God’s Tree

Back in Elyrion, the air was still.

The frogs hopped lazily by the stream, their faint glimmers dancing across the mossy ground.

Argolaith stepped out beneath the twin stars and looked at the empty clearing beside his cabin.

This would be the forge's place.

He knelt and placed his hand to the earth.

Mana flowed out like breath, etching runes into the soil, quiet and blue.

Stones from his storage ring tumbled out—flat, smooth, and laced with enchantments.

He placed them in a perfect ring, each marked with a glyph to handle intense magical heat.

At the center, he set a flat stone slab.

It came from a quarry he'd visited long ago, resistant to warping from mana and flame alike.

He whispered to it. The stone responded, faintly glowing.

The air around the forge grew heavy with quiet power.

From his ring, Argolaith pulled out the shimmering ore he had taken from the sanctuary ceiling.

He placed it on the central stone and stared at it in silence.

It pulsed.

Not like metal.

Not like stone.

It was like holding a star that had forgotten its name.

Argolaith sat cross-legged beside it.

He opened the forging books he'd taken from the Academy library.

Dusty tomes full of diagrams, notes, and spells older than most of the Academy itself.

Some pages were burned on the edges.

Others held scribbles in languages he didn't know.

But he could piece together enough to learn.

"Fold the mana, don't force it," he murmured, tracing the diagram with his finger.

"Let the spirit of the metal guide the blade's purpose."

He flipped to a page on adaptive hilts.

Sketches of swords that only responded to the hands of the worthy.

He bookmarked it with a smooth pebble and turned to the next.

As he read, the frogs gathered nearby.

Silent observers, as if drawn to the forge by instinct.

A few glowed more brightly than before.

Argolaith reached into his ring and pulled out a cube.

Not the realm cube.

This one was smaller—shimmering, but dormant.

He placed it beside the ore.

"I wonder…"

He pressed the cube gently to the ore.

Nothing happened at first—then the cube's surface shimmered.

Not absorption, not transformation.

Just resonance.

The cube began to hover over the ore.

Its edges softened slightly, just for a moment.

Argolaith's eyes lit up.

He jotted down notes in the corner of his book.

"Cube responds to the ore's frequency. May be compatible."

He underlined the words twice.

His mind raced ahead.

If he could use the cube not just as a spell anchor—but as a component…

What if the sword's edge could hold spells, release them only when needed?

He stood and began drawing with chalk on the flat stone.

Sword designs—long blades, wide blades, single-edge, double.

But none felt quite right.

He looked up at Elyrion's sky, its stars blinking even in daylight.

Then down to the frogs, who sat still like little green sentinels.

He smiled.

He sketched again.

This time with less focus on form and more on feeling.

The result was a blade that was not for war—but for judgment.

A curved edge of unknown ore, with a cube bound into the core of the hilt.

It would not cut unless it needed to.

Not unless the soul it faced had done wrong.

Argolaith leaned back.

His body ached from days of travel, but his heart was calm.

He had a path now.

Tomorrow, he would begin the shaping.

The first spark of the forge would come with sunrise.

He'd need more fuel, more tools—more knowledge, perhaps.

But for tonight…

He stayed under the twin stars until they dipped.

Frogs croaked gently beside the stream.

He left the cube and ore untouched, letting them rest together.

Then he returned to his cabin, lit a single lantern, and sat at his outside table.

He took a bite of dried fruit, sipped warm tea, and opened his notebook again.

Plans filled the pages.

But Argolaith knew one truth above all—

He wasn't forging just a blade.

He was forging legacy.

Morning broke softly across Elyrion.

Light filtered through the magical canopy, warm and gold, glimmering on the dew-covered leaves.

Argolaith stood in front of the forge he had built.

The cube still hovered gently above the ore.

It hadn't moved all night.

He reached forward, touched the cube—and it settled down into his palm.

A quiet hum.

Not power.

Not warning.

Acceptance.

He placed it beside the anvil stone and began to arrange the materials.

Charcoal infused with elemental runes.

Magical coals that never went out.

From his ring, he summoned a flame crystal.

It burned white-blue with pure mana.

He cracked it in half and tossed it into the furnace pit.

A flare of light bloomed upward.

No smoke. Just clean heat.

He added more enchanted coal, stoked it with a breath of magic.

The forge roared to life.

Frogs chirped from nearby, unaffected.

It was peaceful—even with the fire.

He placed the ore atop the anvil and studied it again.

The veins in the metal glowed faintly.

Not from the heat—but something deeper.

He reached for his hammer—an old, enchanted one from his storage ring.

Not the best.

But not the worst.

With a deep breath, Argolaith began to shape the metal.

Slow, deliberate strikes.

Each hit softened the ore, awakened its memory.

The cube hovered again—its surface rippling like disturbed water.

Every time the hammer struck, the cube pulsed with light.

He spoke softly as he worked.

Not spells—but words of intention.

"Judgment without hatred. Strength without cruelty."

The blade began to form.

Not long.

Not wide.

Slightly curved, like a crescent caught in motion.

Hours passed.

He stopped only to cool the metal in enchanted water from Elyrion's stream.

It hissed, releasing a glow into the air.

By midday, the blade's shape was complete.

It looked simple—but it felt right.

Balanced. Quiet. Just.

He set the metal aside to rest.

The cube nestled close, absorbing some of the residual heat.

Almost protectively.

Next came the hilt.

He carved wood from a tree deep in Elyrion.

Its bark shimmered with faint magical patterns, tough but flexible.

He wrapped the grip in cloth made from threads soaked in star-silk he'd gotten from the Academy vault.

Soft, yet unbreakable.

When the blade was cool enough, he embedded the cube into the heart of the hilt.

It slid into place like it had always belonged there.

For a moment, everything went still.

The cube pulsed—and the blade shimmered.

Not glowing.

Not burning.

Just… alive.

He held the sword upright.

It felt heavier than expected—but it wasn't the weight of steel.

It was responsibility.

The frogs watched from the grass.

One leapt onto the forge stone and croaked gently.

As if to approve.

Argolaith chuckled softly.

He sat at his table, the sword resting beside him, and pulled out his journal.

He wrote:

"Blade complete. Bound with cube. Not yet tested. No need—yet."

"Will name it only when it earns one."

He closed the journal and looked at the sky above Elyrion.

Soft clouds moved like brushstrokes across the canvas of the twin stars.

The forge crackled behind him.

The sword gleamed quietly.

And Argolaith smiled—content, for now.