Chapter 152 - 154: Noctaris City, Smithing Building

The tent is quiet once more, but the weight of Zinov's words lingers. Asdri slowly exhales, eyes drifting toward the flickering lantern above. Then, a sudden thought crosses his mind. His expression tightens. "...Any news about Alix?" he asks. The question hangs in the air. Zinov pauses near the flap, half-turned. His brows knit. "I was about to ask you the same thing." Pyke sits up straighter, running a hand through his mess of hair. "After the event, he just disappeared. The person we tasked to keep an eye on him? Vanished too." Ingra frowns. "Wait, what? Disappeared? You mean literally no trace?" Asdri's fingers curl into the blanket. His voice is low, but sure. "My intuition is always right. That guy—he's not just a Tier 4." Ingra tilts her head, eyeing him. "Is that your sixth sense acting up again?" Asdri nods slowly. "Yeah. It's the same feeling I get when I stand in front of someone way stronger than me. That kind of pressure... the kind you don't forget. And dangerous, too. Like a blade held just out of sight." Valia glances toward the flap where Zinov had disappeared. "So you're saying... we've had someone like that right under our noses this whole time?" Famir, still silent by the window, speaks at last. "Maybe he didn't want to be noticed. Maybe he let us see just enough to stay off the radar." Pyke mutters, "Well, he sure succeeded. If he's really hiding that kind of power, then we're lucky he's not on the enemy's side." Asdri shifts slightly, wincing as he speaks. "That's why... I'm trying my best to befriend him. Keep him close, learn who he really is. And at the same time... keep an eye on him." Valia raises a brow, arms still crossed. "So, what? You want to recruit him?" "If possible," Asdri says, then glances at her. "But if not... at least I'll know which way he leans when things get worse." Valia's gaze lingers, then she sighs, her voice low. "It's still weird though. Don't you think? He disappears right when the city's in chaos? Like he knew what was coming?" Ingra frowns. "Or didn't want to get involved." Asdri leans back against the pillow, his breath uneven. "Okay," he says, voice quieter now. "Let's not talk about Alix anymore." Everyone turns toward him. He closes his eyes for a beat, then opens them again. "He's not here, and we've got enough on our plates as it is. We all need to heal—physically and mentally. Starting with me." Valia nods, stepping back toward him, her hands already glowing again. "Finally, something that makes sense." Pyke exhales through his nose. "Yeah, good call. I think my shoulder's still dislocated." ------ Alix pushes open the heavy stone doors of the smithing building, the low hum of enchantments embedded in the walls resonating faintly in his ears. The interior is massive, cavernous, its ceiling arched with darksteel support beams that gleam under magical lighting. Rows of advanced forges, smelting chambers, crystal grinders, and gear molds line the walls—most of them idle, untouched, or half-disassembled. The air is thick with the smell of molten ore and arcane residue. Despite the cutting-edge equipment, most of the workstations are empty. The moment Alix steps inside, a large, horned figure hurries over, soot and sparks still clinging to his apron. It's Grakkar, a hulking Molgor—a forge-born monster species with rocky skin, obsidian claws, and heat-resistant lungs. The only blacksmith under Alix who can forge Tier 4 gear. And the one Alix made to lead the blacksmiths right now. "Lord Alix!" Grakkar booms, bowing slightly, his deep voice echoing through the hall. "You grace the forge with your presence." Alix gives a small nod. "Grakkar. How's progress?" Grakkar scratches the side of his jaw, glancing toward the rows of unused stations. "Slow. The gear is here, but... we don't know how to use half of it. These machines... they're not like the ones we're familiar with." Alix steps deeper into the forge, his boots clicking against blackened stone. The temperature here is high—even without the forges running full force—but it doesn't bother him. He moves with calm purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the layout, noting which stations are operational and which are clearly untouched. "I figured as much," he says, folding his arms as he stops near an inactive runic crucible. Its surface is pristine, untouched. "This forge was meant for smiths with technical knowledge far beyond what you know." Grakkar grunts, his clawed hands resting on his hips. "Aye. I've been training the younger ones on the basics, but even I don't understand half the functions. These glyphs"—he gestures toward a dormant gear engraver glowing faintly with dormant runes—"they shift and change depending on material input. That's not normal smithing." Grakkar's frown deepens as he watches Alix. "We've never seen anything like it before. It's all advanced tech... even if we could figure out how to use it, I'm not sure if our knowledge would be enough to handle it." Alix steps closer to the runic crucible, gently running his fingers across the cool surface. "These machines are far beyond just brute force," he says. "They require a mastery of both magical and physical crafting that only the highest-tier smiths can comprehend. You don't have to worry about them for now." Grakkar tilts his head, curious. "Then... what should we do?" "You need to focus on improving your own smithing first," Alix replies, his voice calm and steady. "Once you and your team reach a higher level of proficiency, you'll understand how to use these machines. Right now, the most important thing is to ensure your basics are solid. Build up your skills." Grakkar nods thoughtfully, absorbing Alix's words. "Thank you, your majesty. With the resources and techniques you've given us, we are improving very quickly. I can feel the difference already." Alix smiles slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting. "That's good to hear. Because for my kingdom to grow, I need capable people like you and everyone here. The future depends on all of you." Grakkar's eyes gleam with determination. "We won't let you down. We'll keep pushing forward, learning everything we can. You've given us the tools—now it's up to us to master them." Alix gives a slow nod, his gaze unwavering. "I have no doubt you will." Alix turns slightly, eyes scanning another section of the forge where a group of salamanders—small, fire-infused beastkin with molten-red skin and ember eyes—work in quiet coordination, their hands moving with natural rhythm and control as they shape metal. "What about the salamanders?" Alix asks, nodding toward them. Grakkar lets out a low rumble, clearly impressed. "They're amazing, your majesty. There's one in particular—Zorov, I think his name is—he's catching up to me fast." Alix raises a brow. "That fast?" "Aye," Grakkar says, arms crossing over his broad chest. "It's not just natural talent, either. He's hungry to learn. I and my clan... we've been smithing all our lives, raised as slaves in human forges. Chained to the craft since we were old enough to lift a hammer. But these salamanders? They're closing the gap like it's nothing." He looks over at the group, admiration clear in his voice. "They don't just understand fire—they are fire. It moves with them, bends to their will. I've seen them temper a blade by instinct alone, no tools. Just heat, focus, and their bare hands. It's almost... artistic." Alix follows his gaze, watching as Zorov carefully molds a blade's edge using only a pair of heat-shielded tongs and his breath—faint flames dancing from his mouth, keeping the metal at the perfect glow. As Alix walks further down the forge aisle, his gaze lingers on a table stacked with failed prototypes—warped blades, cracked cores, and a few broken hilts, each one showing signs of magic rejection or destabilization. He stops beside one and picks up a shattered gauntlet embedded with fragmented runes. The mana lines are burnt out, like they overloaded mid-process. "What about the technique of fusing skills into equipment?" Alix asks, turning the gauntlet over in his hand. "Have you had any success yet?" Grakkar exhales sharply, the sound rough like grinding stone. "I've tried everything, your majesty. Followed the forging instructions you gave me step by step. Down to the timing, the heat levels, the binding glyphs. But every single attempt... it ends in failure." He gestures toward the scrap pile with a frustrated grunt. "Sometimes the item outright rejects the skill. Other times, it fuses halfway—just enough to make the whole thing unstable. One pulse of mana, and boom. Feedback surge. Dangerous stuff." Alix studies the gauntlet for a moment longer, then places it back down with care. "What about the mana anchors? Did you try layering them with dual-threaded glyphs before applying the skill core?" Grakkar nods. "I did. Even tried interweaving the glyphs with mana veins, just like in your notes. But it's like the skills themselves refuse to settle inside the gear. Like they're alive... and fighting back." There's a brief silence between them, the distant clink of hammers echoing through the massive forge. "Skill fusion isn't something that should be possible with brute methods," Alix murmurs, half to himself. "It's not just about binding magic to metal. It's about synchronization. Will, purpose... alignment." Grakkar tilts his head. "You mean the equipment and the skill need to... agree with each other?" "In a way, yes," Alix replies, his tone thoughtful. "The item has to be prepared to accept a skill. And the skill has to be channeled, not forced. There's a reason only a handful of blacksmiths in the world ever managed it."