Chronicles Of The Crafting Hero [REMASTERED]

The stone tiles of the training ground pressed warm against James’s back as he lay flat, his eyes squeezed shut. Each breath was a sharp, shallow rasp that burned in his chest. A heavy ache pulsed through his limbs, making his muscles feel like lead under the afternoon sun.

"I don't think... I don't think I can keep going," he managed, the words catching in his dry throat.

Above him, the instructor’s eyes narrowed as he studied James's exhausted frame. "It's fine, we can stop here," the instructor said. With a faint scrape of metal against leather, he slid his steel blade back into its sheath.

James pressed his palms against the tiles, his arms trembling as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. The instructor stepped closer and extended a hand. James reached out, his fingers wrapping around the man's firm, calloused grip. A low groan escaped James's throat as he was pulled to his feet, his knees wobbling slightly before finding their balance.

The instructor's mouth curved into a faint smile. "You've really grown, haven't you? In a few years, you'll be taller than me."

James stood at five feet and one inch, his chest still heaving. At eighteen years old, after years of grueling practice, his status remained stagnant, a level fourteen F-rank.

"Yeah, I don't think I'm going to grow any taller than this," James murmured, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The instructor nodded and walked away, the steady rhythm of his boots fading across the tiles. Left alone, James looked down at his sword, which lay a few paces away. Bright sunlight glinted off the polished metal blade. He stepped forward, bent down, and lifted the hilt. The cold leather wrap met his palm as he raised the weapon, staring at his own faint reflection in the steel. His brow furrowed.

*I leveled up yesterday, but I still haven't awakened a skill. Maybe it will awaken once I become an F-rank plus, or at least I hope so.*

James lifted his gaze. His eyes widened slightly, and he turned toward the manor. Standing near the entrance of the building was his sister. She wore a dark blue dress, her long black hair combed straight and spilling down her back. Around her neck, a golden chain held a vibrant green emerald that caught the sun.

She stood in silence. For a brief moment, her lips parted slightly, and her brows pinched together in a look of concern. Then, she turned and stepped back into the shadow of the manor entrance. They had barely spoken a word to one another in years, not since the day of the incident. After James had nearly died, She was forbidden from playing with him, deemed too dangerous to be near him.

Clara moved through the wide corridors of the manor, the rhythmic strike of her heels muffled by the thick red carpet. A maid in uniform bowed low as she passed, but Clara stared straight ahead, her eyes locked onto the crimson wool beneath her feet. Her chest felt tight, her mind racing.

*Come on, get a grip. Couldn't I say anything to him? He's not scared of me anymore.*

Memories from her childhood rushed back, heavy and unbidden. She remembered the quiet rooms of this same manor years ago, and the agonizing attempts to apologize to James after the incident. Each time she had taken a step toward him, his shoulders had locked, and his hands had begun to shake. Though he had muttered words of forgiveness, his eyes had remained wide and alert, tracking her every movement. He was on edge every single time, standing close to his sister as if she had become someone dangerous.

A sudden memory tightened in her chest. She remembered her friend, Crystal, insisting that she shouldn't feel guilty—that it wasn't her fault. Crystal had argued that it was only natural for something like that to happen to someone as weak as her brother. John had also told her not to waste her sympathy on the weak. In his eyes, her brother didn't even belong in their circle.

Claire sighed at the memory, continuing her quiet pace through the corridors of her chambers.

Meanwhile, James stepped into his own chambers. The heavy air felt hot against his skin, prompting him to pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. He sat down on the edge of the king-sized bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. Leaning back on his hands, he closed his eyes and let out a long breath, welcoming the cooler air of the room as it brushed against his bare skin.

A sudden knock rattled the wood. Before James could answer, the door swung open.

"Claire?" he said, caught off guard.

This time, she wore leather training gear. James’s eyes widened, and his body automatically went on guard, his shoulders tensing as he looked at her.

"James," she said.

"What are you doing here?" James asked.

Claire paused, then raised her hand to her chest, her thumb and index finger squeezing the leather fabric in nervousness.

"James, I..." She exhaled slowly. "I know I've already said this before, but please... I'm sorry for what I did. I know what I did back then was wrong. I was so young and careless. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that, right?"

"Claire, of course I know that."

"Then why do you keep..." Claire’s voice burst out before she could stop it. She caught herself, lowering her tone. "Why do you keep avoiding me? Every time I stand close to you, you look terrified. You act like I'm going to hurt you. Why do you keep doing that? It's been so many years since it happened."

An image flashed in Claire's mind: her brother lying on the floor, pooling in his own blood from her own doing. She remembered the panic as her friends ran away, leaving them alone. She had shaken his shoulder over and over, but no matter what she did, his eyes remained closed, refusing to wake.

"It hurts," Claire said, her fingers tightening on the leather fabric of her gear. Tears pooled in her eyes, glassy and trembling. "It's like I'm not your sister anymore."

She took a step toward him. Instinctively, James shifted back, his boot scraping against the stone floor. Claire froze, her eyes falling to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Claire," James said, lowering his head. A shadow of shame crossed his face. "But you heard what Father said."

"Father said we shouldn't play together anymore, but we don't even do that. We were children back then. He never said we couldn't be near each other. He never said we shouldn't speak."

"Is that what he told you?" James asked, his brow furrowing. He remembered his father's harsh, quiet voice years ago, delivering a different command: *Do not interact with your sister until you prove you are a hero.*

"What do you mean?" Claire asked, her eyes searching his face. "What did he tell you?"

"He told me that I shouldn't be around you anymore," James said. "Not until I prove that I am a hero. Until I prove I belong in your circle."

"A circle? You don't need to prove that!" Claire's voice cracked, rising louder than she intended before she forced herself to quiet down. "Just because you aren't as strong as us doesn't mean you can't be around us." She paused, her chest rising and falling. "I've seen the way Father treats you. You train every single day to prove your strength. I've always watched you."

Claire remembered the sight of him in the training yard day after day, pushing himself to exhaustion. She hadn't understood his silent struggle until she began her own grueling training sessions under their father's strict gaze. She felt a deep ache of pity for him. He was weaker, forced to fight twice as hard for half the progress. Despite his relentless effort and years of combat practice, he remained stuck at F-rank, a rank so low it fell beneath even the common folk in the outer villages.

"All those years," James said quietly, "I thought you avoided me because you knew—"

"Avoided you?" Claire cut in. "I stopped getting close to you because I thought you were afraid of me."

"I was," James admitted. "At first. I was just a kid, and I had almost died. But as I grew up, I realized it was an accident. The only reason I kept my distance was because Father commanded it, and I didn't want to anger him."

"What? All this time... I thought it was because you still feared me."

"I didn't. But you know how Father is. The training is already brutal. I just didn't want him to punish me with even harsher sessions."

James took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them. "I know I've said it, but I'll say it again. I forgive you for what happened back then. I still love you, Claire. You’ll always be my little sister."

At his words, the tears finally spilled over Claire's lashes. She stepped forward, throwing her arms around her brother and burying her face against him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

A sharp rap on the door broke the quiet, causing them to step back from each other. The door opened slightly, and a female servant bowed her head.

"My lady, my lord is calling for you," the servant said.

Claire managed a small smile and quickly wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She looked at James, her eyes bright. "My birthday is in a week. Don't forget to get me a present," she said, her voice lighter.

"Alright," James nodded.

He stood by his bed, watching as his sister turned and disappeared down the long corridor with the servant.

"A present, huh?" James muttered, a faint smile breaking across his face. "She never changes."

He threw himself back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. *What should I even give her?* he thought, his brow furrowing. *It's been so long since I've gone out. I don't even know what the city looks like anymore.*

Vague memories of his childhood surfaced. He remembered riding into the bustling city beside his father. He hadn't spoken to anyone, but the vivid details of the crowd remained: the chaotic marketplace, the towering storefronts, and the overwhelming surge of people. He remembered a rare outing with his sister, flanked by armed guards, and how the shopkeepers had bowed low with deep, nervous respect. Over the years, those trips had ceased. His world had shrunk to the cold halls of other noble estates or the royal palace, where his father occasionally brought him.

But even there, he hated the attention. The other nobles looked at him as if he were an intruder, whispering about his lack of a hero's bloodline or the hero's blessing. They called him frail, speaking of him as someone who didn't belong in their presence. It had stung once, but over the years, the ache had gone numb.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into a deep sleep.

***

Days passed in a blur of repetitive motion. The sharp ring of clashing steel echoed across the training grounds daily, reaching all the way to the manor walls as James struggled to defend himself against his instructor. It was now the day before Claire's birthday.

James raised his sword, his chest heaving as he watched the older man's guarded stance. Gritting his teeth, James lunged forward, sweeping his blade in a wide horizontal slash toward the left. The instructor met the attack effortlessly, his blade parrying the blow and batting James's weapon completely out of his grip.

The violent vibration of the clash rattled straight through James’s palms. He groaned at the sharp sting, stepping back instinctively. His heel caught on a loose stone, throwing off his balance, and he tumbled backward, landing hard on the dusty tiles.

The instructor stood over him, his mouth curving into a slight smirk. "Let's go again."

"This is pointless!" James shouted, his voice cracking. "Why are we even doing this?"

The instructor’s smirk vanished, replaced by his usual stern expression. "To make you stronger, my young lord."

"I don't want to become stronger. I don't want to do this anymore," James said, sitting in the dirt.

"But my Lord requested that—"

"No!" James interrupted, pushing himself up. "I've been doing this for years. What difference does it make? You've taught me all the forms. You've taught me everything. I know it all. But in all these years of training with you, I've never managed to land a single hit."

James stared down at his hands. They were swollen, calloused, and trembling. "At first, I thought it was because I was still a child. I thought one day I'd finally manage it. But it's never going to happen."

"You shouldn't lose hope, my young master."

"I lost that years ago. I used to hope that maybe one day I'd get stronger. Maybe one day I'd level up and everything would change." He looked the instructor dead in the eye, met only by the serious, unyielding expression of his mentor. "I was only doing this because it was a routine. But now... I'm just tired."

James paused, his shoulders sinking. "Do you really believe that I can still become stronger than this?"

The instructor opened his mouth to speak, but James cut him off.

"Be honest. Please."

The instructor slowly closed his mouth and looked down at the stone tiles. For the first time, James saw his stern facade crack, replaced by a look of quiet concern, almost shame. James let out a bitter, self-mocking laugh.

"That's what I thought."

A sudden gust of wind swept across the open ground, rustling James's dark brown hair.

"You know, I've always wondered," James murmured, his voice barely carrying over the wind. "Am I even my father's son?"

In an instant, the world spun. Before James could even register a movement, his feet were swept from the stone. He crashed flat onto his back, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp as he stared up at the instructor’s angry face.

"Never, ever say anything like that, alright?"

James stared up at him, his eyes wide with shock. He had never seen his instructor react with such raw emotion.

"Ow," James coughed, the impact pressing heavily on his ribs.

The instructor, realizing his hand was still pinning James's chest too aggressively, instantly let go and stepped back.

"What the hell was that?" James wheezed, pushing himself up and dusting off his clothes.

The instructor sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead with a hand. "Pick up the sword."

"What? I just told you I'm not doing this anymore."

"Just do it. I'm about to teach you something that is going to make you stronger."

"Make me stronger? But we already tried—"

"We haven't tried this yet. You have always wanted a skill, haven't you? Well, what I'm about to teach you has been passed down through my family's generations. Right now, I'm the only one who can use it. It may look like a regular skill, but with enough training and mastery, it can cause a devastating amount of damage comparable to S-ranks, maybe even heroes."

James paused, his interest piqued. "There's a skill like that?"

"Yes," the instructor said, nodding. "This is a skill you can only acquire through training. No amount of leveling up can grant this to anyone else."

"Then how do you even know about it?"

The instructor looked down at his blade, staring at his own reflection in the steel. "One of my ancestors discovered it many years ago. The technique was raw and unfinished at first. They would use it for different things, finding it could only blow massive gusts of wind in a single direction. But through generations of proper training, they refined it. In time, the skill itself became capable of immense destruction. With a single swing, one could destroy an entire building. With enough focus and mana manipulation."

"Whoa, really?" James asked.

"Yes, but that's not even its strongest feat."

"There's more?"

"Of course. My grandfather spent his life perfecting it, passing it to my father, who did the same before passing it to me. The skill can now be used to slice straight through objects instead of merely shattering them."

"To cut... so it's like a knight skill."

"Yes," the instructor said, walking closer. "But it's different. It allows more manipulation of air and space, or at least, that's what we believe."

The instructor bent down, picked up James's fallen sword, and threw it high into the air.

"It seems like the attack uses both, but currently, we can only manipulate air with it. Watch closely."

James looked up, watching the blade spin as it plummeted back toward the ground.

His instructor took a low stance, pulling his left leg back and resting his sword next to his hip. In a sudden, explosive motion, he snapped his blade upward. A small, nearly invisible crescent of condensed air shot from his sword, slicing the falling weapon cleanly in half.

The sudden draft caused James's hair to flutter backward, but his eyes remained wide in amazement. The two broken halves of the metal clattered onto the stone tiles.

"Wow, that is amazing," James said, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "So you're saying I can learn that?"

The instructor turned to him, his expression grave. "There's more."

"More?" James asked.

The instructor slid back into his stance, but this time, he was staring directly at James.

"With enough mana manipulation..." the instructor began.

The sword suddenly flared with a brilliant, glowing blue light. The atmosphere grew heavy, and a harsh wind began to whip around them, tugging at James's clothes and hair. Then, in an instant, the gale stopped completely, as if all the air had been vacuumed from the space around them.

"This can become an SSS-rank skill."

A thick heat haze distorted the air in front of the instructor, warping the light. Suddenly, the atmosphere whipped back, rushing toward the glowing sword as if the metal were swallowing the air. The blade itself exerted a physical pull, dragging James's boots forward across the stone.

"Wait! Stop!" James cried out, his hands flying up.

The stone tiles beneath them began to fracture, spiderweb cracks tearing through the stone from where the instructor stood, racing straight toward James.

"Stop! I get it!" James yelled.

The swirling vortex suddenly vanished, and the blue glow died out. James fell back slightly, no longer being pulled forward. He breathed raggedly, his chest heaving as if he had run a marathon, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

The instructor straightened up and held out his weapon. With a quiet crackle, the steel blade fractured and dissolved into a cloud of fine grey dust.

"What the hell?" James gasped.

"This skill requires a stronger blade. Every time you use it, the immense strain will damage your equipment, draining its durability over time. We need to get a new sword so I can show you how it's done."

"R-right," James stammered, turning toward the manor to fetch more weapons from the armory.

Left standing alone on the cracked tiles, the instructor let out a long, heavy sigh. He looked up at the open sky.

"Forgive me, Father," he whispered.

Within a few minutes, James returned to the training grounds, carrying several spare blades. He approached his instructor and handed him one of the hilts.

"I have a question," James said as the instructor took the weapon. "Why are you teaching me this now?"

"As I said, this technique has been kept secret within my family," the instructor replied, adjusting his grip on the new hilt. "I considered teaching it to you before, but your mana pool was simply too small. Now that you have grown, you finally have the capacity to handle it. And... I feel sorry for you."

"Oh," James said, his voice flat, lacking any real enthusiasm. "But I'm only level fourteen. My mana pool should still be tiny, shouldn't it?"

"Not really," the instructor said, shaking his head. "Your mana pool is... quite strange. Your level is low, yes, but your capacity is on par with an E-rank."

"Really? How do you know that?" James asked.

"It is because of my skill, Mana Sight. It allows me to see the ambient mana in our surroundings, as well as the energy flowing inside of people. But that is enough questions for now. We need to begin."

Hour after hour, the instructor drilled James on the fundamentals of the technique. As the sun began to dip, a quiet amazement settled over the older man.

Over the years, he had thoroughly trained James in the physical forms of swordsmanship and the internal flow of mana, teaching him to quickly draw energy from the air to force his passive mana recovery to accelerate. Because James had already mastered those foundational arts, he was absorbing the new skill with incredible speed.

Finally, the instructor stepped several meters back, squaring his shoulders. "Use the skill on me," he commanded.

James took a deep breath, focusing his mind. He gathered every scrap of his remaining mana, drawing the cold energy down into his arms. He pulled his sword back to his hip, planting his feet in a perfect mirror of his instructor’s earlier stance.

A faint, shimmering ripple disturbed the air around James. It was barely visible, a mere shadow of the violent vortex his instructor had summoned, but the instructor's eyebrows shot upward nonetheless.

*Is he adapting this quickly?*

With a sharp exhale, James swung his sword in a wide, horizontal arc toward his master.

The weapon instantly shattered, dissolving into a cloud of fine grey dust that drifted from James's hand. A soft, gentle wave of air washed over the instructor, causing his hair and coat to flutter. The breeze lacked the force to push him back or cause any harm, but the sheer fact that James had produced it left the instructor stunned.

The boy's progression was immense.