Chronicles Of The Crafting Hero [REMASTERED]

The silver light of the moon washed over the Tyranny Mansion, which glowed with internal warmth and hummed with the chatter of nobles and royalty. Soft violin music drifted through the air as guests mingled, cradling delicate glasses of wine. It was Claire’s birthday celebration. She had already received her gifts, including James’s offering—a dark grey dress in her favorite shade.

Before the entire crowd, his sister had thanked him repeatedly, offering a warm smile. The guests had watched them with clear surprise; it had been years since the siblings had been seen speaking so closely and comfortably at a celebration. James had felt their gazes. He saw the shock and resentment lingering in their eyes. Though he had grown used to the quiet disgrace of being sidelined for years, this time, the disrespect stung. A cold anger took root in his chest. Strangers who had no part in his family were judging him simply for speaking to his own sister.

Slipping away from the prying eyes of the crowd, James stepped outside, holding his glass of wine. He made his way to the quiet training grounds. Looking up, he watched the massive moon, its bright beam reflecting off the polished fabric of the green blazer he wore.

With a soft sigh, he looked across the open yard. He stopped, surprised to spot a blade lying at the far edge of the stone tiles.

*How did that get there?*

James walked over and bent to retrieve it, wrapping his fingers around the silver hilt. The weapon was thin and light. He recognized it immediately as Claire’s preferred sword.

*Did she forget it outside? But even if she did, the servants could have picked it up.*

He studied the fine blade. It looked remarkably strong, yet it rose effortlessly in his grip. He had never actually held it before. Though it looked brand new, he knew she had trained with this weapon for over two years.

*Is this really her sword?* He turned the metal over in the moonlight.

The thin blade brought back sharp memories. He had been forbidden from ever stepping outside while his sister and father sparred. The instructor always erected a defensive barrier, but the sheer force of their training remained too dangerous for onlookers.

He remembered one afternoon when, while walking through the mansion's quiet halls, he had glanced out a window. His instructor stood at the edge of the yard, maintaining a massive, glowing green barrier that swallowed the entire training ground. The immense structure hummed with power, completely obscuring the view. But the sounds escaping the shield were explosive, sending heavy vibrations rattling through the mansion's stone foundation. Driven by curiosity, James had broken the rules and slipped outside. His instructor had spotted him immediately but chose to ignore his presence. James understood why now; the man simply wanted him to witness the sheer magnitude of power when two heroes colliding.

Sometimes, the thundering noise would stop, only to be followed by three rapid, violent shockwaves that warped the face of the barrier. James had walked right up to his instructor, watching in silence until the spar concluded.

The moment the green shield flared brightly and dissolved, James's jaw had dropped. The training ground was utterly shattered, reduced to uneven craters and broken stone. Amid the ruin stood his father and sister, still holding their weapons and dressed in their training gear. Claire had simply pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her brow, breathing easily as if she had only finished a light run. James had been severely punished for his insolence afterward, and his instructor had received a sharp lecture before his father retired to his quarters.

James tossed his sister's sword into the air, the silver metal catching the moonlight before he caught it cleanly by the hilt. Gulping down the rest of his wine, he executed a swift vertical slash. The thin metal sliced through the air with a soft rush. He swung it again, testing the balance.

*This is incredibly light, but it feels powerful. What is it made of? It doesn't feel like ordinary steel, if it even is.*

He lowered the blade, his eyes scanning the edges of the training yard. His brow furrowed.

*They didn't rebuild it properly. It was better the first time.*

"Hey, James!"

The call shattered his thoughts. James turned to find John walking toward him, a familiar smirk playing on his lips.

"What are you doing outside?" John asked.

James ignored him, his eyes remaining fixed on the blade. After a heavy pause, he spoke. "It's none of your business."

"Come on, don't be like that," John said, swirling his glass. "It's your sister's party. You don't need to act all bummed out now, do ya? You should celebrate."

"Don't give me that," James said, a flicker of annoyance in his voice as he turned to face him. "You know why I'm out here. Just... leave me alone and go back inside."

"Come on, you don't have to say things like that. We grew up together, man. We're basically brothers. Just tell me what's bothering you."

James felt hot anger surge in his chest. John stood there with his eyebrows raised, pretending to be absolutely oblivious to the glare James was directing at him.

"What are you doing?" James asked, his voice low

"What?" John shrugged.

"Why are you trying to pretend? Why are you acting so friendly all of a sudden?"

"What do you mean? I've always been friendly to you."

"Don't give me that crap. I've seen the way you looked at me. I've heard what you say about me behind my back. Yeah, you don't even hide it. You even insult me when I'm staring right at you. Always so fucking direct with that proud look on your face. What are you trying to do this time? If you're trying to get on my nerves, you already did earlier." James returned his gaze to the sword.

John burst into a sudden, loud laugh, shaking with giggles. "Man..." He chuckled, wiping a small tear from the corner of his eye. "That was actually getting to you? Listen, I didn't mean to come off like that. You know, we were just joking."

John stepped forward. James's body instinctively went on guard, his shoulders lifted, the sword dropped to his side, and his frame shifted toward his rival as his expression hardened.

John stopped. A smug grin returned to his face.

"What's this all of a sudden?" John asked. "You acting like I'm going to hurt you, but don't worry, I would never hurt you."

His voice carried a dismissive, patronizing promise, like a parent speaking to a frightened child.

"Hurt me?" James muttered. His fingers clamped hard around the hilt, his anger flaring at the condescending words.

"Yeah, unlike your sister, of course," John said, smiling. "Speaking of your sister, this is her fifteenth birthday, isn't it? She's grown. What is she? A level 236? 235? I can't remember."

James watched in silent, boiling rage as John drank from his wine glass.

John swallowed. "You know? Your sister is turning more beautiful with each passing year. I always used to think she was pretty back then when we were kids, but..."

James’s eyes widened, and the grip on his shoulder loosened slightly, baffled by what John was saying. John was staring down at his glass, his face completely devoid of its usual mocking arrogance. He carried a look of honest nostalgia.

"I hate to admit it," John said. "Now she's—"

Before the sentence could leave John's mouth, a sudden, violent spasm struck his chest. A spike of danger-sense, sharper than anything he had ever felt, pierced through his ribs. John's head snapped forward in sheer survival instinct.

Cutting through the dark, an almost invisible, curved blade of wind was flying directly toward his neck.

John threw his hands up. Instantly, a massive silver barrier erupted from the ground, curving upward to shield his entire body. The wind blade slammed against the silver shield with a heavy, deafening shockwave that sent dust rolling across the tiles. The force dissipated into the night air.

John’s eyes stretched wide in shock. The silver-gray shield flared with a bright light and vanished. His wine glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone.

He stared ahead. The dust settled over the training ground, revealing James lying flat on the tiles, completely unconscious.

*What the hell? What the hell was that? Did he just use his skill? No, there's no way. He's just... a weak, insignificant worm!*

John marched forward, a sudden, burning fury taking over. Never in his life—not even during the intense spars with his father or his twin sister—had he felt his heart rate spike like this. Even if the shield hadn't risen, he knew the attack lacked the raw power to truly harm him, but the sheer shock of the unexpected strike left him shaken and enraged.

"How dare you," he muttered, stepping toward the unconscious boy.

"Stop."

A single, deep command echoed through the yard. John froze instantly, his entire body turning rigid under an immense, crushing weight. The air grew thick and heavy, making it difficult to expand his lungs. His muscles refused to respond.

His body instinctively forced him to obey. He turned his head, his eyes landing on a muscular, towering figure. The man wore a crisp white shirt that clung tightly to his chest, partially showing his muscles beneath his draped blazer. It was James's father.

"What are you doing?" the father asked, his voice deep and authoritative.

"S-Sir, I'm sorry," John stammered, his frame trembling under the suffocating pressure. "I... he suddenly attacked me." He pointed a shaking hand toward James's limp body.

The father's eyes narrowed, looking from John to his son.

"Oh, my goodness!" a feminine voice gasped.

James’s mother rushed past them, her yellow and green dress whispering against the stone, her hair tied neatly into a bun. "What happened?"

At her heels, several servants hurried onto the training ground, lifting James’s limp body.

"I didn't do anything! He attacked me and then just collapsed!" John insisted, clutching his chest.

More guests were spilling out of the mansion doors. John’s father stepped forward, looking over the gathering crowd with a heavy sigh. "Let us go back inside."

The guests began to filter back into the warm light of the mansion. James’s mother looked anxiously at her husband. "What happened to him? Why is he unconscious?"

John immediately retreated toward the doors, offering James's father one last nervous glance before disappearing into the manor.

Inside the corridor, he nearly collided with his sister, Crystal. Her short blonde hair framed her face, and she wore a simple white dress. She stepped in front of him, her brow furrowing. "What happened out there?"

"I'm going home!" John snapped, brushing past her.

A moment later, Claire hurried past them. She ran straight toward her father, ignoring John entirely as she rushed out into the night.

Crystal followed her brother down the quiet corridors of the manor, her voice sharp and persistent as she pestered him for answers about what had transpired on the training ground. John kept his face hard, staring straight ahead and refusing to speak as he walked, his boots striking the floor in a rapid, angry rhythm. Eventually, the heavy carriage doors outside closed, the iron lanterns on the grounds were extinguished, and the last of the noble guests departed into the dark, leaving the mansion in deep silence.

Later that night, James blinked open his eyes, waking to the quiet dark of his bedroom. He sat up slightly, his breath catching in his throat as he saw his father sitting in a wooden chair right beside his bed. With only the two of them in the room, the silence between them felt incredibly heavy. James slowly explained everything that had happened during the confrontation with John, how he had unleashed the wind blade and how John had managed to block it. James braced his shoulders, fully expecting his father's typical cold anger. Instead, his father stared back in total bewilderment, his stern face shifting until a rare, faint glimmer of absolute amazement reflected in his eyes.

The next morning, a deep, bruising ache settled into James's muscles, making his limbs feel like solid lead. Outside his window, the distant, melancholy chirping of birds drifted through the grey, early morning light that filtered through the glass. Exhausted from the massive drain of his energy, James simply rolled over, pulling the heavy blankets over his head to escape the dawn.

The hours of sleep felt like mere fleeting seconds before a sharp, repetitive knock rattled the thick wood of his door.

"Young lord!" a male servant called from the hallway. "Excuse me, my young lord."

James sat up, rubbing his face with trembling hands. "What?" he groaned, his voice thick and raspy. "I'm still asleep."

"Your father calls for you."

"My father? This early?"

"Yes, my lord. He said you must make haste."

James sighed, his aching muscles protesting. "Alright." He wiped the sleep from his eyes, threw on his clothes, and stepped out into the quiet, red carpeted corridor.

He saw his father standing at the far end of the hall. The sheer, imposing presence of the man made James's heart hammer violently against his ribs. He quickened his pace, his boots tapping softly against the carpet. "Good morning, father. I'm sorry, did I keep you waiting?"

"No," his father replied, his deep voice echoing in the empty hall. "I preferred to meet you here instead of my quarters. Follow me to the weapons chamber."

James followed his father's broad back into the armory. The room was cold, with a rough, uneven stone floor that chilled the soles of his feet. The air inside was heavy with the scent of protective oil, polished steel, and old, stiff leather. Heavy racks of iron and steel lined the walls, swords of every shape, massive bows, spiked shields, and heavy maces. His father stepped to a rack and retrieved Claire's sword, which had been returned to its mount. He held it up, slowly sliding his calloused thumb along the smooth, flat side of the blade.

"Your sister's blade is one of a kind," his father said, turning around to face him. "It was forged from a highly unique metal. One that isn't mined within our borders, but in another kingdom. Do you know its name?"

James stood in silence for a moment, his mind working through the lingering haze of his exhaustion. He recalled the quiet rumors of a distant realm that mined a rare, dense ore, a metal completely compatible with all forms of mana, yet nearly indestructible.

"Pheria," James said, his voice hushed. "It was made from that metal?"

"Yes," his father nodded, the silver of the hilt catching the dim morning light. "It is a blend, rather than pure Ferium. Only a small amount was merged into the forge, but even that portion made the steel far more durable, potent, and powerful. Do you understand what kind of advantage that grants a warrior when they wield this blade?"

James looked at the gleaming sword. "Since the blade is stronger and more durable, it gives the wielder a massive advantage in both defense and offense. And because the metal is light, the sword is much faster and easier to swing."

"Good," his father said. "You understand the physical properties, but there is more."

He tossed the sword. The silver blade spun once in the cold air before James reacted, his fingers curling cleanly around the silver, leather-wrapped hilt.

"As you said, the metal is highly compatible with our mana and attack skills. When you execute a skill that requires a weapon, the material matters. If you try to channel a high-level sword skill through a simple branch of wood, the technique will would be far weaker or ineffective. But if you channel that same skill through the metal shaped as the wood, the skill would be very effective, but with a blade the attack becomes exceptionally dangerous and effective."

James nodded, though he still wondered why his father was explaining this. Then, the realization struck him like a physical blow. He remembered the night before, the desperate, volatile surge of energy he had unleashed against John. He had barely begun to learn the wind-slash technique from Benedict, and he was far from the level required to control its damage. Yet, the attack had manifested, and Claire's sword had remained completely intact, unlike the training weapons that had exploded into dust.

His father noted the sudden wide-eyed realization on James's face. He stepped forward, placing a heavy, warm hand on James's shoulder. "Do you realize it now?"

"Yes," James breathed, staring at the pristine steel. "The sword's durability is completely fine. It didn't shatter when the skill activated."

"Because of the Ferium," his father said, a rare, genuine smile touching his face. For the first time in his life, James felt a strange, quiet sense of warmth bloom in his chest.

"Benedict taught you that skill, didn't he?"

"He did. How did you know?"

"How would I not?" his father said, pulling his hand back. "He has trained you for years. I know every single technique in Benedict's arsenal, even the secret skill he tried to keep hidden from me for so long." His father walked past him toward the door, his heavy boots clicking on the rough floor. "I want you to keep that blade."

"What? But this is Claire's sword."

"I know, but you are going to need it. I am taking you somewhere."

"Where?" James asked, his grip tightening on the hilt.

"To hunt your first monsters," his father said, his figure disappearing down the dim stone cor

ridor. "I think you are ready."

James stood alone in the cold armory, his heart hammering violently against his ribs as he stared down at the silver-hilted sword.

*Monsters?*