Herald of death

Sylas lies awake in bed, his eyes stinging as they flutter open. The pale lights of the moons stream through the small window above him. His hand trembles slightly as he brushes it over his face.

His gaze settles on the sword placed against the wall. "I can't sleep anyway," he mutters. He sits up, throws on his pants and shirt, and makes his way to the door where his boots await. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he slips down the stairs. The streets outside are deserted, bathed in the silver and white hues of moonlights.

Sylas pushes open the backdoor of the smithy, igniting a lantern. He feeds the furnaces with coal, coke, and fire Ether crystals. One by one, he ignites them, and the room floods with heat and light, burning his tired eyes.

He inhales deeply, drawing in Ether as he surveys the ores stored in the smithy. Three large wooden crates hold iron ores, meticulously sorted by their Ether contents. Above them, small chests house rarer ores: bright steel, spark steel, ember steel, and the wyrdium he recently brought back.

Doubt gnaws at him as his hand hovers over the ores. Should he risk the Ether-dense iron, knowing he could waste it like this morning?

His eyes catch on a book and a small chest lying on his workbench, with a note resting on top. "I was planning on gifting you these for your birthday, but I think it’s better you have them now. The book belonged to my master and his master before him. I will soon retire, and I hope you'll pursue our craft to its greatest heights. Perhaps one day you’ll add to it and pass it on to a worthy successor. Edgar." Sylas' chest swells with pride at Edgar's words.

He opens the thick, leather-bound book. Its sturdy pages hold drawings of weapons and knowledge about ores and techniques. Some pages are newer; others bear annotations correcting flawed information.

Sylas grabs a stool and sits at his workbench, finding a bookmark placed within the book. The marked pages describe a technique of layering different materials to mix their unique properties. It could create a blade capable of channeling multiple Ether affinities.

"I only have time to craft one blade. Might as well take the risk," he mutters. His hand hovers the small chest Edgar left. He lifts the lid, finding two perfectly square-cut, pure Ether crystals. Their energy twists the surrounding threads, emitting an aura stronger than anything Sylas has felt before. He shuts the lid, silencing their overwhelming presence.

"I guess I have no choice but to honor your wish," he whispers, carefully moving the crystals, book, and letter to the edge of his workbench. He selects the densest pieces of iron and the purest wyrdium. The wyrdium will enhance any unnatural Ether, making the sword adaptable to whatever abilities Sylas may acquire. The iron will ensure a sturdy blade, capable of withstanding even the strongest blows.

He begins heating the ores in separate spots of the furnace, the fire Ether crystals intensifying the heat. Uncovering a cracked wind Ether crystal, he directs it into the furnace, pushing the temperature to unbearable heights. "Heat resistance," he mutters, shielding himself from it.

Before the ores begin to melt, which would cause the Ether to leak away, he moves the wind Ether crystal, controlling the temperature. He picks up a piece of red-hot ore and places it on his anvil. Using Strengthening, he hammers it, crushing and folding the material until the impurities fall away. One by one, he refines each chunk into thin, rectangular plates.

Once all the plates are heated again, Sylas stacks them, alternating layers of wyrdium and iron. He hammers the stack into a sword billet, then folds it onto itself, doubling the number of layers. Hours blur together in a haze of heat and sweat as he repeats the process until he reaches the tenth fold. The wyrdium's hue is now nearly indistinguishable from that of the iron.

As the billet reaches a bright, almost white-hot glow, Sylas pulls it from the forge and lays it before him. With a shout, he brings his hammer down with all his might, striking the metal. Sparks fly in every direction. Again and again, he pounds the billet, shaping it and forcing it to bend to his will. Each blow serves as an outlet for the frustration and fury that have been building inside him since he was conscripted.

Yet with each hammer stroke, a gnawing fear creeps into Sylas' mind. He dreads the thought of this blade, crafted by his own hand, being wielded to arm innocents, or worse, to take their lives. The notion that this weapon, born from his labor, might fall into wicked hands churns his stomach. It might be true of all the weapons he has crafted, but this one will be his strongest creation yet.

Sweat pours down his face, sizzling as it hits the blade. As it takes shape, Sylas channels the Ether within the metal towards the edges, not by will but in response to his turbulent emotions. Gradually, his mind clears, the anger, stress, and fear subsiding. He holds the sword up, inspecting his work. It is wider, thicker, and heavier than a typical long sword, yet it feels light in his hand.

He brings it to the grindstone, refining the edges with a strength that eats away at the stone with each passing minute. When he lifts the blade from the tool, it reveals swirling patterns of green and grey, prominent along the edges and in the fullers.

He returns the blade to the furnace. Sylas checks the book, adjusting the wind Ether crystal to achieve the perfect temperature for high tempering.

He then forms a guard from Ether-dense ore, shaping it into flat spikes with central square sockets. He carefully fits the tang of the blade, repeating the process for the pommel, which he molds into a beveled diamond shape. He uses a die to thread the tang, ensuring the pommel aligns perfectly with the blade.

From a log of ironwood — a dense wood that sinks in water — Sylas carves a handle, shaping it into a slight oval to guide the grip. He wraps the handle in blueish leather, harvested from a small hydra, securing it with glue after testing the fit.

Finally, Sylas dips the red-hot blade into an oil bath. He pulls it out, checking for any warping and preparing to correct it with a bench vice if needed. None appears. He smiles, satisfied as the blade's patterns cast a greenish glow across the forge.

Assembling the final pieces, Sylas places the sword on his workbench, using supports to level it. He sets the Ether crystals into the guard's sockets, carefully folding the metal edges to hold them in place.

With a deep breath, Sylas dreads the next moment where the system will judge his work. "Enchanting," he whispers, and a gray window appears above the blade.

Enchanting

This blade can hold three enchantments: two C-ranked enchantments and one B-ranked enchantment.

Speak the names of the enchantments you want to bestow upon the blade, in ascending order of ranks. Enchantments may fail if attributed to slots of insufficient rank.

This blade, made in disdain of authority, in want of freedom, and in the need for innocence, yearns for the [Righteous] enchantment.

The quality of an item, regardless of the Ether its materials hold, is the main component of the enchantment rank it can bear. Sylas feels a swell of pride as he gazes at the B-ranked slot, knowing it's a testament to his craftsmanship. Moreover, the blade is so well-forged that it can accommodate two crystals—a rarity, as per his teachings.

"This is the first time I've seen a message about a blade requesting an enchantment," Sylas murmurs. "Cancel," he quickly decides, not wanting to inscribe the blade after toughening it. He turns back to the book in search of a section on enchantments.

"Besides the basics Edgar already mentioned, there’s not much here," Sylas mutters, his eyes scanning the remaining pages. "It seems Edgar’s predecessors weren’t particularly versed in this domain. Maybe I could learn by examining weapons and armor I come across. An elemental enchantment would be a safe choice, but it feels like such a waste."

Taking a deep breath, Sylas picks up a hammer and chisel knife, his hands momentarily pausing in hesitation. The uncertainty of which enchantment to choose—and by extension, what name to bestow upon the blade—weighs on him. Finally, he carves sigils into both sides of the blade, filling them with golden threads. "Righteous Edge," Sylas reads aloud, holding the blade before him.

"Enchanting," he commands, bringing the window back into view. "Sharpness, durability, righteous."

The crystals dim and transform into iron, their Ether flowing into the sword. A soft white light radiates from the blade, which now emits a faint whistle, like the whisper of wind through the air—a pure note underscored by a gentle hum.

"You leveled up. Crafting (Jewelry) leveled up (x5)," the system announces. Sylas smirks; despite the prettiness of golden sigils, it hardly seems like jewelry work.

"Identification," Sylas commands.

Righteous Edge

This long sword can only be wielded by those of pure intentions, those who uphold honor and righteousness. When wielded by a paragon of these virtues, it will reveal its true power.

The blade, forged partially from wyrdium, amplifies all unnatural Ethers. Ether infuses the blade, enhancing its durability and edge.

This weapon has been enchanted with [Sharpness (C)], [Durability (C)], and [Righteous (A)].

"It... evolved," Sylas stammers, reading the description again with a soft smile. "I suppose one day, someone truly worthy will wield you. I'll be long gone by then."

Despite the fatigue, he reaches for a sheet of paper from Edgar's drafting board. With a writing quill, he carefully sketches his creation, documenting every step and its enchantments. Exhaustion overtakes him. He drifts into a deep sleep, the wooden chair beneath him somehow becoming remarkably comfortable.