Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sound of hammering echoed through the forge’s chamber.

Reforging.

To take Syltanaro—already complete as a sword—and temper her anew in flame and pain.

“The first forging was long ago finished. What remains now is the agony that will remake you. This reforging will bring you to perfection.”

Melted and rejoined over and over again, Syltanaro let out a deep groan.

『AaaaAAAAAHH!』

But her scream was quickly drowned out by Naiad’s piercing shriek.

『It’s hot! HOTTTTT!』

“O Supreme Spirit, why do you endure this pain?”

Altanato never ceased hammering as he asked.

“Is it to be acknowledged as one with the weapon?”

『Of course it is!』

Naiad shrieked.

『Why else would I even be here?! This is all your fault!』

“You didn’t have to come.”

Altanato muttered, voice flat.

“You could’ve avoided this by simply not stepping into a place where such laws must be upheld. Surely you knew something of this ancient blacksmith.”

『Stop bringing up how old I am!』

Hisssss!

As Altanato gripped Syltanaro with a tong, steam hissed into the air.

“Quenching.”

His eyes gleamed.

“You intend to become the water that tempers this sword?”

『The only water here is the kind trickling from these caves.』

Naiad gritted through her teeth.

『There’s nothing purer than the water I make.』

“I see.”

Altanato’s gaze turned to Clay, seated nearby.

“You do not flinch. Not even when your sword screams in agony. Nor when an ancient blacksmith like me appears and reveals his craft.”

“Just means you’ve been waiting a long time.”

Clay slowly met Altanato’s eyes.

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be sleeping in a cave waiting for a guest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I simply respect that waiting.”

To let him savor the moment after such an endless vigil.

“I hear the greatest weapons you forged for the ancient gods were all destroyed by Elhaen.”

“…”

“Which means it doesn’t matter, does it?”

If he could now forge a blade that wouldn’t break—

“Then my story, or the question of good and evil, none of it really matters.”

If Elhaen were to descend again, and even a flicker of a chance existed that the sword would reach him—

“Then you would have no choice but to lend your power.”

Altanato had been so revered that people whispered he was nearly divine. But even so, he was imperfect.

He had never truly surpassed the concept of “the best” as a blacksmith.

To him, that was intolerable.

“You’re right.”

Altanato agreed.

“Weapons exist to protect their masters. To have spent ages forging only for it all to be crushed by a primal force—that’s something I could never accept.”

“Was it all in vain?”

“No. It was fury.”

His brows rose like flames.

“To be born great and smash through pain without effort, without ever being tested—that isn’t right. It defies order.”

“Couldn’t you say that is the order?”

“Not in mine.”

Altanato stared at Clay directly.

“In my world, it’s not.”

Forging, reforging, grinding—

Only after enduring flame, drowning in water, and being hammered like a bell could a blade be born.

“To a blacksmith like me, that is the truth. And if it isn’t? Then I’ll make it the truth.”

Maybe that wasn’t how the world really worked—but to Clay, it was the kind of belief he needed now more than ever.

“I’m glad I met you, Altanato.”

Clay spoke quietly.

“Because right now, I need the result of your truth.”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Altanato continued hammering, laughter echoing through the chamber like thunder.

“That’s the greatest wish a blacksmith can hear.”

The reforging continued. And then, suddenly—

Naiad’s screams stopped.

Syltanaro, too, no longer groaned.

“Clay, was it?”

Having finished the hammering and quenching, Altanato now stood still, gazing down at Clay.

“Do you know how to wield a blade forged by my hand?”

“You left behind records.”

“Good. Because I don’t have time to teach you.”

His body—like a poorly fired clay vessel—began to crack and crumble.

“I expect nothing else from you.”

Altanato’s form began to collapse.

“But let the world remember—

That my blade was the finest.

And I, the greatest blacksmith.”

Crack!

The end of one who had long surpassed his natural life—

Now turned to dust.

Where Altanato had stood remained only Syltanaro, her blade engraved with his signature—etched into the steel like a seal.

“I promise.”

Clay lifted the sword in his hand once more.

“You’ll go down in history.”

♧

Darval, a mining city in Donon.

Now, the magical mining machines had ceased their work. All eyes were on the crimson figure walking toward the city.

“Shit…”

The miners gripped their tools, cursing.

“What the hell is that?!”

“You telling me it drank its way here in blood?!”

“Half of Donon’s already fallen, they said!”

Darval was at Donon’s heart. If the monster was already here, it meant half the nation had already been overrun.

“Goddammit, how the hell are we supposed to stop it?!”

Despite being a city, Darval had no military force of its own.

It had never needed one—being in the center of the country, surrounded by peaceful trading partners.

Most surrounding nations imported Donon’s minerals, and Donon relied on them for refinement. A relationship of mutual need.

But—

“AAAAAARGH!”

“Please, somebody help us!”

No one was prepared for a foe like this.

“P-Protect the cityyyyy!”

And yet, even as the crimson monster began tearing through the city, the miners didn’t flee.

They ran forward, swinging their tools.

Because this place was their home.

『How touching.』

The Blood Lord, Vlad, whispered as he drained another man dry.

『It’s convenient when they all gather on their own like this.』

People fleeing? That was nothing but a nuisance to him.

As Vlad walked forward, he hurled a drained corpse aside. Then he grabbed another, sucked it dry, and tossed it away. Again and again, with each step, he drained life and hope from the fleeing crowd.

Rumble…

Suddenly, a tremor rolled through the air.

『Hmm?』

A gate appeared in the sky.

“W-What the hell is that?!”

The people, scattering in terror from the slaughter, looked up in shock.

Screeeee—

The gate, formed of interlocking spears, slowly began to part.

『……』

Vlad watched silently. Until someone emerged from within.

A single man.

Black cloak. A sword brimming with magia.

He descended through the open gate and landed calmly on the ground.

Boom…

It was a controlled landing—he had clearly suppressed the force of impact at the last moment.

Yet the power beneath it still radiated. His crimson eyes locked directly onto Vlad.

“Th-The Demon King…!”

Ironically, it was the panicked civilians who recognized him first.

“It’s really the Demon King!”

“So the rumors were true? That Beatrice turned the Hero’s corpse into a Demon King?!”

“Why did that monster show up here of all places…?!”

Even though they had once despaired at losing the Hero, they didn’t welcome the figure before them.

To them, the Hero was dead. This was merely a hollow shell—

A monster.

『Demon King.』

Vlad’s jagged grin split wide across his face.

『Indeed.』

He spread his arms wide, as if welcoming Clay.

『Indeed!』

To him, strong blood was the finest delicacy.

『You are sustenance.』

He pointed to Clay.

『You will fill my hunger.』

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Clay gripped his sword—Syltanaro—tighter.

“But I’ve always preferred to do the eating.”

Flash!

Clay exploded forward.

Vlad responded, swinging his blood sword down.

CLANG!

『Foolish.』

Vlad parried the Demonic Sword and immediately whipped his blood blade like a lash.

『My sword exists on a different plane than such crude steel.』

He wasn’t wrong.

The blood sword turned to liquid mid-swing, slipped past Clay’s guard, then re-solidified into a blade.

Splat!

Clay’s defenses meant little.

Against a sword that shifted between states at will, he was gradually pushed back.

『Why are you here, then?』

Vlad mocked him.

『Did you think you’d beat me to the punch? Try to strike first, knowing I was coming for you anyway?』

The blood blade grazed Clay’s shoulder.

『It seems you don’t even understand what I am.』

He was a monarch who grew stronger with every drop of blood. A god of war, filled through the sacrifice of others.

『Demon King… What a fascinating title.』

The blood sword pressed harder.

『A king to protect demons… and now just another blood bag for me to drain.』

Meanwhile, the crowd looked on in utter confusion.

“Wh-What’s happening?”

“They’re fighting.”

“But why, here…?!”

No one could give them an answer.

And then, she appeared.

Flash.

A soft blue light.

Everyone’s heads turned at once.

“W-What?”

“I-Is that…?!”

Bathed in ethereal glow, a small figure revealed herself.

One of the Spirit Kings—representative of the world’s natural order.

Naiad.

“N-Naiad!”

“The Spirit King’s here!”

“She’s come to save us!”

People wept in relief and cheered, believing their salvation had arrived.

But Naiad didn’t look at them.

Instead, she opened her mouth and said something utterly unexpected.

“I’m not here to save you.”

And then came the words that made them freeze.

“I came to watch the man who still couldn’t forget you—even after you abandoned him.”

“N-Naiad…? What do you mean…?”

The confused murmurs began to rise—until they followed her gaze.

Her eyes were locked squarely on Clay.

Pointing clearly at who she had come to watch.

“Who is it that’s saving you right now?”

Her voice rippled through the air—like a stone dropped into a still lake.

(End of Chapter)

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