I Was Born With A Bloodline That Ended The World Chapter 112: Runes

There they were. Borik, arms crossed, red-faced and scowling, stood facing a taller man with soot on his sleeves.

Both had aprons on, both looked seconds from swinging hamrs at each other.

"Look, Rhian," Borik shouted over his shoulder when he noticed him, "tell this grease-handed clown that his so-called tempered edge couldn’t cut warm butter!"

The other smith scoffed. "And you tell your master here to stop selling doorstops to students and calling them weapons."

Rhian stood there awkwardly, watching the two grown n hurl blacksmith insults like schoolboys arguing over who had the better toy.

"Uh..." Rhian raised a hand, "Borik... I ca to clean."

Borik turned imdiately, as if the shouting match hadn’t even happened. "Finally. Soone reliable."

The other man rolled his eyes and muttered sothing under his breath before disappearing back into his shop.

Borik grunted. "Don’t mind him. Old bastard’s been jealous of my forge since before you were born."

Rhian said nothing. He’d heard this exact line the last ti he visited.

Borik pointed a thick finger toward the interior. "You know the drill. Sweep the back, oil the clamps, and don’t touch the core furnace unless you want your eyebrows gone."

Rhian nodded and stepped inside, slipping past the heavy iron door. The heat hit him instantly. Inside the shop, it slled of smoke, oil, and steel.

Tools hung from the walls, and half-assembled weapons lay scattered across the worktables. It was ssy, but familiar.

He took a breath and grabbed the broom from the corner.

Ti to get to work.

Rhian tied his sleeves up and got to work.

He started by sweeping the soot and tal shavings from the forge’s stone floor, pushing the gri into neat piles before scooping it up with a dull iron pan.

Every sweep released a bit more heat into the air, the forge’s lingering warmth wrapping around him like a heavy blanket.

He moved on to the tool racks, wiping each hamr, tong, and clamp with a rag soaked in oil.

The tools clanked as he placed them back into their labeled hooks, Borik was particular about that.

Borik walked in from the side door, wiping his hands with a thick brown towel. "You’re not terrible at this, I’ll give you that," he said, voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Rhian glanced over. "You say that like you’re surprised."

Borik snorted. "You’ve got too much fire in you. Most like that don’t stick around when there’s cleaning to do."

Rhian shrugged, brushing tal dust off his hands. "A deal’s a deal."

Borik grinned and leaned against a workbench. "Your weapon’s coming along. Still needs final shaping, but the core’s solid. The weight is balanced now, just like you asked."

Rhian perked up. "Really? That’s fast."

"Yeah, well, I had ti. Got it stabilized and the edge holds fine. But..." Borik scratched his beard. "If we had soone who knew runes, we could really make it sothing."

Rhian paused. "Runes?"

Borik nodded, motioning to the anvil nearby. "Engraved script. Old symbols, each with a specific effect. You etch them into tal, bone, even stone, if you know what you’re doing, you can change the way an item behaves."

Rhian raised an eyebrow. "Like enchantnts?"

"Not quite. Enchantnts need constant flow, magic or energy. Runes are permanent. Passive. You write the right rune, it stays until soone tears it off or overwrites it."

Borik picked up a heavy dagger and flipped it in his hand. "A rune for shock can make this thing discharge lightning on contact. A rune for balance can let a blade guide your hand mid-swing."

Rhian leaned on the broom. "And we can’t just do that here?"

Borik shrugged. "I know how to build. Shape. Temper. But rune work? That’s arcane. Needs precision and deep knowledge. ss up the stroke of a rune and your sword might explode. Or worse, turn to ash the second you use it."

"Sounds useful. Dangerous... but useful."

Borik nodded. "Very. Problem is, rune-smiths are rare. Expensive, too. The academy used to have one... but that was years ago. Politics, funding, or whatever nonsense got in the way."

Rhian let that sit for a second, glancing at the weapon blueprint still pinned to the far wall.

"What if I found one?" he asked quietly.

Borik chuckled. "Then I’d say we make the best damn weapon this school’s ever seen."

Rhian stared at the forge wall for a mont, thinking about what Borik had said. "What if I found soone? A rune-smith."

Borik barked out a short laugh. "Kid, you don’t even know what runes are."

Rhian looked back at him, brows slightly raised. "I do now."

"You know of them," Borik corrected, stepping toward the coals and adjusting one of the tongs left in the fire. "That’s different. Real rune-smithing’s not sothing you pick up from books or scribbles on a wall. It takes years. Generations, even."

Rhian didn’t answer right away. He picked up a bucket of coal and carried it to the side, feeding the forge slowly while he thought.

Borik continued, voice calm but firm. "Even if one were still alive, and willing, you wouldn’t be able to afford their ti. Not with rit points or favors. And they wouldn’t work with so first-year academy student chasing vengeance with half a blade."

Rhian set the bucket down, wiping his hands. "So, you’re saying it’s impossible."

"I’m saying it’s out of reach," Borik said, not unkindly. "Don’t waste your ti chasing ghosts. Your weapon’ll be solid, even without runes. Won’t need magic to cut through the bastard who beat you."

Rhian gave a slow nod. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t argue either. Instead, he grabbed the brush again and started scrubbing the soot-stained walls. Borik watched for a mont, then turned back to his work, muttering sothing under his breath.

"Still... would’ve been nice."

Rhian paused mid-scrub and turned. "By the way... how did you know I lost?"

Borik grunted and set down a hamr with a loud clang. "That loudmouth pretty boy ca in here flappin’ his gums."

Rhian blinked. "Wait—Justin?"

"I don’t know his na, and I don’t care to," Borik snapped, grabbing a cloth to wipe his hands. "Ca in waving one of those damned academy coupons like I owed him a royal favor. Said he was the winner, and then had the gall—the gall—to say my blades looked like scrap iron. Scrap!"