When I returned to Hephaestus's workshop, the heat inside was reminiscent of the seventh circle of hell. Blue flames from the massive forge surged all the way to the ceiling, devouring the oxygen in the air. The master stood before the furnace, examining molten metal with tongs fashioned from dragon bone. When he noticed me, he set his work aside. His single eye narrowed. His gaze moved from my mask, to the heavy, lead-lined box in my hands, and finally to the faint but unmistakable scent of blood clinging to me.
"You're back," he said, his voice filled with suspicion and mild disappointment. "And in one piece. Honestly, I expected to find you with your throat slit in a dumpster behind the Auction House. Tartarus has a fondness for rookies like you."
I placed the box on the workbench beside the legendary anvil scarred with thousands of hammer marks. The sound of metal striking metal was dull and heavy. "I did what I told you," I said, removing my mask. The air was far too hot and dense here for filtered breathing. The wave of heat hitting my face instantly evaporated the sweat on my skin. "Starsteel. And the rest of the formula."
Grumbling, Hephaestus opened the box and lifted out the rough, silvery-blue metal glowing faintly from within. He held it to the flames, studying the way the light refracted. His brows knitted together. The expectation on his face shifted into pure anger. He turned toward me, looking as though he might hurl the metal straight at my face.
"Are you mocking me, boy? This isn't pure! It has obsidian veins in it. This metal is tainted. You couldn't make an S-Rank weapon with this—hell, you couldn't even make a C-Rank knife. The energy flow would choke on the first strike and the weapon would explode! You're wasting my money and my time."
"It won't break," I said calmly, pulling my cloak aside and calling Grim from my arm. The black slime spilled onto the workbench, hissing in reaction to the forge's heat. "Because you won't cool it using standard methods. You'll drown it."
Hephaestus froze. "What?"
I pulled out the second sheet of paper—the missing piece of the formula—and placed it on the anvil. "Starsteel conducts mana. Obsidian traps and insulates it. Yes, if you forge them together using your usual 'Fire and Water' method, the opposing properties will cause fractures." I pointed at a complex equation on the page. "But if you apply Reverse Osmosis during forging—if you shock the metal not in cold water, but in condensed Liquid Aether—the obsidian won't crack or melt. It embeds itself inside the Starsteel like a microscopic skeleton."
Hephaestus took the paper. His eyes raced over the lines, his lips silently mouthing the words. The veins on his forehead bulged. The anger on his face slowly faded, replaced by deep contemplation, denial—and finally a mad, heretical excitement.
"Using obsidian not as an insulator," he muttered, "but as a capacitor to store mana inside the weapon…" He lifted his head. The forge's flames danced in his eyes. "This… this is madness. An insult to the laws of metallurgy. But theoretically… it could work."
He picked up his hammer. In that moment, he looked less like a blacksmith and more like a god of war.
"Stand back, Writer," he said, using the new nickname he had given me. "It's time to make art. And if it explodes, I'll throw you into the furnace."
The next four hours were the most mesmerizing and terrifying sight I had ever witnessed. Hephaestus wasn't forging metal—he was waging war against the elements.
When the Starsteel melted, the light it released was blinding. The cavern became brighter than daylight. Hephaestus plunged his bare hands into that light, carving runes into the liquid metal with his fingers. Each strike of the hammer made the cavern quake.
BOOM.
With every blow, he wasn't aligning the metal—but the atoms within it.
BOOM.
I watched from the corner with Grim. Overwhelmed by the forge's heat and Hephaestus's oppressive aura, Grim trembled and wrapped itself around my leg.
"Don't be afraid," I said, stroking it. "He's building you a new home. A shell where you'll be safe."
And then, the critical moment arrived.
"Shock!" Hephaestus roared.
He plunged the incandescent metal—radiating white and violet light—into a prepared tank filled with bubbling purple liquid, where purified mana crystals had been dissolved.
TISSSSSSSSS!
There was no steam. Instead, shockwaves rippled outward. Glass throughout the cavern cracked. My ears rang. Purple fumes rose from the tank, curling through the air like ghosts. Using his tongs, Hephaestus pulled it from the haze.
It wasn't a sword.
It was a geometric hilt, roughly thirty centimeters long, matte black with silver veins running through it. Its design was savage—like a meteor fragment sculpted by wind and speed after falling from space. The surface was smooth, yet dark enough to swallow light. At the grip, there was a deep, hollow socket.
A socket meant for Grim.
Hephaestus extended the hilt toward me. His hand was trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the nature of what he had created.
"Take it," he said. "The strangest work of my life. I didn't sign it. But anyone who sees it will know it isn't of this world. This thing… is hungry."
I took the hilt in my hand. It was heavier than I expected—but the balance was flawless. It merged with my grip as if it were an extension of my arm.
"Grim," I said.
The black slime climbed up from my leg, wrapped around my body, flowed down my arm, and reached my hand. It poured into the socket on the hilt. The black liquid filled the obsidian channels inside the metal.
And in that moment… the hilt awakened.
The silver veins flared with violet light.
VUUUUM.
A low-frequency hum filled the air. From the tip of the hilt, not a physical steel blade but a black, trembling, smoky, unstable blade formed—shaped entirely by Grim. It resembled a lightsaber, but forged not of light, but of darkness and nothingness. Thanks to Starsteel's conductivity, Grim no longer needed my energy to maintain its form. The metal had become its skeleton.
I swung the weapon through the air. A black afterimage—a lingering tear—hung suspended behind it.
My system panel flickered open.
[New Weapon Detected]
[Name: PURGATORY (ARAF)]
[Type: Growth Weapon / Symbiotic Artifact]
[Rank: Unique – Initial Stage]
[Attributes:]
Variable Form: Can shift into Sword, Dagger, Scythe, or Whip according to the user's will. (Transition time: 0.1 sec)Mana Eater (Soul Eater): Steals mana from enemies it cuts and transfers it to the user.Glitch: 5% chance to completely ignore physical defense (True Damage).
Hephaestus grinned. His face was smeared with soot and sweat. "Purgatory… A fitting name for those caught between two worlds. Between Heaven and Hell." He leaned against the workbench, on the verge of collapse. "Our debt is paid, Raven. Now go. I need to cool my forge. And don't flaunt that weapon in public. If you do, the High Tribunal will hang us both."
I fastened the hilt to the belt at my waist. Grim withdrew into it, entering sleep mode. It looked like nothing more than a sleek, black piece of metal without a blade.
"Thank you, Master," I said. "This isn't a weapon. It's a legacy."
[Time: 05:30]
[Location: Academy Dormitory – Arthur's Room]
When I slipped back into my room through the ventilation shaft, the sun was about to rise. My body was exhausted. My muscles ached. My mind was hazy. I had returned Jin's belongings, taken a shower, and put on my uniform. I looked into the mirror. Dark circles shadowed my eyes—but the timid expression that once lingered there was gone.
Last night, I hadn't merely acquired a weapon.
I had earned a reputation in Tartarus, secured a fortune, and doubled my potential.
I hid Purgatory—the black hilt—against the small of my back, beneath my jacket. When the cold metal touched my skin, I didn't flinch. I felt safe. Grim murmured inside my mind.
I feel strong. I feel complete.
So do I, I replied.
When the assembly horn sounded at 06:00, I stood among the sleepy students lining up in the courtyard. Professor Scarlet surveyed us from the podium. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd—and paused on me. One second. I lowered my head slightly. She narrowed her eyes for the briefest moment, then looked away.
Message received.
Jin Ryer nudged me at my side. His eyes were puffy. "Hey, Arthur. Where were you last night? I got up to use the bathroom—your room was dead quiet."
I smiled. That old, naive, slightly foolish smile. "Just sleeping, Jin. Dungeon fatigue. I slept really deeply. Didn't even dream."
From the back row, I could feel Draven's hackles rising as he stared at me with suspicion. And from the highest window of the library tower, Elena watched us—not with binoculars, but with her ice-blue eyes.
Everyone was planning something.
Everyone had an agenda.
But no one knew how the black metal hidden beneath my jacket would tear apart this world's balance—how it would rip the script to shreds.
I drew a deep breath. The cool morning air filled my lungs.
"The second act begins," I whispered as the sun rose.
"And this time… the script is written in blood."