The clash of weapons in the sparring hall had ended, but the aftermath lingered. By late afternoon, Connor's battered longsword—a blade that had endured countless mercenary skirmishes before ever touching academy soil—was little more than scrap metal. Dents scarred its surface, and the once sharp edge was now blunt and jagged. A mercenary without his weapon was like a bird stripped of wings.
So, as the hour reached five, Connor followed the map eastward, guided by Kyle's ever-present voice in his head. Beyond the dorms and lecture halls lay the forge of the Academy, a place where countless noble scions sent their retainers to fetch them polished steel. Unlike those pampered heirs, Connor carried his ruined sword on his own shoulder, every step echoing his mercenary roots.
The rhythmic pounding of hammers grew louder with each stride. Soon, heat brushed against his skin like the breath of a furnace, and the colossal shape of the blacksmith hall came into view. Unlike the humble forges of frontier villages, this place loomed vast—three workshops fused into one, its chimneys vomiting thick plumes of smoke into the sky. For nobles, even craftsmanship had to be grand.
Inside, the air was thick with iron, fire, and sweat. The sight should have been intimidating, but for Connor, it brought a strange comfort, like meeting an old friend.
Behind the counter stood a burly man with a coarse beard. The smith's face split into a grin the instant his eyes landed on Connor.
He greeted him like an old acquaintance, his tone heavy with mischief. Somehow, in just three days, Connor's brawl at the entrance ceremony and duel during the freshman match had turned him into a whispered name across the Academy: Highlander. Fame, it seemed, spread faster than wildfire among nobles hungry for gossip.
The smith introduced himself as Josh Smith, shaking Connor's hand with surprising warmth before asking why he'd come. When Connor laid the mangled sword upon the counter, the man's playful air vanished. One glance at the cracked hilt and splintered edge was enough for his eyes to sharpen.
"This one's done for," he said firmly, pushing the weapon back without even drawing it fully. To him, repairing it was wasteful—better to forge anew.
But Connor hesitated. To others, this was cheap steel. To him, it was a comrade, the blade that had drunk blood with him through countless mercenary campaigns. Letting it go felt like letting go of a piece of himself. So he pressed, asking if restoration was possible, not just practical.
Smith chuckled, calling him stubborn yet sharp-eyed. With effort, yes, the blade could be reforged—but it would take three weeks. Far too long, with the first round of academy exams looming in two. The timing was cruel.
As if to add salt to the wound, Smith teased Connor with an outrageous repair fee, making him pale in horror before bursting out in laughter. The real price, of course, was nothing. All academy weapon maintenance was subsidized, free of charge. Connor cursed under his breath at being toyed with, though relief washed over him.
Still, a new weapon was unavoidable. Without one, he would enter battle half-naked.
The smith offered him a choice, pointing to rows of well-forged blades lining the racks. Connor's hand instinctively twitched toward a longsword, but Kyle's warning echoed in his mind. He was not born for swords. There was another path waiting. And so, almost reluctantly, Connor voiced the question lingering within him:
"…Do you have a Dwarven Blade?"
The words froze the forge. The laughter that followed was thunderous, the kind reserved for sheer absurdity. To seek such a weapon here was folly.
Dwarves were unmatched artisans of steel, their secret forging techniques guarded more fiercely than gold. Even a master blacksmith of the human kingdoms could not reproduce their legendary blades. To request one at a school forge was akin to asking a farmer for a dragon egg.
Yet Connor's expression did not waver. He truly meant it.
Smith eventually sobered, his tone turning almost respectful. No, there were no such blades here. Not unless one had extraordinary luck—or extraordinary connections.
And fate, ever cruel, provided just that.
The air in the forge shifted. A polite greeting rang out, and both men turned to the door. There stood Zephyrus Astram, ranked twenty-ninth among the most gifted students of the Academy and representative of the Alima Union. His brown hair, soft as wool, framed a smile that was unreadable, both inviting and dangerous.
In a blur, his figure vanished and reappeared beside Connor in less than a heartbeat, his Gift a frightening display of speed. Leaning casually against the counter, Zephyrus spoke as though the entire conversation had been staged for his entrance.
He had overheard Connor's request.
And then, with a smile as calm as moonlight, he dropped the weight of destiny onto the table:
He possessed a Dwarven Blade.
Would Connor like to see it?
The question was simple, yet Connor's gut twisted with unease. This was no coincidence. Zephyrus's sudden appearance was calculated, his timing too perfect. Behind that smile lay intent, and Connor knew it.
But refusal was impossible. As a commoner standing before one of the Academy's elites, declining would mean more than arrogance—it would mean painting a target on his back.
So, even as his forehead prickled with warning, Connor bowed slightly and accepted.
For better or worse, the path before him had shifted. The fate of steel and blood was calling.