The victory celebration was a blur of deafening cheers and triumphant chaos. C Class students hoisted Grey onto their shoulders, the sight of the heavily muscled ’ugly stepsister’ being paraded around the communal hall adding a final, surreal touch to the day.
Mid-celebration, just as Grey was attempting to subtly shed the remnants of his costu, a severe-looking, uniford ssenger pushed through the jubilant crowd.
"Grey!" the ssenger shouted over the din. "Grand Elder Ignis requests to see you in his private office!"
The cheering imdiately quieted around Grey. A summons from a Grand Elder, especially Ignis, was no small matter.
Grey, relieved for a dignified exit from the ridiculous costu, quickly descended from the shoulders of his classmates, giving them a reassuring nod before following the ssenger.
Ignis’s private office, located deep within the oldest stone structures of the Academy, was a stark contrast to the festival.
It was warm, slled faintly of coal smoke and aged tal, and was dominated by tools, blueprints, and massive dwarven forges—a true craftsman’s sanctuary.
Grand Elder Ignis sat behind a heavy, granite desk, the ’Masterwork’ dagger Grey had forged resting prominently before him.
As Grey was ushered in, Ignis looked up, his expression softened only slightly from his usual severity.
"Welco, Grey," Ignis rumbled, his voice still booming even in the confines of the office. "And congratulations. The C Class victory was... unexpected."
"Thank you, Grand Elder," Grey replied, executing a respectful bow.
Ignis picked up the dagger, turning it slowly to catch the light. "I did not call you here for pleasantries, boy. That dagger..." He tapped the blade with his finger. "...is an insult to years of my profession. It is flawless, and you are supposedly an amateur."
Ignis’s eyes bored into Grey. "Let us dispense with the facade. Tell , what is the optimal quenching temperature for high-carbon steel alloyed with a minor concentration of mythril dust, considering the natural cooling rate of this Academy’s local water supply?"
Grey didn’t hesitate. He ntally accessed the vast, synthesized knowledge imparted by Grazon and filtered through the System’s perfect mory.
"Sir, for that alloy, the critical temperature would be around 278 °C. Quenching should be done in brine, rather than oil, to achieve the necessary speed, adjusting for the local water’s mineral content which would slightly increase the final hardness but reduce ductility by less than 3 percent."
Ignis leaned back, his eyes widening marginally. He fired off another question, attempting to corner Grey in tallurgy theory.
"Explain the difference between a normalized and an annealed grain structure in terms of tensile strength and impact resistance."
"Annealing produces large, soft grains, maximizing ductility but lowering tensile strength and impact resistance," Grey answered instantly, his tone asured and professional.
"Normalization produces finer grains, relieving internal stresses without sacrificing significant hardness, resulting in superior impact resistance and better preparation for final tempering."
Ignis laughed—a huge, hearty, surprising sound that echoed through the room. He slamd his hand on the desk, thoroughly delighted.
"You speak like a master of thirty years!" Ignis roared, pointing the dagger at Grey.
"Boy, I know the difference between book learning and true comprehension. You answered flawlessly, accounting for all practical variables."
He leaned forward, his curiosity overwhelming his stern deanor. "How long have you truly been blacksmithing?"
Grey maintained eye contact, his expression unnervingly calm, deciding that the truth, no matter how unbelievable, was his best defense.
"Sir, I first held a hamr four days ago, after Professor Thorgar made arrangents with Master Grazon." Grey paused. "My total training ti is just under three days."
Ignis’s hearty laughter imdiately died in his throat. His mouth snapped shut. His face, usually a study in robust ruddy color, lost so of its hue.
"You lie, boy," Ignis stated flatly, searching Grey’s eyes for any flicker of deceit.
Grey t his gaze without blinking, his deanor calm and sincere. "I am telling the truth, Grand Elder. I was simply taught by the best, and I focused my efforts."
Ignis stared for a long, agonizing mont. He saw no nervousness, no hesitation, no youthful bravado—only unnerving sincerity.
The dagger in his hand confird the result.
A profound, audible gasp escaped the Grand Elder. He slumped back in his chair, shaking his head.
"Impossible... three days," Ignis whispered, staring at Grey with a mixture of shock and awe.
"You are not rely skilled, child. You possess a genius that defies all logic and racial affinity. Your mind is a forge in itself." He gently placed the dagger back down. "I accept it. You are a genius.
Grand Elder Ignis leaned back in his chair, the astonishnt slowly settling into a deep, focused seriousness.
He set the Masterwork dagger aside and fixed Grey with a piercing gaze, the laughter gone entirely.
"Grey," Ignis said, his voice dropping to a low, powerful register. "Let us be clear. That dagger is a fluke, a lightning strike of talent. I have seen many talents wither because they confuse ability with dedication. Tell , boy, in all seriousness: how serious are you regarding tallurgy and blacksmithing? Do you truly intend to pursue this craft further?"
Grey felt a montary pressure under the weight of Ignis’s expectation. He realized the significance of the question; depending on his answer, he would either earn a temporary nod of approval or a substantial, long-term reward from the powerful Dwarf Elder—likely fulfilling the "Affinity increases" mission goal in a spectacular fashion.
Grey straightened up, his voice steady and confident. "Grand Elder, I will not lie and say that this craft has been my lifelong passion. But I discovered a proficiency here that demands attention. I am serious, and I do wish to pursue the craft further, to understand why I was able to achieve what I did."
A wide, genuine smile—the first one Grey had ever seen from him—finally spread across Ignis’s rugged face.
It was a smile of a craftsman recognizing a worthy heir.
"Excellent!" Ignis roared, slapping his hand on the desk once more. He reached into the breast pocket of his heavy tunic and pulled out a small, heavy object.
It was a hexagonal tal plate, cast in dark, polished steel, with the clear image of twin hamrs and an anvil engraved upon its surface.
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