Centaur Elder Brandwaldden nodded solemnly, gathered his remaining strength, and slammed his hammer onto the sword blank. He had already spent a vast amount of physical energy, and the alchemy hammer in his hand absorbed his magic with every strike. The recent pace of the hammering had been a massive drain.
But seeing a sacred relic about to be born, and knowing he was instrumental in its creation, Brandwaldden felt a surge of adrenaline. His fatigue seemed to wash away as his muscles bulged, each strike delivered with the totality of his strength.
Alan's condition was just as precarious. Beyond the physical labor, he had to continuously pump magic into the metal. He had already downed several restorative potions, and now he could only grit his teeth and push through.
"Ping!" "Pang!" "Ping!" "Pang!"
The sound of the hammers echoed, but the metallic ring grew shorter and shorter, turning into a thick, heavy thud after only a few more strikes. Simultaneously, the silver-blue electric arcs shimmering on the blade became finer and more intense, until the sword looked less like metal and more like a solid bolt of lightning.
Firenze, who had been watching the sky, noticed that the thick clouds seemed to be descending toward them. The air grew dry and heavy, as if a storm were ready to burst at any second. Lightning flashed with increasing frequency, and thunder rumbled directly over their heads.
Alan saw the sword on the anvil looking like a solidified beam of electricity and knew the forging was nearly complete. He looked at the swirling clouds with a conflicted expression.
*Is this going to be a tribulation?*
He felt the mounting pressure from the sky, and a ridiculous thought from his past life's stories popped into his head. He wasn't sure what would happen next, only that the sword was saturated with magic; he couldn't force in even a trace more.
*Come what may,* he thought. Whether it was a tribulation or not, he couldn't avoid it now. Alan hardened his resolve, threw down his hammer, and reached out to grasp the lightning-shrouded blade.
Brandwaldden stopped his own swinging and retreated, watching Alan with a grave expression. He had realized that further hammering would no longer strengthen the blank; he had no idea what was coming.
"Boom!"
Just as Alan's fingers closed around the hilt, a thunderous roar shook the sky. The dense clouds began to churn, transforming into a layered vortex like a typhoon over the ocean. At the center of this vortex, streaks of lightning gathered and leaped, accumulating power. The sight made the centaurs' hearts pound with fear, and they instinctively backed away, leaving Alan alone on the mountain peak.
Alan was panicking internally, but as he held the sword, he could feel the Wild Lightning magic rune pulsing with excitement, like a joyful child. Sensing the rune's affinity for him, Alan no longer hesitated. He thrust the sword high toward the swirling center of the vortex, looking as if he intended to pierce the heavens themselves.
And then... there was no "then."
Alan stood there, pointing the sword at the thunderclouds for a long time. He had expected to attract a bolt of heavenly lightning to christen the weapon. But the clouds seemed to have no interest in his raised blade; they appeared to be a natural phenomenon that had gathered and were now content to simply exist.
The onlookers stared at Alan in his dramatic pose, their faces a mix of confusion and awe—they didn't understand what he was doing, but it looked impressive. After a minute of silence from the sky, Alan felt his face heat up with awkwardness. He lowered the sword, pursing his lips in exasperation.
*That's it?*
He had been posing like an idiot, wasting his energy while the clouds ignored him. It was like seeing a group of armed soldiers charging toward you, causing you to throw up your hands in surrender, only to realize as they pass that they were just a bunch of cosplayers.
It wasn't entirely his fault, though. Forging a lightning-attributed relic followed by a massive gathering of storm clouds was a scene straight out of a cultivation novel. How was he to know these clouds were just there for the view?
As he waited, the strange glow on the sword began to fade. The electric light receded into the metal, revealing the beautifully crafted Han sword. Alan lost the mood for posturing. He glanced at the blade, then at the sky, and sighed in relief when it was clear nothing was going to strike him.
Since there was no "lightning tribulation," he stopped worrying about the dark clouds and examined his work. The sword was entirely silver, the blade shimmering with an ethereal phosphorescence that was dazzling even in the dim light. The blade and hilt were forged as a single piece. All it needed now was a guard and a leather wrap for the grip.
Overjoyed, Alan began to move. The sharp blade danced in his hand, hissing through the air like a silver snake. He fell into a rhythm, his footwork light as a swallow's. He moved with the suddenness of lightning, scattering the surrounding dry leaves with the wind of his strikes.
Finally, Alan finished with a flourish, holding the sword flat and supporting it with a single finger at the base of the hilt. However, the sword slowly tilted toward the tip.
"Hmm? Strange. The balance is off. Why is the blade a hundred grams heavier than the hilt?" Alan frowned, staring at the tilt. Then, realization struck him, and he smacked his forehead. "I'm really losing my mind. How could I forget about that?"
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