Translator: CinderTL
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The echoes of the knocking still reverberated through the Forge.
"Mr. Roland? Are you there? It's me, Noel!"
The familiar voice of the dwarf rang out from beyond the door, carrying a barely perceptible hint of anxiety.
Roland took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the turmoil of shock and doubt in his heart as his gaze swept across the Forge.
Though the furnace had dimmed, residual warmth lingered, and the air was thick with the faint, sweet metallic scent of quenched steel and the fine dust of mithril shavings.
Morning light streamed through the narrow gaps in the high windows, casting sharp patches of light across the floor, replacing the soft dawn of the previous day.
He had unknowingly spent an entire day and night immersed in forging and the final inscription.
After a gentle shake of his head, Roland turned and strode toward the door.
The bolt slid open, revealing Dwarf Noel standing outside.
His face bore the relief of a task completed, tinged with a barely discernible hint of awe, as he solemnly cradled the violet card in both hands.
"Mr. Roland, the coins inside... uh, I withdrew the appropriate amount at the most reasonable market rate."
Noel's voice was noticeably more respectful than usual, his eyes darting unconsciously behind Roland.
"You still have plenty of mithril ore fragments left, right? If you need anything else..."
His words trailed off abruptly.
As Roland stepped aside to let him in and casually closed the door, the full scene inside the Forge slammed into Noel's vision.
The dwarf's usually shrewd eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropping open wide enough to fit one of the largest acorns favored by dwarf miners.
Instead of the mountain of mithril ore fragments he had expected, or even a few scattered failed prototypes, the floor was littered with...
dozens of items shimmering with a restrained silver radiance.
Sharply pointed arrows lay neatly arranged, paper-thin diamond-shaped throwing blades glimmered like dragonfly wings, and several intricately crafted throwing spears, etched with miniature wind channels, were scattered among them.
They weren't stacked; rather, they lay casually strewn across cooling slabs as if freshly quenched, their sheer number nearly covering half the floor. The silvery sheen of the metal danced in the flickering light of the forge, creating a dazzling display.
The air was thick with the lingering pure mana aura unique to refined mithril, mingled with the crisp, refreshing scent of the still-evaporating moon dew spring water.
Noel's gaze was magnetically drawn to these objects, his eyes fixed on them as if rooted to the spot.
He recognized them instantly: these were the very pieces of "dusty" mithril ore from his family's mine.
But now, they had undergone a complete transformation, reborn with entirely new forms and souls.
"This... this can't be..."
Noel's voice was as dry and raspy as sandpaper.
He took a hesitant step forward, crouched down, and reached out a trembling finger to cautiously touch the nearest arrow.
Instead of the cold, lifeless feel of metal, he sensed an active, eager sharpness, as if a gentle breeze were swirling within the arrowhead.
He jerked his head up and scanned the surroundings.
His gaze swept across the extinguished furnace, neatly arranged potion bottles and jars, and the earthenware pots containing moon dew...
An unprecedented wave of cold and heat simultaneously engulfed Noel.
The cold stemmed from the earth-shattering impact of this scene on his understanding of reality.
The searing heat was matched by an overwhelming shock surging through his veins.
For generations, his family had worked with mithril, mining the stubborn ore from the deepest recesses of the earth. He knew all too well the immense difficulty of processing this metal.
Even with detailed scrolls guiding the process, specialized potions, and precious "moon dew," successfully smelting, purifying, and shaping mithril remained an arduous task that demanded exceptional skill and experience.
In dwarven tradition, an apprentice typically spent over a decade under a master's tutelage before barely mastering the techniques of smelting and forging mithril artifacts.
Yet here, the Forge floor was littered with finished products.
The sheer quantity was staggering!
Moreover, Noel could sense that these mithril artifacts were far from the clumsy work of a novice.
How had he done it?!
One day!
Just one day!
From receiving the scroll, materials, potions, and spring water to this very moment...
This human, Roland, had smelted and purified that batch of low-grade ore, and even successfully forged finished artifacts.
This completely shattered Noel's understanding of metalworking and mithril craftsmanship.
This was beyond mere genius; it was nothing short of...
A miracle!
"Mr... Mr. Roland..."
Noel's voice trembled uncontrollably as he gazed at Roland with a mixture of almost reverent awe and utter bewilderment.
This was far beyond his comprehension.
"Did you... did you create all of this... in a single day? Just using those scrap ores?"
Hearing the question, Roland retrieved the violet card and casually tucked it back into his pouch. He then followed Noel's stunned, unfocused gaze to survey the practice pieces scattered on the ground.
His expression remained neutral, as if all this were perfectly natural.
After becoming an Enchanter, his already masterful forging skills had reached new heights. All that had been lacking was knowledge, and the scroll had provided that in exhaustive detail.
Therefore, crafting finished mithril implements was hardly a challenge for him.
"Mm, just a bit of practice."
Roland walked over to the forge platform, picked up a clean cloth, and began polishing the newly transformed Mithril Longsword.
The longsword shimmered with a cold, silvery radiance, resembling a miniature, icy moon in the dimly lit forge. Its glow mingled with the light from the smaller tools scattered across the floor, adding an air of mystery and extraordinary power to the scene.
Noel's gaze was involuntarily drawn to the longsword.
The aura emanating from the blade was far more restrained and profound than that of the smaller tools, yet it pulsed with a heart-stopping sharpness.
The sword's surface shimmered with a pure, flawless luster, as if capable of cleaving through the darkest night.
"Th-that sword..." Noel stammered, his tongue nearly tying itself in knots.
"Just a slight enhancement," Roland said calmly, his movements steady and focused as he continued polishing the blade.
A slight enhancement?
Noel's heart pounded wildly.
His family mined mithril, and he knew exactly what it meant to enhance a mithril weapon to this degree.
This was no mere "slight" improvement—it was enchantment!
As he stared at Roland's serene, almost detached profile, Noel recalled the information he had helped Roland fill out earlier. A tidal wave of shock surged through him.
A human... an enchanter... under twenty years old?
How is this possible?
In the Dwarven Kingdom, enchanters were revered figures of unparalleled status.
While the aloof members of the Royal Family, bound by ancient bloodlines and caste traditions, might not openly worship enchanters outside their lineage, among the common dwarves—the merchants, artisans, and ordinary folk like Noel—any true enchanter was a living legend, an unscalable mountain peak.
They were the alchemists who could turn stone into gold, the artificers who imbued ordinary iron with a soul.
Establishing a connection with an enchanter was a glory that many families dreamed of but could never attain.
Gulp.
Noel swallowed hard, his throat as parched as if he'd trekked through the desert for three days.
His knees felt weak, a primal awe for masters of transcendent arts surging from the depths of his bloodline, overwhelming even his initial shock.
He now felt immeasurable relief—no, utter elation—that his family had entrusted that precious forging scroll to Roland.
And that he himself had shown nothing but utmost respect, even deference, toward the young man.
He even began to think that his family's "dull" mithril ore fragments being used by such a distinguished enchanter for "practice" was truly...
No, it was the greatest honor for his entire family.
If this news reached the mines, those stubborn old dwarves would probably tie their beards in knots from excitement.
"Mr. Roland..."
Noel's voice became utterly respectful, even tinged with humility.
"Do you... do you still need mithril? Any grade! Our family... we can definitely find the best for you!"
Roland paused slightly in wiping his longsword, surprised by Noel's sudden shift in enthusiasm.
"Can you procure high-quality mithril ore or ingots?"
"I..."
Remembering the Dwarven Kingdom's strict control over mithril, especially high-purity ingots, Noel hesitated.
Smuggling high-purity mithril ingots was a serious crime. If discovered, not only would his business be ruined, but his entire family could face disaster.
But after a moment, the dwarf banished his doubts, his eyes hardening with determination.
"It should be possible, though it might require you to wait a bit longer."
"It's no problem," Roland said, waving his hand dismissively.
He had already achieved his goal of using mithril to train his enchantment skills. The disposable mithril tools crafted from ore fragments were sufficient for several battles, so he no longer craved mithril as urgently.
"Once you've transported the mithril, just have someone notify me."
"Yes! Absolutely, Mr. Roland!" Noel nearly pounded his chest in oath, his face flushed with excitement and anticipation. He already envisioned what a long-term partnership with this mysterious and powerful enchanter would mean for his family.
"Anything else?" Roland asked, his tone calm but clearly dismissing his guest.
"No! Nothing else! I've disturbed you enough, Mr. Roland!" Noel bowed deeply, not daring to glance again at the mithril masterpieces scattered across the floor or the longsword that seemed to contain a storm within its blade. He carefully backed out of the forge, closing the door softly behind him.
The moment the door closed, Noel leaned against the icy wall, exhaling a long, trembling breath as if he had just escaped some invisible domain of oppressive power.
He wiped the cold sweat that had inexplicably broken out on his forehead, his eyes still wide with disbelief and shock.
"By the Ancestral Furnace..." he murmured softly, his voice echoing clearly in the empty corridor. "What kind of being... have I just encountered?"
Roland paid no attention to Noel's reaction.
Once the door was shut, his gaze returned to the Mithril Longsword in his hand.
He focused his mind and held his breath.
As magic elements surged from his fingertips into the sword's blade, the mysterious inscriptions reappeared.
But this time...
He seemed to recognize the origin of these characters.
(End of the Chapter)
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