Steadily Upgrading Everything!

Hours passed within the dimly lit cavern, the steady rhythm of Clark's hammer echoing like a heartbeat through the stone walls.

The air smelled faintly of heated metal and the acrid tang of forging oils, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows that made the corners of the chamber seem deeper than they were.

Finally, Clark rose from his station. His clothes were lightly dusted with soot, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his expression was triumphant.

In his hand, he held the newly forged sword, a sleek, black blade that gleamed faintly under the torchlight, its surface absorbing more light than it reflected.

Carved into the blade's body in fine, silver script was John's name.

Clark's lips spread into a broad smile as he turned the weapon in his hand, admiring his work.

"My swordsmithing skills," he said with an unmistakable note of pride, "are still as good as ever." He gave the blade an experimental flourish, slicing the air with a clean, whispering sound that spoke of its sharpness.

Across the chamber, Crimson sat slouched against the rough wall, idly running his thumb along the edge of his own weapon.

The moment his eyes landed on the black blade with John's name etched into it, his jaw tightened.

A sneer tugged at his lips, his fingers flexing in irritation.

For a brief moment, it looked as if he might spit some cutting remark, but the memory of being ignored earlier made him stop.

His expression twisted briefly with restrained frustration before settling back into cold silence.

Benneca returned not long after, her footsteps steady as she descended the worn staircase.

Her expression was as unreadable as ever, calm, detached, her gaze giving away neither approval nor disdain.

Without a word, she took her place near the others, her hands folded behind her back.

Now, all three stood waiting for John to emerge from his tent.

Clark eventually turned toward the dark fabric structure and raised his voice. "Hey, how long are you going to take? Your sword's ready."

From within came John's muffled reply. "Just a bit."

A few seconds later, the flap shifted, and John stepped out. He looked refreshed, the pallor of injury replaced with the steady vitality of someone fully healed.

The faint scent of herbs clung to him, likely from the effects of his healing pill.

His tent he closed neatly but left standing instead of returning it to his Spatial Bag.

His gaze immediately found the sword in Clark's hands.

For a moment, his eyes lingered on the dark blade, tracing the etching of his own name before shifting toward Clark and Benneca.

He gave them both a small, measured nod.

Benneca's response was to simply avert her eyes, as if dismissing the gesture entirely.

Clark, however, smiled warmly and extended the weapon toward him. "Check it out. How does it feel?"

John took the sword, his fingers curling around the grip.

The balance was perfect, the weight comfortable in his hand.

He tested it with a few swift arcs, the blade cutting the air with an almost imperceptible hum.

Finally, he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The balance is excellent, and the edge…" He tilted it toward the light, running his thumb lightly along it without touching the sharpened part. "…sharp enough to shave a breath of wind."

Clark's grin widened. "Good. Then let's begin the ceremony." He retrieved the sword from John and cast a glance toward Benneca and Crimson.

Both gave different signs of resignation, Benneca with a small, quiet exhale, and Crimson with a short, annoyed hiss of breath, but each stepped back, creating space.

"Kneel," Clark instructed, his tone firm but not unkind.

John's brows knitted slightly.

The request wasn't unexpected, but still, the act of kneeling felt weighty in this place.

After a brief pause, he lowered himself to one knee.

If this was part of their tradition, he would respect it, at least for now.

Clark's smile softened, though his movements remained precise as he positioned himself in front of John.

The sword's black tip came to rest at the hollow of John's throat, the pressure just enough to dimple his skin and threaten the bite of steel.

"For the Silentswords," Clark intoned, his voice carrying in the quiet cavern, "the Angels of Night. I, Clark Silentsword, a true-blood Silentsword, bestow upon you, John Coral, the Silentsword name. Are you willing to leave your old world behind and join the Silentsword Clan?"

The air felt heavier with each word, the subtle hum of power threading through Clark's voice.

John's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his mind flashing through everything this decision might mean. After a pause, he spoke, steady but low. "I accept."

Clark's smile widened, his eyes glinting with approval.

Off to the side, Crimson's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles pale, while Benneca's expression remained utterly still, like carved stone.

"You will be loyal to the Silentsword Clan," Clark continued. "You will protect your brothers and sisters when they are in need, and you must be willing to lay down your life for the clan. Are you still willing?"

"Yes," John replied without hesitation.

"Then," Clark said, his voice rich with finality, "take your Silentsword and let it taste your blood."

John quickly understood Clark's words. Without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed the black sword from the front, his palm immediately splitting open as blood trickled down his fingers.

The pain was sharp, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the cold steel now in his grasp.

He gave the weapon a light tug toward himself, and to his surprise, Clark released it without resistance.

"Good," Clark said with a satisfied smile, his tone carrying the weight of approval.

John rose to his feet, transferring the sword into his uninjured hand.

His gaze drifted first to the fresh wound on his palm, blood dripping steadily to the floor, then to the blade itself.

The dark metal seemed to breathe, faintly pulsing as if alive.

For a brief moment, he saw his name glowing along its surface in a faint crimson hue.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the glow vanished. The blood, too, was gone, absorbed into the weapon as though the sword had drunk it.

"From now on," Clark declared, his voice echoing faintly in the dim space, "you are a Silent Sword." He threw his head back and laughed loudly, the sound rolling like thunder.

"Thanks," John said, a small smile tugging at his lips. He slid the sword carefully into his spatial bag, the weight of its significance pressing on him.

Before the moment could linger, Benneca's cold voice cut through the air like a shard of ice.

"So, if we are done with the theatrics… break the seal."

John met her gaze briefly, then turned toward the ancient lock.

It loomed in front of him, covered in layers of glowing talismans, its surface radiating a suppressive aura.

He inhaled deeply, steadying his breath.

"Soul Piercing Gaze!"

A beam of golden light burst from the center of his forehead, striking the lock with a piercing hum.

This time, he poured every last drop of his focus into it.

The lock began to tremble violently, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface.

He had already weakened it earlier, so there was no backlash this time, but the price was his strength. His Qi burned away rapidly, sweat dripping down his temple as his vision blurred. His legs trembled, then buckled, forcing him down to one knee.

Still, he refused to stop.

With gritted teeth, he unleashed another barrage of golden strikes, each one pounding against the lock with desperate determination.

Off to the side, Crimson's eyes narrowed. The moment he saw John faltering, an almost gleeful killing intent flickered across his face.

His hand wrapped tighter around the hilt of his own sword, his lips curling into a sinister smile.

Clark and Benneca remained oblivious, too absorbed in watching the seal's destruction to notice.

"Bang!!"

With a final resounding crack, the lock jolted violently.

The talismans exploded into scraps of burning paper, scattering like dying fireflies.

The lock itself shattered completely, fragments clattering across the stone floor until nothing remained but dust.

"He broke it," Benneca said, for once sounding faintly surprised.

"Yeah! He did!" Clark laughed again, pride in his voice.

Neither of them saw what happened next.

A cold flash of steel.

A wet, sickening sound.

A blade burst through John's chest from behind, the tip glistening red as it emerged from the front, piercing straight through his heart.

"You did it, John!" Clark's voice rang out, his tone filled with triumph as he turned toward him—only for the words to choke in his throat.

What greeted his eyes froze him where he stood.

"You…!"

Crimson's blade, glistening with fresh blood, was buried deep in John's chest.

The crimson metal almost seemed to pulse with a malevolent gleam, drinking in the life it had just stolen.

Behind John stood Crimson himself, a satisfied smile curling across his face, as if the world had just gone exactly the way he wanted.

John's body slumped forward, his knees giving out as blood spread in a dark, pooling bloom beneath him.

His chest rose no more, the shallow warmth of his breath gone entirely.

Even without checking, everyone present could tell, he was dead.

Benneca's usually expressionless face broke ever so slightly, her brows knitting together, a faint frown tugging at her lips.

Her eyes, cold and assessing, locked on Crimson.

"What have you done, Crimson?" she said, her tone flat but laced with quiet menace. "This is treason."

Crimson chuckled, a low, mocking sound that grated against the tense silence. "Ha… this guy was too arrogant for his own good. Look at him, he's not smirking anymore." He twisted his wrist and pulled his blade free with a sickening shrrrk, letting John's body fall limply to the blood-soaked ground.

Clark's fists clenched, his voice breaking into a roar. "Crimson!"

Benneca stepped forward, her hand brushing over the hilt of her dagger.

The moment her fingers closed around it, the air seemed to drop several degrees.

Frost whispered along the metal, tiny flakes forming at its edge. "We have to capture you now," she said with quiet finality. "You'll be dealt with in the clan."

Crimson tilted his head, stepping back with a casual smirk, as though her words amused him more than they threatened him. "Oh, come on. It's not like he was really one of us. He never even set foot in the clan halls."

Something flickered in his hand, a teleportation talisman, its faint runes beginning to glow.

Benneca's gaze sharpened, her tone dipping into ice. "Don't even think about escaping. You and I both know this is treason."

His smirk widened, and he leaned in slightly, as though to share a private joke. "Treason, loyalty… meaningless words. And by the way..."

He reached into his spatial bag and pulled free a black crown, its surface wreathed in a faint, sinister aura. "You'll never get this without this golden crown," he said, tapping his own head with mockery in his eyes.

Before anyone could stop him, he snapped the talisman in half.

The space around him rippled like disturbed water, the glow intensifying as the teleportation began to take hold.

"You...!" Benneca's mask cracked for the first time, a flare of genuine anger flashing across her face.

"Stop!" Clark bellowed, lunging forward.

But before the teleportation could fully whisk Crimson away, the air behind him tore with a sharp hiss, and a black sword burst clean through his chest from behind.

The blade pierced his heart in one precise, merciless thrust, its dark aura swallowing the glow of the talisman.

Crimson's smile faltered, his breath catching as blood bubbled from his lips.