The blacksmith stood straighter and wiped his hands off on a thick, ash-stained cloth before speaking. "Name's Warden," he said gruffly, as if it was a chore to say it out loud.
Juno blinked once. "Warden?" He tilted his head, the word rolling strangely in his mouth. "What kind of name is that?"
Warden shrugged. "It's the name I've held since before most here were even born. Means I guard what others destroy. Means I build what others forget."
Juno chuckled and crossed his arms. "Yeah, I think I'll stick with 'old man.' It suits you better."
Warden laughed—a deep, chesty sound that echoed through the black-stone forge like a hammer strike. "You'll grow up sooner or later. Probably after someone stronger breaks your nose."
"Doubt it," Juno said with a flash of his usual, maddening grin. "But I'll keep the advice in my back pocket."
Warden wiped sweat from his brow and gestured toward the embers. "Now, let me see your ability. How you fight. I need to feel it if I'm gonna craft a weapon for you."
Juno didn't even blink. "No."
The answer was as sharp as it was immediate. Not hesitation. Not fear. Just raw instinct.
Warden raised an eyebrow. "No?"
Juno shook his head, stepping back just slightly. "I don't show my cards to people I just met, old man. Doesn't matter if you're swinging a hammer or a blade."
Another laugh from Warden. "Relax, kid. Even if you did, I couldn't do a thing with it. My ability doesn't work like that."
Juno's gaze narrowed, cautious but intrigued. "What is it then?"
"Perfect Smith." Warden held up his blackened hands, cracked and calloused from centuries of work. "I can forge anything for anyone—anything—so long as they have a true ideal. That's all it takes."
Juno paused at that, jaw flexing slightly. The words hung in the air.
"Ideal, huh…" he muttered. "I don't know if I've got something like that."
"You just told me you only care about fighting strong opponents, right?" Warden asked, tilting his head.
Juno looked up with a slow smirk. "Sure. Fighting's the only thing worth doing."
"That's an ideal," Warden said with a satisfied grunt. "As true and raw as any I've seen."
Juno nodded, only half-convinced, but the concept intrigued him. "I guess it counts…"
"And your ability?" Warden asked again.
Juno's eyes shimmered faintly, pupils thin like blades. "Shadows," he said simply. "Everything I am… is tied to them."
Warden snorted. "You and half the damn House."
Juno's smirk widened. "Yeah, but mine's not some cheap party trick. Mine's something different."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. There was a pressure in the room now, a suffocating, creeping edge behind his words that even the flame of the forge seemed to shy away from. Warden felt it—and that was enough.
"Yeah," Warden said, voice quieter now. "I can tell."
The silence lingered before Warden turned back toward his anvil. He picked up a rod of pale metal and rolled it in his palm. "You want to know what essence is?"
Juno's eyes lit up again. "More than ever."
Warden pointed toward the forge, the flames dancing like spirits around the metal. "Essence is what happens when energy meets identity. Not just who you are—but why you are. The reason you fight. The reason you live. Essence is the fusion of your drive and your power. It's how people create new abilities—not just borrow whatever trick the House decides to give them."
Juno blinked. "Wait. People can make abilities?"
Warden nodded, hammering down on the metal. Sparks flew. "If they've got the clarity. The will. And enough raw energy to shape it. Yes."
Juno stared at the flames, silent for once. That revelation hit like thunder. He thought he'd already discovered the depth of the House—but now it felt like he was only scratching the surface.
"Of course," Warden said, tossing the shaped metal into a trough of black water, "your essence-based ability is still linked to the one the House gave you. They're never completely separate. The roots are always the same. But what you do with it… that's up to you."
Juno didn't respond immediately. He stepped closer to the forge again, staring into the coals, into the heat, as if he could burn the truth into his memory. He was still grinning—but this time, it wasn't manic. It was real.
"So coming to the Pale Arc…" he muttered to himself. "Might've been the best thing I've ever done."
Warden didn't answer. He didn't need to. Because somewhere deep in that heat, a sword was already being born. And it wasn't one of steel or metal.
It was one of essence. Of purpose.
And it belonged to Juno.
Warden set down a thick slab of silvery-black metal on a wide anvil beside the forge. Its surface was smooth, cool to the touch despite the heat of the room, but its density carried a quiet weight—one that almost hummed with potential. He dusted off his hands and turned to Juno.
"Stick your hand out," the old smith said, voice calm but resolute.
Juno raised an eyebrow, half-smirking. "What for?"
"Just do it, brat."
Juno clicked his tongue, grumbling under his breath. "Fine…" He held out his hand with reluctant confidence, like someone playing along with a game they already planned to win.
"Now," Warden said, stepping beside him. "Try to make your essence appear. But don't force it like you do energy in a fight. Essence isn't something you throw or shape like a weapon. It's not meant for battle—not directly. It's meant for creation. For building the things that define you."
Juno blinked, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
He inhaled, steadying his breath. "Alright…"
Closing his eyes, he began to circulate his energy—not to call forth power, but to feel it. To stir the currents beneath his skin in rhythm with his heartbeat. But instead of thinking about techniques or combat, Juno let his mind drift to something far more intimate.
His ideal.
The thrill of clashing with someone stronger. The maddening joy of dancing on the edge of death. That feeling when blades meet, when shadow splits, when the impossible becomes real. The need—not want, but need—to test himself against the world. The desire to face gods, monsters, legends… and laugh while doing it.
The moment those thoughts aligned with the pulse of his energy, something ignited.
From his palm, a flame burst into existence—silent, dark, and slow-moving. It wasn't fire, not truly. It didn't burn or flicker. It shimmered like oil under moonlight, a black flame with faint edges of violet, shaped like a twisting wisp of living shadow.
Warden's brow raised slightly.
Not because it was strange—he'd seen stranger. But because of how fast it appeared. No resistance. No hesitation. It was like Juno's essence had just been waiting to be called.
"You sure you haven't learned this before?" Warden asked, eyeing him closely. "That came out quicker than most seasoned warriors I've seen pass through this tower. You playing innocent with me?"
Juno opened his eyes and stared at the flame in his palm. His expression shifted, the humor still there—but tempered now by something deeper. He shook his head.
"No… I haven't learned this before." His voice was low. Focused.
But as he gazed at the black flame, memories stirred. Images blurred through his mind like fragments of an old dream: the moment he fought Iri… that moment, when he drew everything into himself, when time felt like it broke, when he brought down the Heavenly Divider.
He remembered what it looked like then—this same black flame, these same shadows.
But back then, he'd chalked it up to his contract. Another gift from the House. Another unlocked "power."
Now, seeing it again, raw and untamed in his own hand, the truth began to dawn.
He hadn't received Heavenly Divider.
He had made it.
Juno exhaled sharply, muttering to himself, "Guess you really can make abilities with this…"
Warden chuckled, folding his arms. "Told you so." His tone was playful but proud, like a teacher watching a pupil surpass the first hurdle. "Now, next part's simple."
He stepped aside and gestured toward the dark slab of metal on the anvil. "Infuse it. Pour your essence into it. Shape it. Let it drink the flame of your ideal. Don't think too hard about it—just will it."
Juno approached, the black flame dancing in his palm. The metal shimmered faintly as he drew closer, almost as if it recognized what was coming. He stood over the anvil, flame above metal, and let his mind sharpen.
He pictured the kind of weapon he wanted. The feel of it in his hands. A blade not for defense or style—but for ending battles. A weapon that matched the way he thought, the way he fought. Unrelenting. Clean. Violent. A sword of precision and pressure—a katana.
He pressed his palm to the metal.
Instantly, the black flame seeped into it, spreading like ink across water. The slab groaned softly, a strange, resonant hum pulsing from its core as if it were alive, breathing in Juno's essence. Shadows crawled over its surface, devouring the shine, replacing it with a deep, void-like finish.
The metal began to glow—not with heat, but with the eerie light of something ancient and personal being born.
Warden stood back, watching carefully.
The forge crackled, but made no sound.
Then the light died down, and the metal began to shift.
Lines drew themselves along its length. The form of a blade began to take shape—long, curved, and deadly. It wasn't finished yet. It would take time, refinement, hammering—but the soul of the weapon was already inside.
It was his.
Juno stepped back, eyes wide, grin slowly spreading as he saw what had happened. "That… is mine."
Warden nodded, lifting the raw blade with reverence. "It is. And if you treat it right, it'll be the sharpest part of you."
Juno's expression twisted into something between pride and madness. "I'm gonna carve legends with that thing."
Warden smiled, setting the blade down carefully. "We'll see. Come back in three days. It'll be ready."
Juno turned to leave, but not before glancing back at the forge—at the blade—and at the still-simmering trail of his own black flame fading in the air.
For once, it wasn't just about fighting anymore.
It was about making something.
And it was only the beginning.