CHAPTER 368: YOU HAVE WON AND WE HAVE LOST

Soon, the master smith’s blade gleamed, edges already honed sharp, the shape flawless and domineering, a weapon worthy of awe. Apprentices leaned forward, nodding, whispering praise under their breath.

"A masterpiece, as always," one said. "The dropout doesn’t stand a chance," muttered another.

But then Leonel struck again. The rough blade began to shimmer with a faint inner glow, as if responding to the will of its creator. Apprentices who had mocked him now leaned in, eyes wide.

"Impossible," one whispered.

"There is no way he is going to complete this forging. He is definitely going to screw up."

"I think the metal is going to crack any second now."

The master smith became even more restless. He had already sent this fucking garbage to where he belonged a long time ago, and yet here he was standing in front of him and once again thriving. He shook with anger when his gaze darted to Damon. It was all because of him!

The final blows rang out almost in unison, one sharp and brutal, the other steady and resonant. The master smith lifted his weapon first, a flawless longsword gleaming with cold perfection. Its edge shone like silver lightning, its weight balanced, every line crisp.

The crowd gasped in reverence, for it was everything they had come to expect from the man they had feared and idolized for years.

"That sword is definitely rare grade. Maybe even epic grade! Wow!" one apprentice exclaimed, eyes gleaming with admiration.

"He forged it like it was nothing... so fast, so perfect," another whispered, almost worshipful.

"No one can match him. This was over the moment it started," a third muttered with a smug grin, already sneering back at Leonel.

A nervous laugh rippled through the group of apprentices who had dragged Leonel in. "What did you expect? That a dropout could stand against the master? This is reality."

Completely oblivious to the jeering crowd, Leonel staggered back, chest heaving, his hammer slipping from his sweat-slick hands. The weapon on his anvil was rough, unfinished by traditional standards, its grip unpolished, its edge uneven.

Yet the steel shimmered faintly, veins of light coursing through it as though the blade itself were breathing mana. The weapons were technically not yet complete. Runes needed to be etched on them, but any trained eye could instantly tell which weapon could take the runes better.

The two weapons were only made with the most common raw materials. In fact, etching any rune on it would prove to be difficult, and yet Leonel had managed to reach such a level with just these simple materials.

"That glow means nothing. Runes won’t take on garbage ore. It’s impossible."

"Don’t be ridiculous," another one snapped, though his gaze kept darting back to the glow. "Even if it accepts runes, it’ll break in a real fight. The master’s sword is flawless. That scrap will never compare."

A girl near the front bit her lip, leaning forward. "But look at the grain of the blade. It’s not rejecting the mana. It’s drinking it in. If runes can actually take..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought, but her eyes were wide with wonder.

"That’s just chance," someone else scoffed. "Beginner’s luck. One lucky strike and the whole hall thinks he’s some kind of genius? That thing is about to break any second now."

Seeing that the crowd was on his side, the master smith decided to end this right here and now before things could escalate further. Every time he glanced at that half-baked piece of crap, his anger only rose. He needed to end this right here and now.

"So what do you have to say now? Your so-called genius can’t even forge a simple weapon from simple materials. How is someone like this fit to study the great craft of smithing?"

The master smith’s voice boomed, sharp and commanding, as though sheer force of tone could hammer away the unease spreading in the hall. His flawless longsword gleamed under the forge light as he raised it high, daring anyone to deny his authority.

Apprentices quickly latched onto his words, desperate to return to the familiar order. "The master is right," one said loudly, puffing out his chest. "What other results will be there? That idiot clearly lost!"

"Yes," another added quickly, trying to cover the tremor in his voice. "The master’s work is proof of true talent. That dropout’s blade is nothing more than a failed attempt."

Leonel, meanwhile, stood frozen, chest heaving, his eyes darting between the sneering master and the glowing steel he had forged. Now that he was no longer in the zone, he once again reverted to the nervous mess.

He looked at Damon fearfully, wondering what the mysterious person would say. It was as if he were already prepared for more humiliation and punishment.

However, Damon only continued to smile calmly. Seeing his expression, the master smith became extremely agitated. "What? Do you deny the results staring at your face? Do you dare to still claim that this worthless piece of shit can forge anything?"

To everyone’s surprise, Damon shook his head. "No. I admit it. You have won and we have lost."

A wave of murmurs swept through the hall. Apprentices blinked in shock, their heads whipping toward Damon as if they had misheard.

The master smith froze for a fraction of a second before his face split into a triumphant grin, arrogance radiating from him like heat from the forge. He slammed the butt of his blade onto the ground with a ringing clang.

"Hah! At least you know your place," the master barked, his voice booming with smug satisfaction. "Even outsiders can’t deny true skill when it burns before their eyes. Let this be a lesson to all of you, forgecraft is not a dream for cowards and worms. It is reserved for those born with true talent."

Leonel flinched as the words rained down, his shoulders hunching in shame. His hands trembled at his sides, and his throat bobbed with the effort not to collapse completely. He had expected as much, and now it was only proven again.

The master smith continued to berate him and bark louder and louder. The man was determined to make an example out of this so that such a situation would never arise again.

In the meantime, Damon calmly took the unfinished blade in his hands and twirled it. "I wonder..." He murmured. He then activated a skill he had never used before, the skill that he had stolen from Aurex, the sacred marksman.

Sacred Runesmithing

Damon had no experience in this area, and he was probably going to fail if he tried anything fancy right off the bat, but he was confident he should be able to pull off something simple. After all, he had managed to scribe this rune many times in his last life as well.

It was a single rune and a very simple rune. A rune that gave a fiery aura to a sword.

The master smith’s berating faltered for a heartbeat as Damon traced his fingers over the steel, eyes narrowing with strange focus.

A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer spread across Damon’s palm. Lines of light flickered into existence, flowing from his fingertips into the sword like molten threads of silver.

"What are you—!" the master smith barked, his voice cracking with sudden alarm.

***

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