My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines Chapter 89 - Sword Forging

The sound of footsteps echoed down the long concrete hallway as the blind man walked out of the Hero Association building.

The echo was uneven—one of his boots had a worn-out sole, making a faint slap with every other step.

His long coat, patched and dull with dust, swayed behind him like a forgotten banner.

He gripped the white cane in one hand—plain, tal-tipped, battered from use. In the other, he held a case, the sa one he had taken into the audition, still closed, still containing the weapons they had rejected.

" Standard issue. No unique edge. No augntations. We appreciate the effort," the judges had said, voices as sharp as their suits.

He had bowed slightly, said nothing, and left.

Now, out in the open city air, he muttered under his breath, a tired smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Well... that’s rejection number thirty-two. Guess I’m setting a personal record."

He let out a sigh that seed to carry years of rusted breath, and began walking. The city bustled, but it didn’t see him.

People passed, heroes flew overhead, neon signs of fast food and flashier weapon shops lit up the block, mocking his existence with brightness he couldn’t see.

"Hero Association doesn’t need sticks and screws anymore," he muttered. "They want miracles in steel. I only have steel."

He stopped at a street vendor. The sll of burnt oil and stale spices drifted around him.

"One... cheapest al you got," he said, digging through his pocket.

The vendor looked at him pitifully but took the crumpled bills anyway, handing over a paper-wrapped roll of sothing—mostly lettuce and rice.

"Thanks," he mumbled, chewing slowly as he walked again. It tasted like wet cardboard, but it was warm.

It took him an hour to get ho. His warehouse sat at the edge of the industrial zone, half-swallowed by rust and ti.

The roller door creaked open when he pushed it with his shoulder. He stumbled slightly on the entry step.

"Back to the palace," he muttered dryly.

As he walked into the dim space, his foot kicked a can. It clinked, rolled away, bouncing off another. Soda cans, beer bottles, scraps of wiring, bolts, and broken tools littered the concrete floor.

Old blueprint papers were curled at the edges from humidity, the ink faded.

He slumped near his workbench—a wooden plank propped up with bricks. His forge was long cold, the furnace barely functional.

He reached under the bench and pulled out his hamr—black steel, worn smooth at the handle.

"I still rember the first ti I held you," he whispered, running his fingers along its head. "Thought I’d be famous... Thought I’d make weapons the best heroes would kill for."

He chuckled dryly.

"Turns out, no one wants swords when they can have railguns."

He lowered his gaze, setting the hamr down. His fingers trembled.

He had been born with a rare ability: Weapon Manifestation. But unlike the others who could conjure energy-blades, cursed daggers, or sentient firearms, his creations were plain.

Ordinary. Physical. tal and wood. Reliable, yes—but unimpressive.

When he was young, people called him "Forge Boy." A hopeful kid. He had even once tried to be a hero himself, wielding a custom iron staff. But it had snapped in two during his first fight, and his dreams had broken with it.

No family. No friends left. Just the sound of tal.

As he sat there, breathing slow and shallow, a faint ow echoed near the entrance. He lifted his head slightly.

"Hmm? That you again?"

A small, skinny cat padded in—gray-furred, tail bent, one ear half-bitten. It leapt onto a broken stool with feline grace, blinking at him.

"Don’t look at like that, Cleo. I know I’m a disappointnt," he said, tossing a small scrap of his leftover roll toward the cat.

The cat sniffed, then ate anyway.

He leaned back against the wall, letting the hamr rest on his chest. His eyes—clouded and empty—looked up at nothing.

"I wonder... if I vanished tonight, would anyone even notice?"

The cat purred, curling beside him.

He closed his eyes.

"...At least you would."

And with that, silence filled the warehouse again. The kind of silence that wraps itself around failure and keeps it warm until the next morning.

CLANK!

The sharp sound of tal hitting the concrete jolted him upright.

He shot forward, breath held, senses sharpening. His ears twitched slightly as he tilted his head toward the source. Sothing—soone—had stepped inside.

A trespasser.

His hand reached instinctively to the iron staff leaning against a pipe. It was thick, blunt, not elegant—just like him. But it had weight, and that was enough.

"Tch... Not today," he muttered, gritting his teeth as he moved, his boots crunching lightly over scattered screws.

He crept along the shadow of a large tal cabinet, the cat slinking back into a corner. His heart was beating fast—fast enough to remind him he was still alive.

He reached the half-open inner gate that separated his living space from his actual workshop.

Another sound. A soft step. A whisper of cloth brushing against steel.

Then—he moved.

With a yell, he lunged forward. "Stop, you thief!"

He swung the staff with practiced force—calculated, aid low to disarm rather than kill—but just as it neared its target—

CLANG!

It stopped. Not because it missed, but because it had been caught.

By a hand.

A small, delicate hand.

He froze.

It was a woman.

He guessed that due to the weight of the hand and the pressure he felt, a womanly perfu was also signaling the sa.

She stood in the dim glow of the workshop’s hanging lamp, its flickering light catching the pale skin of her fingers as they held his staff mid-air like it weighed nothing.

Her other hand hung by her side, gloved, slender.

Her figure was cloaked in a black coat, fitting, almost tactical. Her hair—short, black under the light—frad a sharp yet unreadable face.

His mouth opened slightly, confused, trying to find the words.

"What the hell...?"

But before he could demand anything further, another voice rang out.

"Still too stable..." the man said from behind the workbench, crouched near the pile of discarded weapons.

The blind man tilted his head slightly.

Footsteps. Not rushed. Calm.

He turned toward it.