The city of Valorheim sprawled beyond the academy walls like a living creature.
As the capital of the Kingdom of Valtheris, it was a maze of contradictions. Grand marble palaces stood alongside cramped wooden tenements.
Wealthy merchants in silk robes brushed past beggars in rags. The main thoroughfares gleamed with magical street lamps and expensive storefronts, while the back alleys festered with shadows and secrets.
Revan moved through the crowded streets with practiced ease.
'Perfect.'
His destination wasn't in the respectable commercial district where most students shopped for equipment. It wasn't even in the moderately shady market where adventurers bought potions and second-hand weapons.
No, Revan was heading somewhere far less... official.
The Undergallows.
It was a section of Valorheim that didn't appear on any tourist map. A labyrinth of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings wedged between the industrial foundries and the old city walls.
The kind of place where questions weren't asked and answers weren't given freely.
The kind of place where a servant of House Vespera could find things that didn't technically exist.
Revan navigated the twisting passages from memory, passing boarded-up shops and suspicious figures who watched him from darkened doorways.
He ignored them all. The Undergallows had its own rules, and one of the most important was: Don't bother anyone who walks like they belong.
After fifteen minutes of walking, he stopped before a building that looked like it might collapse if someone sneezed too hard.
The sign above the door had faded decades ago, leaving only the ghost of letters that might once have spelled a name.
The windows were covered with so much grime that no light could penetrate. And the door itself was a solid slab of iron that seemed wildly out of place on such a decrepit structure.
Revan knocked three times. Paused. Knocked twice more.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, with a groan of ancient hinges, the iron door swung open.
***
Heat hit him like a physical wall.
The interior of the building was nothing like its exterior suggested. Where the outside screamed "abandoned ruin," the inside roared "working forge."
Massive furnaces lined the walls, their fires burning with colors that shouldn't exist in nature—deep crimson, electric blue, and a strange purple that hurt to look at directly. Weapons hung from every available surface: swords, axes, spears, and things Revan couldn't even name. The air was thick with the smell of molten metal, coal smoke, and something else—something that tingled against his skin like static electricity.
Mana-forged steel. The real stuff.
And standing in the center of it all, hammering a glowing ingot with methodical precision, was a mountain of a man.
He was easily seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block a doorway and arms thicker than most people's thighs. His skin was dark as coal, gleaming with sweat in the firelight.
A leather apron covered his chest, scarred and burned from decades of work. His head was completely bald, but a magnificent beard—braided and decorated with metal rings—hung down to his chest.
This was Volkar.
Once upon a time, he had been a warrior. A damn good one, if the rumors were true. He had fought in the border wars, earned himself a reputation as "The Iron Giant," and retired after taking wounds that would have killed lesser men.
Now he made weapons. The best weapons Revan had ever known.
"Well, well."
Volkar's voice was a deep rumble, like boulders grinding together in an avalanche.
He didn't look up from his work, but somehow Revan knew the man was fully aware of his presence.
"The little shadow returns. I was wondering when you'd crawl back."
"Master Volkar."
Revan approached the forge, stopping at a respectful distance.
"I need your help."
"You always do."
CLANG.
The hammer fell. Sparks scattered.
"Last time it was information about Black Iron deposits. Time before that, you wanted to know about Aura-conductive alloys."
CLANG.
"What is it this time? Another academic question? Or..."
Finally, Volkar looked up.
His eyes were startling—bright amber, almost golden, burning with an intensity that belied his casual tone.
"...did you finally break that pretty sword of yours?"
Revan reached into his [Shadow Storage] and pulled out the weapon in question.
Or rather, what was left of it.
The blade that had served him since childhood now looked like a piece of scrap metal. The edge was jagged and brittle. The surface was covered in hairline fractures. The entire thing emanated a sense of... exhaustion. As if the metal itself had given up.
Volkar set down his hammer and approached, taking the ruined weapon with surprising gentleness.
"Obsidian Orichalcum core. Mana-tempered edge. Shadow-woven hilt."
He turned it over in his massive hands, examining every crack and fracture.
"Good craftsmanship. Better than most nobles deserve. But..."
His amber eyes narrowed.
"This damage isn't from normal use. You channeled something through this blade. Something far beyond its capacity."
'As expected of a former warrior. He can read the sword's history just by looking at it.'
"I had no choice," Revan said simply. "The situation demanded it."
"The situation demanded suicide, you mean."
Volkar set the broken sword on his workbench.
"A blade is a partner, boy. You don't ask your partner to carry weight that will break their spine. And you don't push Aura through a conduit that wasn't built for it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from what I'm seeing, you nearly killed yourself along with this sword."
Revan didn't deny it.
"That's why I'm here, Master Volkar. I need something better. Something that won't break next time."
"Next time."
Volkar laughed—a booming sound that echoed off the forge walls.
"Listen to this arrogant little shadow. He nearly dies once, and already he's planning for 'next time.'"
His laughter faded, replaced by a shrewd, calculating expression.
"What exactly did you fight, boy? What kind of enemy requires that much Aura from someone your age?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to me. I don't forge weapons for fools who'll just break them again."
Revan considered his options. Volkar wasn't the type to spread rumors, but he also wasn't the type to help without knowing what he was getting into.
"A Master," Revan said finally. "Full Aura Manifestation. "
Volkar went very still.
"A Master."
"Yes."
"And you survived."
"Barely."
"..."
For a long moment, Volkar simply stared at him. Those amber eyes seemed to pierce straight through Revan's skull, reading things that weren't written on his face.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across the old warrior's features.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
He turned back to his forge, gesturing for Revan to follow.
"I might have something for you. But the materials... they're not easy to obtain."
'Here it comes.'
Revan had expected this. Volkar never made things simple.
"What do you need?"
"For a blade capable of handling Master-level Aura output?"
Volkar pulled out a worn leather journal, flipping through pages covered in diagrams and notes.
"The core needs to be Void Iron—pure, unrefined, mined from places where mana doesn't flow naturally. Nearly impossible to find in Valtheris."
"And where can it be found?"
"The Borderlands. There are deposits near the old ruins, where ancient battles scorched the earth so badly that mana still refuses to return."
'The Borderlands.'
Revan filed that information away.
"There might be another option."
Volkar's voice dropped lower, as if sharing a secret.
"I've been hearing rumors lately. Whispers from the underground trade routes."
"What kind of rumors?"
"There's a tournament being organized. In the Kingdom of Astoria, across the eastern mountains."
Volkar's amber eyes gleamed with something that might have been excitement.
"They're calling it the Crimson Blade Trials. A combat tournament open to warriors from all nations. The prize?"
He leaned closer.
"A legendary sword. Forged by the great smith Aldric the Undying himself, three centuries ago. They say its blade can cut through anything—physical or magical. And its core..."
"Void Iron?"
"Better. Void Crystal. A solidified fragment of pure nothingness. The rarest material in existence."
Revan's mind was already racing.
'A tournament. In a neighboring kingdom. With warriors from all nations competing.'
'If I enter and win, I solve my weapon problem immediately.'
'But there's no way it'll be that simple. A tournament for a legendary sword will attract monsters. People far beyond my current level.'
'On the other hand...'
'It's also the perfect cover for gathering information. If there's a network behind [Crimson Tears] that spans multiple kingdoms, a gathering of warriors and nobles from different nations would be the ideal place to find leads.'
"When does this tournament start?" Revan asked.
"Three weeks from now. Registration closes in ten days."
'Three weeks. That's tight, but not impossible.'
"What's the entry requirement?"
"That's the interesting part."
Volkar's grin widened.
"There isn't one. Anyone can enter—noble or commoner, famous or unknown. The only rule is: survive. It's a single-elimination tournament. You fight until you lose or die."
'Die.'
'Of course there's a death clause. Why would anything in this world be straightforward?'
"One more thing," Volkar added, his expression turning serious. "I've also heard whispers about some unusual activity in the Borderlands. Mercenary groups moving in large numbers. Supplies being transported to locations that don't have any official settlements."
"What kind of supplies?"
"The kind you'd need to set up a large-scale operation. Forges. Alchemical equipment. Prison cells."
'Prison cells.'
'Someone is building something in the Borderlands. Something that requires prisoners.'
A cold sensation crawled down Revan's spine.
His mind involuntarily drifted back to that night on the train. The cargo worth 100,000 gold coins. The Master-rank warrior who died protecting it. And the Old Mage—the Archmage—who fled into the darkness, leaving his comrade behind.
'The Old Mage escaped. My Lady said she would investigate further, but she never told me the details.'
'Could this be connected?'
'Large-scale operation. Alchemical equipment. Prison cells.'
The crimson crystal sitting in his [Shadow Storage] suddenly felt heavier.
'[Crimson Tears] is an Illegal Mana Catalyst. Something that shouldn't exist until much later. If someone is mass-producing it...'
'They would need facilities. Raw materials. And test subjects.'
'Test subjects who might end up in prison cells.'
The threads were beginning to weave together in his mind, forming a picture he didn't like.
'Is there a connection? Or am I being paranoid?'
He couldn't be sure. Not yet. He didn't have enough information.
But the timing was too convenient to ignore.
"Master Volkar. Thank you for the information."
Revan reached into his shadow storage and pulled out a small pouch—one of the few valuables he had managed to accumulate through his work for Sylvia.
Volkar waved it away.
"Keep your money, boy. This isn't a transaction."
He fixed Revan with a piercing stare.
"Consider it an investment. You're one of the few young warriors who actually listens when I talk. It would be a waste to let you die because your sword couldn't keep up."
"Then what do you want in return?"
"Survive."
Volkar turned back to his forge, picking up his hammer.
"Survive whatever madness you're walking into. Get stronger. And when you're finally worthy of a blade forged by these hands..."
CLANG.
"Come back. I'll make you something that even Masters will fear."