They all erupt again—loud, confident laughs.

"He'll fold," one sneers.

"You'll cry when the hammer hits," another adds.

"Better bring a handkerchief, little Human," the third says, grinning.

Lathrasiel watches them, amusement fading into calculation.

"Fine," he says to me. "You'll have your show. They can stand and watch."

I meet their eyes one by one. My voice is calm.

"Watch closely."

I make them lay out the raw ore on two tables. Same light. Same scales. Same crucibles. No excuses.

Lathrasiel goes first and brings a basket of random Platinum ore.

He picks a lumpy, dull-gray piece with clouded veins and a rough fracture.

Is he trying to make a point? Is he stupid? It doesn't matter how skilled he is. If this is bad enough…

The Grimoire blinks in my sight.

[Platinum Ore — Purity 15%. High silicate, sulfur veins, iron inclusions.]

He doesn't even look twice. He drops it into his bucket like he's picking rocks for a road.

I take my time. I break three rocks with a cold chisel.

The fourth piece rings cleaner. Fine, tight grain. Pale metallic sheen in the fracture, almost waxy. The Grimoire nods.

[Platinum Ore — Purity 90%. Trace iridium, nickel 0.7%, low sulfur.]

I set it on the scale. The apprentices stop snickering for half a second, then start again.

"Look how long he took! He thinks he's a Blacksmith!"

"Maybe he'll meditate at it next," one of them says. "Ask the ore to behave."

"Careful, he might sing to it," another adds. "Humans love their little rituals."

Lathrasiel doesn't stop them. He watches my hands, cold and distant. "If you need a chisel to pick ore, you've already failed," he says. "A true smith sees quality at a glance."

I keep my face blank.

"Sure, buddy. Just get to work."

"Trust me, boy," the third apprentice calls out, "Platinum doesn't care about your careful eyes. It cares about the forge that shapes it."

"Relax," I say. "You'll get your show."

They smirk like it's already over. Lathrasiel gestures at the hearths. "Then stop wasting everyone's time. Charge your crucible. We'll see what your 'care' is worth."

We work in parallel. The forges roar. I move like a man following steps on a floor he just learned. I fumble a tong change. I almost set a glove on fire. The three apprentices howl every time I reach for the wrong tool, then grab the right one when I look at Lathrasiel.

Lathrasiel doesn't look at me. He runs his hearth hot and open, stoking hard, flame white and loud. He acts like he's done this a thousand times. He probably has.

I let the Grimoire tell me when to lift, when to wait, when to pour. I don't try to be clever. I just do what it says. The numbers climb, hold, settle. My hands keep the rhythm. I can feel the melt going smooth.

"Watch him, he's counting in his head," one apprentice says. "Maybe he thinks numbers will bless the metal."

"Maybe he thinks smiling helps," another adds.

I realize I'm grinning and don't bother to hide it. The line is clean. The pool looks right.

"Look at him," the third snorts. "Happy because it didn't explode. Adorable."

Lathrasiel pours first. The stream is steady and bright. The surface settles flat. His three shadows clap and nod like they've just watched a temple rite.

"Perfect, masterful!" one says.

"Textbook," another adds.

"Try to learn something," the third throws at me.

I don't rush. I pour my melt. The lip wobbles once. A drip kisses the rim. The ingot looks rough on top. The snickers come back hard.

"That's your 'care'?"

"Put it back and start over."

"Maybe he'll pray to it."

We cool. We bring them to the bench.

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"Go call the Quartermaster," I say with a smile.

They do, and then I look at the metal.

I worked in a mine, so I know a thing or two.

"Ring test," I say.

Lathrasiel taps his. The note is short. It dies fast. I tap mine. The tone is clear and long. The room goes quiet.

I scrape a corner. His face dulls under the file, veins of black streaking through the cut. Mine shows a tight, clean shine. I chip a sliver from each. The Grimoire flashes in my eye.

[81% purity, slag inclusions.]

Then mine.

[99% purity, slightly non-uniform grain.]

The quartermaster strides over, frown already set.

"What now?" he mutters. "You lot turning this forge into a circus again?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He looks at the two ingots on the bench.

He taps the first one—Lathrasiel's. The note dies fast. He barely nods. "Sort of adequate," he says. "Too brittle, though."

He snaps the ingot in two with his bare hands.

"Meh. I guess that for an Apprentice Knight focused on combat, this in not bad, Cloud. But wait…"

Oh. He thinks that's mine. This is going to be fun.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He looks at the ingots, wipes his hand on a rag, and points at the cleaner one.

"Good work, Lathrasiel," he says. "A bit rough on top, but I can see the quality from here. He raps it with a knuckle, barely listening for the note. "See?" He says toward me. "Proper."

He flicks his eyes again to my ingot, shaking his head.

"And this—this is what happens when Knights play at forging. Rough mouth. Sloppy pour. Keep fighters out of my line next time." He shakes his head. "Of course a blacksmith apprentice will win. You don't see us grabbing swords and running at monsters, do you?"

Everyone else but me and the Quartermaster has suddenly become very pale.

The Quartermaster suddenly leaves, uninterested in this little feud.

I don't give Lathrasiel the chance. I step in, catch his wrist, roll his sleeve. He jerks, too slow. I slap him. Once. Clean, open-handed. The sound echoes off the stone

"That's for melting my ore," I say, voice flat. "Next time, test before you talk."

Twice.

"This is for the lack of respect when talking to another student."

Then a third time.

"This is just because I don't like you."

* * *

The Mithril Golem watches without being seen. Its veil holds. Heat rolls through the Quarters; it stands still and records. This is the place it understands. Fire. Weight. Time.

The boy works like someone new to the tools, but his eyes stay on the numbers only he can see. He does not chase the flame. He does not copy the elf. He follows sequence, holds the heat, pours on count. The note of his ingot hangs longer. The grain speaks for itself.

It marks the other signs. He picks ore by core, not skin. He keeps his temper until the work is done. He ignores noise. When pressed, he defends his material. He wants his metal, not any metal. That matters.

Rafnov's first step is earth and judgment. The second is forge and obedience: to heat, to timing, to the truth of the pool over pride. The boy meets it in function, if not in form.

Blacksmithing is an important step to be worth of my master's legacy.

It's time for me to make arrangements.

He's ready for the second trial.

* * *

Lathrasiel is nursing his cheek when a large man enters the forge.

Lathrasiel is hunched over a stool, hand on his cheek, when a large man steps through the archway. Broad shoulders. Burn scars up his forearms. The room goes quiet.

Garin Holt looks once at the ingots, then at Lathrasiel's face, then at me. "What's the meaning of this?"

"He said he melted my Platinum," I answer. "Said he sent it to a Bronze batch. Said my order was blacklisted because the ore was bad. We had a little bet based on blacksmithing and I slapped him when he lost. I was waiting for you because I want my Platinum back. No matter what."

"I bet you're Jacob Cloud. The Fak—the Champion." Garin's jaw tightens. He lets out a slow breath. "No. Your ore is in my vault. Sealed under my mark. I don't hand ssuch material to apprentices, and I don't mix unassayed stock." He turns to one of the Apprentices. "Have the Quartermaster bring Vault B, crate thirty-seven."

The apprentices won't meet my eyes.

"So… he just lied?" I ask Garin.

Garin looks back at me. "Whatever he told you, it wasn't done. We cut a shop sample for training this morning. Not yours." He rubs his brow. "You brought me clean Platinum. I was planning to test it with you present because I heard it was very high-quality. That's standard procedure, I was surprised that you didn't come before."

"Oh, I wasn't aware of this. When I came, I just found him and..."

Lathrasiel tries to speak. Garin lifts a hand.

"Enough. You lied to a client in my forge. You made a call you had no right to make." His voice stays flat. "You're suspended from work. You watch and you take notes. You don't touch a crucible."

The Elf hunches his shoulders and the other three apprentices behind him look very scared.

The quartermaster returns with a sealed crate stamped with Garin's mark. He sets it down. The seal is unbroken.

Garin meets my eyes. "Your ore is safe. We'll do this properly." He glances at the better ingot on the bench. "And we'll start by testing that."

Garin doesn't waste words. He takes my ingot, shaves a sliver the size of a nail, and drops it into a clear vial of pale fluid. The liquid clouds, then shifts color. It settles into a calm, heavy silver—the exact tone of the metal itself.

He stares for a heartbeat, then lets out a low whistle. "That's Platinum," he says. "Not just good. That is… clean. I've never seen a shop test swing that far. This is near perfect."

The quartermaster leans in. The apprentices crowd closer and then pull back. Lathrasiel goes still, eyes on the vial, jaw tight.

Garin sets the vial down. "This is unprecedented," he says. "No slag trace. No sulfur. The Mana content feels… Whoever picked that ore knew what he was doing, or he's walking with a very generous spirit watching his hand. This is just about the highest grade of Platinum I've ever witnessed" He looks at me. "You did this?"

I shake my head.

Garin sets the vial down and looks at me. "You have any forging experience, boy?"

"A lot," I say.

The three apprentices trade looks. One snorts at my ingot's rough mouth. Another shakes his head like I've just lied to his face.

Shameless! Look at that ingot! What experience are you talking about?!

Garin doesn't blink.

"Good. You're helping me forge your set. I'll handle the other Champion orders myself." He turns to the quartermaster. "Prep the good forge. This Platinum warrants True Diamond treatment."

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