The city of Valorheim sprawled beyond the academy walls like a living creature.
As the capital of the Kingdom of Valtheris, it was a maze of contradictions. Grand marble palaces stood alongside cramped wooden tenents.
Wealthy rchants in silk robes brushed past beggars in rags. The main thoroughfares glead with magical street lamps and expensive storefronts, while the back alleys festered with shadows and secrets.
Revan moved through the crowded streets with practiced ease.
’Perfect.’
His destination wasn’t in the respectable comrcial district where most students shopped for equipnt. It wasn’t even in the moderately shady market where adventurers bought potions and second-hand weapons.
No, Revan was heading sowhere far less... official.
The Undergallows.
It was a section of Valorheim that didn’t appear on any tourist map. A labyrinth of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings wedged between the industrial foundries and the old city walls.
The kind of place where questions weren’t asked and answers weren’t given freely.
The kind of place where a servant of House Vespera could find things that didn’t technically exist.
Revan navigated the twisting passages from mory, passing boarded-up shops and suspicious figures who watched him from darkened doorways.
He ignored them all. The Undergallows had its own rules, and one of the most important was: Don’t bother anyone who walks like they belong.
After fifteen minutes of walking, he stopped before a building that looked like it might collapse if soone sneezed too hard.
The sign above the door had faded decades ago, leaving only the ghost of letters that might once have spelled a na.
The windows were covered with so much gri that no light could penetrate. And the door itself was a solid slab of iron that seed wildly out of place on such a decrepit structure.
Revan knocked three tis. Paused. Knocked twice more.
For a mont, nothing happened.
Then, with a groan of ancient hinges, the iron door swung open.
***
Heat hit him like a physical wall.
The interior of the building was nothing like its exterior suggested. Where the outside scread "abandoned ruin," the inside roared "working forge."
Massive furnaces lined the walls, their fires burning with colors that shouldn’t exist in nature—deep crimson, electric blue, and a strange purple that hurt to look at directly. Weapons hung from every available surface: swords, axes, spears, and things Revan couldn’t even na. The air was thick with the sll of molten tal, coal smoke, and sothing else—sothing that tingled against his skin like static electricity.
Mana-forged steel. The real stuff.
And standing in the center of it all, hamring a glowing ingot with thodical precision, was a mountain of a man.
He was easily seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block a doorway and arms thicker than most people’s thighs. His skin was dark as coal, gleaming with sweat in the firelight.
A leather apron covered his chest, scarred and burned from decades of work. His head was completely bald, but a magnificent beard—braided and decorated with tal rings—hung down to his chest.
This was Volkar.
Once upon a ti, he had been a warrior. A damn good one, if the rumors were true. He had fought in the border wars, earned himself a reputation as "The Iron Giant," and retired after taking wounds that would have killed lesser n.
Now he made weapons. The best weapons Revan had ever known.
"Well, well."
Volkar’s voice was a deep rumble, like boulders grinding together in an avalanche.
He didn’t look up from his work, but sohow Revan knew the man was fully aware of his presence.
"The little shadow returns. I was wondering when you’d crawl back."
"Master Volkar."
Revan approached the forge, stopping at a respectful distance.
"I need your help."
"You always do."
CLANG.
The hamr fell. Sparks scattered.
"Last ti it was information about Black Iron deposits. Ti before that, you wanted to know about Aura-conductive alloys."
CLANG.
"What is it this ti? Another academic question? Or..."
Finally, Volkar looked up.
His eyes were startling—bright amber, almost golden, burning with an intensity that belied his casual tone.
"...did you finally break that pretty sword of yours?"
Revan reached into his [Shadow Storage] and pulled out the weapon in question.
Or rather, what was left of it.
The blade that had served him since childhood now looked like a piece of scrap tal. The edge was jagged and brittle. The surface was covered in hairline fractures. The entire thing emanated a sense of... exhaustion. As if the tal itself had given up.
Volkar set down his hamr and approached, taking the ruined weapon with surprising gentleness.
"Obsidian Orichalcum core. Mana-tempered edge. Shadow-woven hilt."
He turned it over in his massive hands, examining every crack and fracture.
"Good craftsmanship. Better than most nobles deserve. But..."
His amber eyes narrowed.
"This damage isn’t from normal use. You channeled sothing through this blade. Sothing far beyond its capacity."
’As expected of a forr warrior. He can read the sword’s history just by looking at it.’
"I had no choice," Revan said simply. "The situation demanded it."
"The situation demanded suicide, you an."
Volkar set the broken sword on his workbench.
"A blade is a partner, boy. You don’t ask your partner to carry weight that will break their spine. And you don’t push Aura through a conduit that wasn’t built for it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from what I’m seeing, you nearly killed yourself along with this sword."
Revan didn’t deny it.
"That’s why I’m here, Master Volkar. I need sothing better. Sothing that won’t break next ti."
"Next ti."
Volkar laughed—a booming sound that echoed off the forge walls.
"Listen to this arrogant little shadow. He nearly dies once, and already he’s planning for ’next ti.’"
His laughter faded, replaced by a shrewd, calculating expression.
"What exactly did you fight, boy? What kind of enemy requires that much Aura from soone your age?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to . I don’t forge weapons for fools who’ll just break them again."
Revan considered his options. Volkar wasn’t the type to spread rumors, but he also wasn’t the type to help without knowing what he was getting into.
"A Master," Revan said finally. "Full Aura Manifestation. "
Volkar went very still.
"A Master."
"Yes."
"And you survived."
"Barely."
"..."
For a long mont, Volkar simply stared at him. Those amber eyes seed to pierce straight through Revan’s skull, reading things that weren’t written on his face.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across the old warrior’s features.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
He turned back to his forge, gesturing for Revan to follow.
"I might have sothing for you. But the materials... they’re not easy to obtain."
’Here it cos.’
Revan had expected this. Volkar never made things simple.
"What do you need?"
"For a blade capable of handling Master-level Aura output?"
Volkar pulled out a worn leather journal, flipping through pages covered in diagrams and notes.
"The core needs to be Void Iron—pure, unrefined, mined from places where mana doesn’t flow naturally. Nearly impossible to find in Valtheris."
"And where can it be found?"
"The Borderlands. There are deposits near the old ruins, where ancient battles scorched the earth so badly that mana still refuses to return."
’The Borderlands.’
Revan filed that information away.
"There might be another option."
Volkar’s voice dropped lower, as if sharing a secret.
"I’ve been hearing rumors lately. Whispers from the underground trade routes."
"What kind of rumors?"
"There’s a tournant being organized. In the Kingdom of Astoria, across the eastern mountains."
Volkar’s amber eyes glead with sothing that might have been excitent.
"They’re calling it the Crimson Blade Trials. A combat tournant open to warriors from all nations. The prize?"
He leaned closer.
"A legendary sword. Forged by the great smith Aldric the Undying himself, three centuries ago. They say its blade can cut through anything—physical or magical. And its core..."
"Void Iron?"
"Better. Void Crystal. A solidified fragnt of pure nothingness. The rarest material in existence."
Revan’s mind was already racing.
’A tournant. In a neighboring kingdom. With warriors from all nations competing.’
’If I enter and win, I solve my weapon problem imdiately.’
’But there’s no way it’ll be that simple. A tournant for a legendary sword will attract monsters. People far beyond my current level.’
’On the other hand...’
’It’s also the perfect cover for gathering information. If there’s a network behind [Crimson Tears] that spans multiple kingdoms, a gathering of warriors and nobles from different nations would be the ideal place to find leads.’
"When does this tournant start?" Revan asked.
"Three weeks from now. Registration closes in ten days."
’Three weeks. That’s tight, but not impossible.’
"What’s the entry requirent?"
"That’s the interesting part."
Volkar’s grin widened.
"There isn’t one. Anyone can enter—noble or commoner, famous or unknown. The only rule is: survive. It’s a single-elimination tournant. You fight until you lose or die."
’Die.’
’Of course there’s a death clause. Why would anything in this world be straightforward?’
"One more thing," Volkar added, his expression turning serious. "I’ve also heard whispers about so unusual activity in the Borderlands. rcenary groups moving in large numbers. Supplies being transported to locations that don’t have any official settlents."
"What kind of supplies?"
"The kind you’d need to set up a large-scale operation. Forges. Alchemical equipnt. Prison cells."
’Prison cells.’
’Soone is building sothing in the Borderlands. Sothing that requires prisoners.’
A cold sensation crawled down Revan’s spine.
His mind involuntarily drifted back to that night on the train. The cargo worth 100,000 gold coins. The Master-rank warrior who died protecting it. And the Old Mage—the Archmage—who fled into the darkness, leaving his comrade behind.
’The Old Mage escaped. My Lady said she would investigate further, but she never told the details.’
’Could this be connected?’
’Large-scale operation. Alchemical equipnt. Prison cells.’
The crimson crystal sitting in his [Shadow Storage] suddenly felt heavier.
’[Crimson Tears] is an Illegal Mana Catalyst. Sothing that shouldn’t exist until much later. If soone is mass-producing it...’
’They would need facilities. Raw materials. And test subjects.’
’Test subjects who might end up in prison cells.’
The threads were beginning to weave together in his mind, forming a picture he didn’t like.
’Is there a connection? Or am I being paranoid?’
He couldn’t be sure. Not yet. He didn’t have enough information.
But the timing was too convenient to ignore.
"Master Volkar. Thank you for the information."
Revan reached into his shadow storage and pulled out a small pouch—one of the few valuables he had managed to accumulate through his work for Sylvia.
Volkar waved it away.
"Keep your money, boy. This isn’t a transaction."
He fixed Revan with a piercing stare.
"Consider it an investnt. You’re one of the few young warriors who actually listens when I talk. It would be a waste to let you die because your sword couldn’t keep up."
"Then what do you want in return?"
"Survive."
Volkar turned back to his forge, picking up his hamr.
"Survive whatever madness you’re walking into. Get stronger. And when you’re finally worthy of a blade forged by these hands..."
CLANG.
"Co back. I’ll make you sothing that even Masters will fear."
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