Noah had been gone for an hour.
Kana lay listless at a table, clutching a bottle of wine. She had wanted to be merciful and go with Noah, but he had ruthlessly refused.
He wasn't used to fighting in a team.
"What? A mere newcomer dares refuse the care and love of a guild elder like me?"
Kana muttered to herself, worried that something had happened to Noah — that would mean she'd lose her commission. Even a defective 998 item would net her a 5% cut of nearly 5,000.
Dolan sat down with a small ice bucket and dropped a cube into his glass. "Kana, who is this kid Noah? His magic power is even higher than yours."
"Tsk. You said Erza's power isn't less than mine! What happened? Two years ago someone else became S‑class at 15, and I'm still spinning my wheels."
Kana felt Dolan was teasing her. The gap between her and Erza felt so vast she'd lost the motivation to chase greatness.
Dolan smiled helplessly. "You underestimate yourself, Kana. You have great potential; you just haven't found it."
"I don't believe it. If you can judge someone's power by looking at them, why are you still a blacksmith here?"
"Because this is our clan's home."
Dolan's gaze pierced toward Iron Furnace Ridge, shrouded in heat. Kana had known Dolan long, but this was the first time she heard him call it "home." She wanted to hear more but felt awkward and drank instead.
"Lord Dolan! Something bad's happened!!"
A tailor, mid‑aged and frantic, burst into Dolan's shop. "Master Dolan, word is the Black Magic Cult members are heading for Master Iron Dragon's lair!"
"What?! Those scumbags dare touch Lord Tielong's former residence?! Call everyone — let's go defeat them!"
Dolan's anger was leonine; his fiery magic surged. Kana saw a majestic side of the old man she hadn't known — he was clearly a master.
Following Dolan's orders, a deep horn sounded through the market. Almost all the magic blacksmiths halted work, left their shops, and gathered at Dolan's.
Onlookers were confused. What was happening?
It wasn't just magesmiths who came to Dolan's shop. The captain in standard armor approached with a grave expression. "Chief Dolan, you received the news? The Black Magic branch deliberately exposed itself to divert attention."
"Yes. Two Black Magic priests lead the sect's elite into the depths of Ironforge Ridge."
Dolan, about to command his clan, changed color. "Dark Magic priests? Damn it!"
"Old Dolan, you really killed me!" Kana shoved past Dolan and the sergeant, rushing off to find Noah.
The two Black Magic priests were S‑level wizards, and their methods were cruel. If a newcomer fell to them, he would be in grave danger. Kana felt extreme guilt; if anything happened to Noah, she'd never forgive herself.
But before she could take two steps, a deafening roar echoed from Iron Furnace Ridge's depths — a sound like a dragon and like machinery combined.
————
A valley deep in Tieluling.
The valley was large and sunken, as if carved by some enormous creature. Mountains encircled it, and exposed mineral veins glinted across its surfaces.
About twenty soldiers in black‑and‑white armor marched until they halted at the valley's mouth.
Their two leaders were a burly man named Haomen with "Matcha" marked on his brow, and the handsome blond Jerome, who carried a long sword.
"Found the lair of the Iron Dragon Medalikana."
The wealthy man bowed toward the stone wall in an exact 90 degrees.
Jerome, used to his colleagues' odd behavior, simply drew his sword and infused it with magic. Pitch‑black energy cloaked the blade, radiating a sinister aura.
Several sharp streaks of sword light struck the stone wall.
With a creak, black magic corroded the stone almost instantly, and a huge cave gaped open.
"It has almost no defense. Worn down by time? Or is that iron dragon simply too weak?" Jerome sneered. His "Dark Sword" corrodes all. If not under orders, he wouldn't have bothered exploring the lair.
Jerome believed strength ruled all; the dragon race's decline proved they lacked true power.
Haomen, however, grinned. "An iron dragon that favored humans — since it's so friendly, it shouldn't mind us taking its things, right?"
"Heh. I forgot — the Iron Dragon's been dead 400 years. It can't hear me."
Jerome tolerated the rich man's jest. He signaled his men to enter the cave. To a priest like him, the sect's elite were expendable cannon fodder.
A minute passed. His men did not move.
"Didn't you hear my orders, you bastards?" Jerome snapped, but he was shocked by the sight before him.
Seventeen of the eighteen lay unconscious on the ground; one man remained standing, unmoving.
"Hey! What happened? Answer me!"
Jerome never cared for weaker names; he barked orders. The lone man, however, stood still.
Jerome couldn't get an answer; he tended to his fallen men. Clearly, a master had arrived.
Before Jerome could draw his sword, Haomen cast a spell. A massive axe materialized and flew with brutal force, cleaving a subordinate in two; intestines spilled across the ground in a gruesome scene.
Expecting an ambusher, Haomen checked the area — but no one hid nearby.
As Haomen stepped forward, a figure appeared behind Jerome like a ghost and restrained his right hand just as he reached for his blade.
"All your magic is in that sword. What will you do if you can't even pull it out?"