CHAPTER 364: SMITHING IS NOT FOR FOOLS

The small city Damon arrived in was pretty much just an ordinary city, just another dot on the map with cobbled streets, modest houses, and smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. Blacksmiths hammered away at forges in roadside stalls, and the rhythmic clang of metal on metal filled the air.

Damon’s crimson eyes lingered on the cityscape longer than most. He knew the truth. This unremarkable place would, in the future, transform into the continent’s greatest smithing city, a hub where even kings and super guilds would grovel for weapons forged within its walls.

He only delayed his visit here because he was worried his intervention might result in the three prodigies not even being born. Just like how Riven was still a dud, and if he did not do the right thing, the guy might permanently remain a dud. There was no point in recruiting three more just like him.

However, now that he was creating his own smithing shops, the timing seemed to be coming together. He decided he might as well take a trip here and check out how things were.

Damon didn’t waste time on sightseeing. His feet carried him straight to the smithing academy, the heart of the city’s future. Even now, it stood tall and imposing, a sprawling compound of stone and steel, with towering furnaces and practice forges visible even from the gates.

Apprentices bustled around with hammers slung over their shoulders, soot-streaked faces shining with sweat, their youthful pride tied to the hope of one day crafting something extraordinary.

This academy was not yet the top academy of the country. It was simply one of the mid-tier ones. Even that reputation was thanks to a single person. He was the academy’s crown jewel, the so-called master smith who supposedly forged a legendary weapon. His name was whispered with reverence in the city, his reputation shining like a polished gem.

The academy received plenty of resources from the Kingdom thanks to this single guy and all the rumors swirling around him. Even big shots came from far and wide to give him orders in the hope that one of the weapons forged would become legendary grade.

But Damon knew the truth that no one else did yet. The so-called legend was a fabrication, a myth carefully nurtured to elevate the man’s prestige. The truth was, he had never created anything of true renown. He thrived instead on suppressing competition.

The rascal did not even let his students off. The moment he sniffed out any talented students, he would immediately single them out, crush their spirits under constant humiliation, and smear their reputations until they were branded failures.

Talent was not nurtured here, but pruned, cut down the moment it grew too tall and threatened to overshadow him.

He would laugh at students’ failures during public demonstrations, subtly tamper with their quenching processes, or swap their refined ores for inferior ones so that their work collapsed under inspection. Then, with a condescending smile, he would remind the crowd that "not everyone was born to be a smith," all while his reputation grew unchallenged.

Day after day, they would be ridiculed in front of their peers, their work would be sabotaged, and their talents would be buried under a mountain of false accusations. In the end, they would become worthless failures.

Finally, the asshole would be put down when the three prodigies would eventually rise above his schemes and become a force to be reckoned with, something that he would be powerless to stop.

Now the question was, would Damon be able to find out these three ’failures’ this early in the game?

Damon let out a sigh. He hoped so, but he had no idea. He spoke to someone at the entrance, and the woman immediately informed him that there was a lecture going on, conducted by the famous Master. The guy loved to give lectures and show off in the name of spreading talent, so Damon was not surprised by this.

He decided to check out the lecture hall first. With his reputation, it was easy for him to simply stroll into the huge lecture hall and stand at the back.

In the front, an oversized man was walking back and forth with a lofty expression on his face. "Smithing," the man thundered, "is not for dreamers or fools. It is a craft of precision, of discipline. To create weapons fit for kings requires not just talent, but the wisdom to follow tradition."

His beady eyes swept over the room, daring anyone to contradict him. His robes, too fine for a smith, swished with theatrical flourish, every inch of him radiating arrogance. Damon remained indifferent when the guy’s gaze swept over him as well, noticing his new entry.

The Master did not seem to mind. He simply continued the lecture. At the front stood three apprentices, separated from the rest like criminals awaiting judgment. Their faces were smeared with soot and shame.

A girl with trembling hands clutched the hilt of a blade she had just finished, the faint gleam of runes etched along its edge still glowing weakly.

"This?" He grabbed the blade from her hands, holding it aloft. "This is instability forged in metal! Dangerous, reckless, unworthy of even being called a weapon. If a soldier wielded this on the battlefield, they would kill themselves before their enemy!"

The students laughed nervously, some parroting the master’s words to curry favor. The girl’s eyes lowered, her shoulders trembling.

Next was a boy, tall and broad-shouldered, who presented an alloy ingot with quiet determination. Damon could see the faint shimmer of mana channels threading through it, which meant it was a job well done.

But the master merely sniffed and tossed it onto the floor with a clang. "Scrap metal," he declared. "Useless for forging even a pair of tongs!"

Finally, the third student stepped forward, a wiry boy with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers. His project was less tangible, a new blueprint, a forging technique that minimized mana wastage. He handed it over with clenched fists, and the master barely glanced at it before tearing the parchment in half.

"Paper smithing!" he roared, to the laughter of the hall. "Do you intend to fight the world with ink and sketches? Pathetic!"

Damon leaned against the wall at the back, arms crossed, crimson eyes narrowing. These three were not the ones Damon had come for, but now that he was here, he realized something. He could definitely recruit more than three, and this bastard was a gold mine for finding talent.

***

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