Subtitle: The Heir Who Forged a World Beyond Swords.
Chapter 2: Scrap-Tier Heretic
The first rule of Ironfall was simple:
If you couldn't produce, you didn't exist.
Alvanley learned this before dawn.
The workshop doors slammed open, releasing a wave of heat, smoke, and metallic stench. Engineers moved with brutal efficiency, their bodies scarred by burns and grease. No one bowed. No one prayed. No one cared where you came from.
Only what you could make.
Alvanley stood at the edge of the scrap floor, sleeves rolled up, hands trembling—not from fear, but from information overload.
The world looked different now.
Not sharper.
Deeper.
Every broken machine whispered its mistakes to him. Stress fractures glowed faintly in his vision. Energy leaks shimmered like heat haze. Design flaws screamed louder than any insult he'd endured in Skyreach Citadel.
So this is what the System meant by optimization…
"Oi, golden-eyes."
A voice cut through the noise.
A tall man stepped forward, mechanical arm whirring softly as it adjusted its grip on a plasma cutter. His name tag read Rask Calder, Scrap Overseer.
"You're the noble brat Kaelith dragged in last night?"
Alvanley nodded. "I'm assigned to scrap sorting."
Rask snorted. "Assigned? Kid, you're tested."
He tossed a heavy crate at Alvanley's feet. It burst open, spilling twisted components—burnt coils, shattered cores, mana-corrupted alloys.
"Build something," Rask said flatly. "One hour. Scrap-tier materials only."
Murmurs spread.
Scrap-tier builds were a joke. Barely functional. Often lethal to the user.
Alvanley knelt.
His God's Eyes activated without command.
[Material Scan: COMPLETE]
[Salvage Potential: 14%]
[Optimization Route: AVAILABLE]
His lips curved upward.
"Fourteen percent is plenty."
⚙️ A Weapon the Gods Would Laugh At
He worked fast.
Not like an engineer—like a surgeon.
He stripped insulation where it was wasted, reforged cracked alloy into layered stress plates, rewired energy flow to bypass corrupted mana residue.
Hands moved with terrifying calm.
Engineers slowed.
Then stopped.
Someone whispered, "He's not following standard schematics…"
Rask's mechanical eye zoomed in.
"…He's rewriting them."
Forty-seven minutes later, Alvanley stood up.
In his hands was a compact weapon—ugly, asymmetrical, humming softly. No runes. No enchantments. Just raw engineering and intent.
"A kinetic pulse launcher," Alvanley said. "Single-shot. Non-lethal to unarmored targets."
Rask raised a brow. "And lethal to?"
Alvanley met his gaze.
"Magic."
Laughter erupted.
Then Kaelith Vorn stepped forward.
"Test it," she said.
The workshop doors slid open, revealing a reinforced testing corridor. At the far end stood a captured Mana Warden Automaton, its enchantments humming defensively.
Alvanley aimed.
He breathed.
And pulled the trigger.
The weapon screamed.
Not with sound—but with absence.
The pulse hit the automaton, and for half a second, mana ceased to exist.
The enchantments collapsed.
The automaton fell apart like a corpse stripped of its soul.
Silence.
Then—
"Scrap-tier," Rask muttered. "My ass."
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[First Creation Complete]
[Tier Advancement: SCRAP → ALLOY]
Alvanley's heartbeat quickened.
⚠️ Attention Is a Weapon Too
Ironfall noticed.
By midday, whispers followed Alvanley through the corridors. Engineers watched him like prey—or treasure. Security drones tracked his movement.
And somewhere far above—
So did something else.
Kaelith cornered him near the coolant vents.
"You built a mana-null weapon on your first try," she said quietly. "Do you understand what that means?"
"That magic can be broken," Alvanley replied.
Her jaw tightened. "It means you've painted a target on this city."
As if summoned by her words, alarms blared.
A ripple of mana tore through the air—foreign, arrogant.
The workshop gates burst open.
Three figures stepped inside, robes shimmering with sigils.
Arcanum Concord Enforcers.
The lead mage sneered. "By order of the Concord, surrender the heretical device and the golden-eyed anomaly."
Engineers reached for tools.
Kaelith stepped forward.
"This is Ironfall territory."
The mage smiled.
"And magic outranks territory."
Alvanley felt it then.
The pressure.
The gods were watching through them.
His God's Eyes burned.
[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: ESCALATION]
He lifted the launcher.
Rask swore. "Kid—"
The mage raised his staff.
And Alvanley fired.
Mana detonated violently as the pulse ripped through spell layers. One enforcer slammed into the wall, unconscious. Another screamed as his casting arm went numb.
The leader staggered—but did not fall.
Instead, he laughed.
"Interesting," the mage said, blood trickling from his mouth. "So the prophecy breathes after all."
Alvanley froze.
"…You know about the God's Eyes?"
"Oh yes," the mage replied softly. "And your cousin will be pleased."
Far away, inside Skyreach Citadel—
Boli Valdyrion opened his eyes.
A magic circle flared beneath his feet.
"So," he murmured, smiling for the first time in years,
"you finally chose a side, Alvanley."
Back in Ironfall, the System spoke again.
[WARNING:]
[DIVINE INTERFERENCE DETECTED]
[SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 12%]
And the sky above the steel city began to crack.
🔥 END OF CHAPTER 2