CHAPTER 49: THE CONFIRMATION

It was morning, and Drake had left Tessa’s home as soon as he could. He told her he was heading back home, but in truth, he had a completely different plan in mind.

During the Crater Hunt, he had lost his sword — a blade he despised himself for losing, as it had been a gift from his elder brother. That weapon held not just steel and craftsmanship, but memory and sentiment.

If there was any possible way to return to the Crater, to search through every nook and cranny for that blade, he would take it without hesitation. But deep down, he knew it was gone — swallowed by the chaos of that battlefield. There was no use imagining other outcomes or wishing for alternate perspectives. The past had already taken its toll.

So instead, Drake went about walking through ALCRAN — a city alive with noise and movement. The morning sun cast long golden streaks across the cobblestone streets, where hundreds of men and women moved about, each wrapped up in their own business. The air smelled of roasted beans, fried bread, and burning oil from passing hover-carts.

He pulled the hood of his jacket tighter over his head. In a crowd this dense, anonymity was his only ally. He couldn’t afford to be recognized — not here, not now.

He was the popular son of the Drakon family, after all. A single slip-up, a single exposed face, and the crowd would turn into a frenzy. The Drakon name drew attention like fire drew moths — and Drake had no patience for that today.

Keeping his head low, he retraced his steps through the sprawling cityscape, his destination clear in mind — the blacksmith’s shop where his brother had originally commissioned his sword years ago.

The trek through ALCRAN was long and winding. Steel bridges arched over busy roads, banners fluttered between towers, and the faint hum of airships filled the sky above. Eventually, after weaving through the bustle for what felt like hours, Drake arrived at a small, unassuming shop tucked between two towering buildings.

From afar, it looked unkempt — the kind of place anyone might mistake for abandoned. Dust coated the windows, and the faded signboard swung lazily in the wind, creaking with each motion.

’Well, he likes it this way,’ Drake thought, stepping closer. Herald never cared for appearances. To him, a clean front meant nothing compared to a well-forged blade.

The wooden door bore scratches from years of wear, and the brass knob was cold beneath Drake’s fingers as he twisted it open. A faint ring of a bell echoed as he stepped inside.

"Hello? Herald, are you here?" Drake called, his eyes scanning the room.

The interior was a sharp contrast to the exterior. Neat rows of weapon racks lined the walls, each blade polished to a glimmer. The floor was swept clean, and the faint hum of machinery filled the air — futuristic cooling systems and melodic chimes of background music subtly blending with the heat of the forge. Despite the modern touches, the room still carried the essence of old-school craftsmanship. Tools hung neatly on the walls, and the scent of iron, oil, and burning coal mingled into something almost nostalgic.

Moments later, Herald appeared from a backroom, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. He carried a massive sledgehammer in one hand, the weight of it effortless in his grip.

Herald was a dwarf — short but broad, his muscles rippling beneath a soot-stained leather apron. His beard was a wild, bushy thing, streaked with gray and tangled in places, yet somehow fitting for his rugged demeanor. His arms glistened with sweat, veins pulsing like cords of steel.

"Oh, if it isn’t a Drakon," Herald boomed, setting the hammer aside with a grin. "You’ve gotten taller since the last time I saw you."

He walked toward a nearby table, grabbing a rag from it and wiping his calloused hands. "Though honestly, I thought you’d be bigger."

Drake smiled halfheartedly. ’Dwarves and their fun commentary,’ he mused.

"What do I owe the honor of this visit?" Herald asked, running a thick hand through his unruly beard.

Drake exhaled, the weight of his loss pressing on his chest. "I lost my brother’s sword during the Crater Hunt," he said slowly. "I was hoping you could craft another one for me."

Herald’s grin faded. His hand paused mid-motion, and his expression turned grim. "Ah... that sword," he murmured. "I’m sorry, Drake, but that piece was one of a kind. The materials, the enchantment, the balance — all of it custom to your brother’s request. Recreating it... that’s near impossible."

"I’ll pay you twenty thousand credits," Drake said without missing a beat.

Herald’s eyes widened, and his beard twitched in surprise. The change in his demeanor was almost comical — sorrow melting instantly into enthusiasm. "Well, why didn’t you start with that? Sure, I can make something for you! When do you want it ready?"

Drake let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew this was coming. Dwarves had one weakness — wealth. Paying that much was a heavy hit on his finances, but securing Herald’s loyalty and craftsmanship was worth it.

"Actually," Drake continued, "I was thinking of something different this time. Not a sword. Something... else that’s caught my interest."

Herald raised a brow, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Different, huh? Well, color me intrigued. What kind of weapon are we talking about?"

Drake leaned on the counter, eyes glinting faintly beneath his hood. "Something versatile," he said. "Something that doesn’t break easily — and can adapt to my combat style."

Herald nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. "Alright, lad. We’ll work something out. But it’ll cost you extra if you want it quick."

Drake smirked. "I’m sure it will."

---

Meanwhile...

In another part of the city, Headmaster Stoick sat in his office, the weight of exhaustion etched into every line of his face. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the stack of documents on his desk seemed endless.

One by one, he flipped through student files — the newly admitted recruits to the academy. There was an increase this year, thanks to the broadcast of the last exam hunt. The footage had gone viral, and now every young hopeful wanted a piece of that glory.

It was good news, of course — more students meant more funding, and more funding meant more zeros on his paycheck. But with that came more paperwork, more reports, and far less sleep.

He rubbed his temples, muttering, "I should’ve taken that vacation."

Truth was, he hadn’t enjoyed a single day off since the term ended. Between Drake stirring up trouble, other students running wild, and the military’s interference, his workload had tripled.

He dropped the document he was holding and slumped back in his chair. "Maybe just five minutes of rest..."

But as soon as his hands left the paper, guilt struck him like a hammer. He groaned, sat back up, and grabbed it again. "If I don’t do it now, I’ll never go home on time."

The steady rhythm of rustling paper filled the quiet room — until his phone chimed, breaking the monotony.

He froze. That tone. He had been waiting for it.

Reaching into his pocket, Stoick retrieved his phone. The screen lit up with a single notification. As he read it, his face drained of color.

"Dear God..." he whispered.

On the screen, the message was clear — simple, but enough to send a chill down his spine.

{The identity of the Crater has been confirmed.}