down, you will level up. You already possess a powerful swing. When you finally understand sharpness and swiftness, adding that heaviness will make the cut even more lethal."
Leo kept swinging.
Somewhere past the hundredth repetition, something loosened.
...
Something was stirring and shifting within him.
.....
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Keep the Golden ticket and Power stones comming.