CHAPTER 472: BETTER WEAPONS

Roland was speechless. This was unlike anything he had ever imagined. How could a spirit die? And not just any spirit, but one of those to whom everyone prayed. This was no simple trap. It went far beyond that, and the weight of it struck him harder than he expected.

He needed to set things right not only because he had failed Elios, who had helped him countless times, but also because he had not managed to save Silmira, the one who had granted him strength greater than he had ever known. Only now did he finally understand why the light spirits’ magic had stopped working.

[I am sorry, Elios... that was never supposed to happen. You warned me, and for that, I will dedicate myself to eradicating the demons of Elris, as you once told me to do. I will need your power now more than ever. Together, let us cleanse this land, and only then will I seek the others to gain enough strength to rid this world of that malice once and for all.]

Roland thought of Stella, and a new fear gnawed at him. What happened to Silmira could happen to her, and she was just a mortal like anyone else.

This revelation changed everything. It meant that even he, a hero, was vulnerable. But his own danger was not what weighed on him; his wife was.

[Tomorrow, finish all you must by tomorrow, and then we begin. We will conquer every part of this land, and those who set this vile trap will fall. I promise you that, Elios.]

Elios gave no reply, but Roland felt he agreed, as though the spirit nodded in silence from where he was in the distance.

Rolan then began to walk off, seeking out his personal blacksmith, Arvor.

The hero would need two new swords to replace the ones he had lost in the previous battle. This time forged with every mana crystal he could gather.

The black sword, crafted from demonic power, was unreliable and twisted his mind in ways he despised.

But all the rest of his weapons lacked the strength to deliver the devastation he required in a battle against thousands.

He needed new swords now that he could wield more elements, especially the darkness element, which was deadly.

Roland followed the familiar path down toward the section of the fortress where Arvor’s workshop stood.

Countless blacksmiths were working together as the clang of hammers and hiss of quenched steel echoed long before he reached the door.

When he stepped inside, the heat and glow of the forge struck him, filling the room with both the red light produced by powerful infernal like flames and smoke from all the iron being quenched with oil.

This time, it was not only Arvor at work. Dozens of apprentices and seasoned smiths labored beside him, each one focused on their own tasks, creating weapons and armor nonstop for Roland’s growing army.

Sparks flew in the air like flaming fireflies, the rhythm of hammers hitting steel forming a steady chorus.

At the center of it all stood Arvor.

His own personal blacksmith’s thick arms rose and fell like a master of his profession.

Each blow from his hammer against glowing steel caused Roland to shudder.

As for the face of the blacksmith, it was streaked with soot, his clothes scorched in places, yet his posture never faltered.

Roland waited until the man quenched his latest work in a vat of water before speaking.

"Looks like you are still busy," Roland called out. "How is it that I never find you resting, not even for a day?"

Steam hissed as Arvor lifted the blade from the water and set it aside. Only then did he look up, his gruff voice cutting through the noise of the others working.

"It is you who has not rested enough, hero. You go from one fight to the next, and it reminds me why we are here working out . We Smiths cannot afford to slow down. Every soldier here depends on what we craft, and you, of all people, need weapons that will not fail. I will not slack simply because I forged your personal blades."

He pointed with his hammer toward a rack lined with various kinds of steel armaments.

"Take a look there. I prepared sets this time. Choose the ones you favor. Those you do not need will go to the soldiers, so nothing clutters this place. A blade unused is no better than a broken one."

Roland approached the rack.

Each sword was different, yet all bore Arvor’s unmistakable craftsmanship.

Some had thin lines carefully carved into their hilts, while others carried mana crystals, set not to overpower the blade but to enhance its function without diminishing its integrity.

Some were heavy cleavers meant for crushing armor, others slender longswords meant for speed.

A few glowed faintly with inlaid runes, channels prepared to accept crystals and elemental infusions.

Arvor watched him closely, his arms folded.

He had always divided his work into two categories: masterpieces and failures.

There was no middle ground in his eyes. While he strove to make Roland’s weapons among his finest, even he could not escape the flaws of raw material.

Some ores arrived brittle, veins of impurity weakening the steel before it was ever smelted.

Wood warped if it was harvested at the wrong season, and leather cracked if cured too fast.

"Not all materials obey the will of a smith," Arvor said, as if reading Roland’s thoughts. "But I do what I can with what the land yields. Those that are unworthy are reforged, stripped down, or given away to soldiers who cannot afford to be choosy. For you, though, I make no compromises. You need more than steel. You need weapons that can carry fire, frost, and light without shattering in your hands."

Roland ran a hand along one of the rune-lined blades. He could feel the faint hum of mana within it just waiting to be activated and used correctly.

His mind flashed back to the spirits Elios, Silmira, and the countless others who had lent him strength.

"Sorry, Arvor. I haven’t been using my weapons properly. They either break, or I force them into tasks they were never meant for. This time, I need something different. I need weapons, filled with as many mana stones as you can attach to them. I’ll be heading toward the capital soon."

He turned back to Arvor, determination burning in his eyes. "So let us not waste time. I need swords stronger than anything I have carried before. With them, I will master every element at my disposal, so don’t worry about how many mana crystals you are going to use on them."

Arvor grunted, but he did not take it wrongly; instead, it was as if someone was giving him a challenge.

"Then step aside and let me work. But do not expect me to weave miracles without sacrifice. Steel demands heat, and heat demands fuel. These crystals you bring me will burn brighter than any coal, but they will be consumed as well. You must be ready to change them out before the weapon is destroyed..."

"As with the others, don’t worry about the amount of mana used," Roland replied without hesitation. "Use all of it if needed. If they are ready by tomorrow, call for me."

"Heh, why wait until tomorrow?" Arvor smirked, gripping his hammer again. "With a few assistants, I can have them finished by tonight. Just make sure you bring a nice drink to celebrate before you leave for the battlefield. I know you’re not the sort to sit around idly, so start practicing with one of the swords I made for you before."

The forge roared to life once more, flames rising higher as if answering the blacksmith who had returned to his work.

Roland picked up two longswords, intending to test them outside in the training yard. The familiar weight settled into his hands with ease, yet the intricate decorations marked them as something finer than he had ever carried before.

The yard was empty, save for a few training dummies and scattered targets. Roland stepped forward, lowering his stance as he crossed the blades before him. He exhaled slowly, then swung.

But something was wrong. The blades resisted him, as though they were not meant for his hands. They felt crafted for a version of himself that no longer existed, the Roland who once wielded only the light element. Now, with more power coursing through him, the swords seemed too fragile, unable to endure the strength he carried.

He pushed harder, channeling his dark element into the crystals embedded within the hilts. The response was immediate and disappointing. The stones flickered, straining against his will, and then dimmed as though rejecting the power outright. Their cores were too weak, unprepared to bear the weight of his dark magic.

Roland lowered the blades, his expression hardening. They were beautiful, well-balanced, and finely made, but beauty meant little if they could not follow him into war.