Kael stood before the furnace lined with hematite ore, his notebook open in his hands. He'd been like this ever since returning with Ryla last night. The reddish ore they'd collected upstream from the Tora River lay wrapped in cloth, arranged along the edge of the furnace platform. Depending on the angle of light, it glowed faintly orange from within—proof that ether had seeped into it. Each time he touched it, his fingertips warmed gently. (A flame sword, then.) The notebook contained yesterday's transcribed documents. Fragments from the forging records of the ancient empire Zolfa—only small portions had been deciphered, but one thing was clear: they used hematite ore. The rest remained unknown. How to forge it. The procedure for forging magic still eluded him. "[serious]The materials are ready. Next is managing the furnace temperature," said from beside him. Ryla checked the furnace's condition. Her red-purple hair was slightly damp from the heat. Her mismatched eyes—gold and violet—fixed intently on the hematite. The memory of last night's campfire lingered in Kael's mind. The warmth of her hands as she'd wrapped the scarf around him on the way back. But he needed to focus now. "[serious]I think the timing of ether injection will be difficult. It'll require more delicate control than ordinary forging magic," said. "Did the documents say anything?" "I could read that it's controlled by the rhythm of the hammer strikes. Not incantation—rhythm. That much I got," Ryla placed a finger against her chin, thinking. Kael glanced at her profile for a moment, then returned his gaze to the notebook. That's when the workshop door opened. It creaked—quietly, but without hesitation. Kael and Ryla turned simultaneously. --- The man who entered was tall. At least one hundred eighty-five centimeters. Silver threaded through his short, neat hair, and gray eyes swept across the interior in a single glance. His leather armor bore scars—not old ones, but recent. A thin scar ran near his left eye. His sword remained sheathed, his hand not on the hilt. Yet that very restraint suggested not someone unwilling to draw, but someone who believed drawing unnecessary. In an instant, Kael knew this man was no ordinary person. Ryla stepped half a pace forward. The movement was natural. Kael hadn't even realized it, but the moment she moved ahead, his hand reached toward her shoulder—to stop her, though he didn't. They stood now in positions where each could shield the other. The man's eyes narrowed as he observed this. It was the expression of someone confirming something. "[serious]The bearer of Ur's Iron Hammer," said. His voice was low and calm. "[serious]……That's right. Who are you?" "Kieran. But there's something I need to say first," The man stepped inside. Kael felt Ryla's vigilance rise slightly, but the man made no move toward his sword—only looked directly at Kael. "[serious]Stop the forging," A single statement. Not an explanation or plea, but a fact delivered plainly. "[surprised]……What?" "Each time you progress with forging the three blades, the seal on the Void's Echo—an ancient existence sealed away by the empire Zolfa—weakens. With every strike, one after another, the seal thins. When all three blades are complete, the seal may collapse entirely," Kael gripped his notebook. The Void's Echo. He didn't know that term. But there was no lie in Kieran's eyes. Something urgent dwelt there. This man was telling the truth—Kael felt it. (So by fulfilling my mission, I'd awaken something?) He was shaken. A vision surfaced in his mind. A flame sword. An ice sword. A lightning sword. That "chosen" sensation he'd felt then now seemed heavier. But. Kael looked up. "[serious]……I can't stop," Kieran listened in silence. "I have no parents. My master let me stay at his workshop. I've been forging here for five years. Being a blacksmith was my only dream. When that dream aligned with the mission of the three blades—I thought this was what I was meant to do. I can't back down from that," Even as he spoke, he felt a little embarrassed. He wasn't trying to sound impressive. He was simply telling the truth. Kieran held Kael's gaze for several seconds. Those gray eyes fixed on him steadily. Then he sighed. "[sarcastic]……Then I'll bear witness. To confirm whether you're genuine," He planted his sword against the floor, leaned it against the wall, and lowered himself to sit. Kael was taken aback. He'd thought the man came with hostile intent. But that wasn't it. This man was—trying to discern something. Ryla turned to Kael and spoke quietly. "[whispers]Can we trust him?" "[whispers]I don't know. But he doesn't seem like an enemy," Ryla considered for a moment, then let out a small snort. Silence settled. Kieran spoke quietly. "[serious]Is there any food?" Ryla answered immediately. "[sarcastic]Should I steal some?" "[angry]Don't," He stopped her reflexively. Kieran's mouth curved slightly at the corner for the first time. The air in the room lightened, just a little. --- Night fell. The three of them remained in the workshop. Master Yorn's three furnaces sat cold and unused. Kael divided the black bread Yorn had left behind. No one spoke much. Kieran leaned against the wall with his eyes closed—whether sleeping or thinking, no one could tell. Ryla sat beside the furnace, turning a piece of hematite over in her palm. Kael lay on his sleeping mat, staring at the ceiling. (The Void's Echo, then.) Too many unknowns. Forging the three blades would awaken something. But without forging them, this mission meant nothing. Which was right—he couldn't find an answer. Unable to sleep, the night deepened. Ryla looked out the window. "[serious]……Wait a moment," Her voice was low. Kael sat up. Kieran's eyes opened. "There's light coming from the south. Multiple sources," Kael approached the window. From the south of the city—near the entrance to Fostalen's workshop district—multiple steam lanterns approached slowly. Not just one. Five, ten, more than that. "[serious]How many?" "Over twenty. Armed," Kieran rose to his feet. His hand moved to his sword with fluid speed. At that moment, the workshop door was kicked in from outside. --- The impact was violent. The door collapsed inward. Kael flew backward, hitting the wall. Armed men poured in. Leather armor, iron weapons, eyes without mercy. One, two, three—the workshop became cramped in seconds. More waited outside. Multiple footsteps echoed. Among them all stood one figure with a presence entirely different. A woman. Mid-to-late thirties, perhaps. Her right eye was covered by an eyepatch. The single eye that remained fixed on them had already calculated everything. Short, rust-colored hair, cropped close. An old scar like bite marks on her neck. Two swords at her waist, both well-used. The Iron Fang Brigade. The name of a mercenary company based in the Verga Mountains flashed through Kael's mind. The gear and eye emblem carved into the workshop wall. It connected. "[cold]I am Gerda Haul. I won't complicate this," said. Her voice was low and flat. Emotionless. The voice of someone simply doing a job. "[cold]Give me Ur's Iron Hammer and the hematite ore. That's all," Kael's hand went to his chest. The hammer was there. The hematite lay arranged on the furnace platform. (I can't give it up.) His legs trembled. But his hands moved. He held the hammer to his chest with both arms. "[serious]I won't," His voice cracked slightly. But he said it completely. Gerda said nothing. After a second of silence, she signaled one of her mercenaries with only her eyes. That was all. A torch was thrown into the workshop eaves. Dry wood burst into flame instantly. Heat rushed into the space. Smoke rose. The speed at which fire spread to the ceiling was three times faster than Kael had imagined. "——!" The shelves were burning. Master Yorn's workshop, the swords and tools he'd forged during five years of training—all the prototypes lined against the walls were in the flames. The small blade he'd first completed. The sword he'd desperately forged for his certification exam. The single farm tool Yorn had praised. All evidence that he'd been here was disappearing in this fire. Kael couldn't move. He tried to step forward. But his body wouldn't obey. The furnace heat seared his face. His eyes burned. Smoke filled his throat. His hand holding Ur's Iron Hammer shook. A sound came out—neither crying nor screaming, but something wordless. (Five years here, and it's all—) "[serious]Boy, fall back," Kieran stepped in front of Kael. His sword sang as it drew. He faced Gerda. They moved. Kieran's blade was sharp. But Gerda was faster. With her single eye's vision, she evaded Kieran's strike from the right with nearly invisible movement. Her counter was heavy. Kieran was pushed back. "[serious]……Strong," A low murmur. Not admiration or sour grapes, just situational assessment. Ryla grabbed Kael's arm. "[serious]We're leaving," "But Kieran——" "That person is buying us time to escape. Don't waste it," Kael couldn't tear his eyes from the burning workshop. The furnace. The platform. Five years of work. Everything. Ryla dragged him toward the back exit. --- The alley was dark. Ryla's movements were precise. No hesitation. She navigated Fostalen's back streets like someone who knew them intimately, turning corners, slipping between buildings, vanishing from pursuers' sight. The experience from her time as a thief was etched into her body—Kael realized this. On a night like this, it kept them alive. Multiple footsteps echoed behind them. They were being chased. Two figures ran through the dark alley. Breath came hard. Kael could only follow Ryla's back, nothing else. Then a voice came from behind. "Hey! Isn't that the traitor Ryla?! The boss was looking for you!" It reached Kael's ears. Ryla's pace faltered for just an instant. A single step's rhythm broke. But she recovered immediately and kept running. Kael watched her profile as they ran. Ryla kept her eyes forward, saying nothing. "[angry]She's from Poley's gang, the ones connected to the Iron Fang! Stop her!" Poley's gang. A thief organization with ties to the Iron Fang Brigade. Points connected in Kael's mind. (……Why Ryla came to Fostalen. How she knew the workshop's location. The signs of someone searching through belongings last night. That one moment's expression when she said she'd "seen that emblem somewhere before.") Everything took on a different color. "[sad]No, listen——" Ryla's voice came from behind. But Kael was already accelerating. He turned the corner ahead of her. (What's there to listen to? What would I hear? What would I believe?) The night of the campfire, the past Ryla had shared—being sold twice by companions, the fear of being with someone. Those words now pierced him with different meaning. And then the care she'd given him. The touch of her fingers. The sensation of the scarf wrapping around his right hand, that feeling. All those memories now ached sharply. --- The two of them reached Fostalen's outer edge while the workshop's flames were still visible in the distance. The northern gate—unmanned at night, an old stone gate—was one Ryla knew. She even knew how to open it from the back. Kael followed without asking. Beyond the gate, off the main road, they entered a wooded area. The sound of pursuit faded. Both pressed their backs against stone and caught their breath. For a long time, neither spoke. To the south, smoke rose from the workshop district. The flames still burned. Kael watched them and realized he felt nothing. He'd been crying. He'd cried while running, he thought. But now no tears came. Only an emptiness remained. A hollow feeling. As the sky began to pale, Ryla spoke quietly. "[serious]Kieran……isn't coming," Kael didn't answer. Ryla watched the city care