CHAPTER 133: ADAM INTO THE FORGE

"System. Terminate simulation."

"Are you sure you wish to forfeit the Hell Mode Trial?"

"...Yeah. For now’’

The golems all froze.

The simulation began to unravel — the blood-red sky cracked like glass, and the floor beneath him stabilized, returning to the standard training room.

Blake collapsed to one knee, groaning.

He took several deep breaths, wiping the blood from his lips. His clothes were in tatters, one arm limp at his side, and dark bruises spread across his chest.

"Simulation terminated. Trial failed."

"Hell Mode Completion Rate: 14%."

"Status: Severe Injuries. Recommend: Medical Treatment."

Blake laughed weakly.

"Only 14%... Damn..."

He slumped back onto the floor, breathing hard as the healing drones from the ceiling descended, humming softly.

"...Guess Nero’s not the only one having a rough time."

The pain was intense, but somewhere deep within... Blake felt something strange.

Not frustration.

But hunger.

Challenge.

Excitement.

His lazy heart stirred.

He stared up at the ceiling with his one good eye and chuckled to himself.

"When I come back... I’ll beat it."

His shadows curled around him protectively as the drones began to heal.

Later, in the Academy Infirmary...

Lux stood outside Blake’s room, glancing through the glass window.

Inside, the young master of the Raven family lay on the bed, IV tubes attached to his arms, his chest bandaged and face pale.

Despite that, Blake wore a satisfied grin as he slept — like a child who had just found a new toy.

Lux shook his head.

"...Hell Mode did that to him?"

The doctor nodded grimly. "He’s lucky to be alive."

Lux’s silver eyes narrowed.

"Blake... I guess you couldn’t stay still either, huh!"

•••

The forging district of Glory Academy was unlike the rest of the campus. While the main training grounds bustled with youthful voices, clashing weapons, and the hum of magic arrays, this district pulsed with an entirely different heartbeat — the deep, rhythmic pounding of hammers striking molten metal. The air here was heavy with the scent of heated iron, soot, and smoldering coal. Sparks occasionally rained from open workstations, each one like a fleeting firefly in the hazy glow of the furnaces.

Tucked into the far corner of this district stood the forge Adam had rented — a personal workshop, isolated from the others by thick, soundproofed stone walls and an enchantment that kept outside mana interference to a minimum. It was a rectangular hall built of blackened basalt bricks, the kind that could withstand centuries of heat and repeated bursts of magic. The high ceiling was crisscrossed by wooden beams reinforced with steel, and directly above the main anvil was a massive ventilation shaft enchanted with Wind Runes, ensuring fresh air always circulated.

The floor was laid with ancient dwarven stone tiles, their surface grooved from years of heavy boots and dropped tools. A large furnace dominated one side of the room, its roaring fire fed by a combination of coal, enchanted firestones, and an Earth-aligned mana crystal embedded deep inside the chamber. Runes etched into the furnace’s frame glowed faintly, regulating both temperature and pressure, allowing Adam to manipulate the heat with absolute precision.

Opposite the furnace, an enormous anvil sat on a thick oak stump. The anvil’s surface gleamed despite countless blows — it was made of Deepiron, a rare dwarven alloy known to be unyielding even under the strikes of the most temperamental smiths. Racks of tools lined the walls: hammers of various weights, chisels, tongs, engraving needles, and brushes for applying rune ink. A magical quenching trough stood nearby, filled with a shimmering liquid — not water, but a mix of enchanted oil and powdered mana quartz, giving it a faint silver glow.

In the center of the forge, Adam stood in silence, his hands resting on the worn leather handle of his old hammer. The dwarf prince was not adorned in the school uniform; instead, he wore a blacksmith’s apron, thick gloves, and boots reinforced with steel toes. His brown eyes sharp like molten ore — carried an unusual heaviness.

He replayed the news in his head again and again. Unlike his team who didn’t encounter any demonized humans, the other two teams ahead of them on the scoreboard had encountered them.

Nero. Khione. Elreth. Gravely injured.

Lux — even as a healer — barely able to walk after the battle.

If he had crafted them something... better armor, better weapons, even a protective charm... maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t have turned out this way.

His fists tightened around the hammer.

"No more excuses."

He took a deep breath and began laying out the materials for his first creation — a sword for Nero.

From his spatial ring, he withdrew a long rectangular ingot of Dark Steel. The metal was deep gray, almost black, and shimmered faintly under the forge light. It was famed among dwarves for its extreme durability; once forged, it could withstand immense force without denting. Beside it, he placed an ingot of Mithril, so light it almost seemed weightless in his hand, yet renowned for its ability to conduct mana without resistance. Next came smaller chunks of Drake Fang Bone, which would be ground into dust for infusion — enhancing the weapon’s structural integrity and giving it a slight natural affinity for draconic energy. Finally, he pulled out a small pouch containing Starfire Sand, rare magical grains that, when fused into metal, increased sharpness and edge retention.

Adam’s plan was clear:

Dark Steel for strength.

Mithril for prank flow.

Drake Fang Bone for resilience.

Starfire Sand for cutting power.

A sword worthy of the Knight who had the courage to fight until his body broke.

Adam stoked the furnace, his Law of Earth resonating with the runes carved into the stone, pushing the flames to a brilliant white-hot intensity. The heat washed over him, but he neither flinched nor shielded himself; a dwarf smith was as comfortable in fire as others were in sunlight.

He placed the Dark Steel into the heart of the furnace, its surface slowly shifting from black to deep crimson, then to an almost glowing orange. While the steel heated, Adam prepared the Mithril, melting it in a separate crucible. Unlike steel, Mithril didn’t require extreme temperatures — too much heat would destabilize its mana channels — so Adam kept a watchful eye, adjusting the flames with small motions of his fingers.

Once the Dark Steel reached forging temperature, Adam gripped it with a pair of thick tongs and brought it to the anvil. He positioned his stance, inhaled deeply, and then —

CLANG!

The first strike of his hammer rang through the forge, a sound as sharp and resonant as a bell.

Sparks exploded with every blow, scattering across the floor like tiny shooting stars. The Dark Steel resisted at first — as if unwilling to bend — but Adam’s strikes were precise, each one placed at the perfect angle to coax the metal into shape rather than brute-force it.

His movements were steady, almost rhythmic: strike, rotate, strike, rotate. Every so often, he’d return the steel to the furnace, reheating it before continuing. Sweat rolled down his temples, but his golden eyes never left the glowing metal.

When the steel began to take the rough shape of a blade, Adam paused. He fetched the crucible of molten Mithril and poured it carefully along the grooves he had hammered into the steel’s core. The liquid silver seeped into the channels like a living thing, binding to the Dark Steel on a molecular level. The moment the metals met, the forge filled with a faint humming sound — the resonance of two powerful materials merging.

Next came the infusion. Adam took the Drake Fang Bone, ground it into fine powder using a runed mortar, and sprinkled it evenly over the glowing blade. The bone dust burned on contact, releasing a faint scent of charred scales, and was absorbed into the alloy, hardening the metal’s structure.

Then, he reached for the Starfire Sand. Unlike the bone, the sand was alive with mana, its particles glowing faintly gold. Adam used a small enchanted brush to spread the sand along the edge of the blade before hammering it in with light, rapid taps. Each grain fused into the steel, permanently sharpening the cutting edge.

He reheated the blade once more, letting the fusion settle before moving to tempering. Instead of plunging it into the quenching trough directly, Adam whispered in the dwarven tongue — ancient words of binding — channeling his Law of Earth into the blade. Thin brown runes briefly flared along its length, embedding durability deep into the weapon’s soul.

Finally, he quenched the blade in the shimmering liquid. Steam erupted violently, coating the forge in a silver mist. The hiss of metal meeting enchanted oil was almost musical.

The sword was now structurally complete, but Adam wasn’t done. No dwarven master would ever hand over a weapon without its spirit — the runes that gave it purpose.

He cleared the anvil and set the blade upon a runed stand. Taking an engraving needle, he began inscribing fine, complex patterns along the flat of the blade. His hands moved with the ease of muscle memory, each stroke precise and deliberate.

Along the fuller, he carved Prana Conduction Runes, allowing Nero to channel prana through the weapon without resistance. Near the hilt, he engraved Kinetic Reinforcement Seals, which would amplify the force behind each swing without draining the wielder’s stamina. On the edge itself, he etched a fine layer of Edge Persistence Glyphs, ensuring the blade would never dull, no matter the battle.

Each rune was activated by a single drop of Adam’s blood, bonding the weapon to him until it was given to its intended owner.

When the last rune flared and faded, Adam exhaled slowly. The blade gleamed under the forge light, its steel dark as midnight, its edge lined with a faint silver glow that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat.

Adam fashioned a hilt from reinforced oak wrapped in black wyvern leather, then capped it with a pommel of polished obsidian. The grip felt balanced, the weight perfect — heavy enough for power, light enough for speed.

He held the finished sword in both hands and stared at it for a long moment.

"This time," he murmured softly, "you’ll have something worthy of you, Nero. Something you can use until I find better materials and my skill evolved to craft you a final sword, an artifact worthy of seven legendary ones, no stronger than then because you my friend I have the feeling that you will shake the world."

He placed the sword on a velvet cloth inside a reinforced case. The next items for Elreth and Khione would come soon, but for now, his focus was complete.

The forge quieted as Adam finally allowed himself to rest, leaning against the anvil. The heat still lingered, but in his chest, the weight of failure had lifted — just slightly.

The first gift was ready.