The Memories of the Old Blacksmith

The competition for the National Arena Tournament had been ongoing for an entire day.

However, the atmosphere inside the lord's castle was a bit strange.

The old blacksmith, his hair now graying, stood before Lord Kent, back to the familiar, humble figure everyone knew—bowed head, nervous, and rubbing his hands together. Gone was the imposing warrior aura he had shown earlier.

More than a decade ago, when the old blacksmith wandered into the Spearpoint Valley, his skills were said to rival those of Splitting Blade... This revelation shocked everyone who knew him.

The guards repeatedly said they had misjudged him, and even Graybeard, who had been drinking with the blacksmith for years, felt that this old man, who only ever seemed interested in drinking and smithing, was somehow becoming a stranger.

"Old Blacksmith, such impressive skills—did you serve in a military legion?" Splitting Blade asked.

As Lord Kent's chief bodyguard, Splitting Blade had a duty to know every detail about everyone in the territory.

No one had suspected the blacksmith to be a threat. In every way, he had never posed any danger to Lord Kent. He had been working for Lord Kent for nearly half a year now, becoming an indispensable core member of the team. He had mastered the runic forging recipes, and he was in charge of training and managing the entire blacksmithing team.

Furthermore, Lord Kent and the blacksmith had spent many occasions together. If the blacksmith had any ill intentions, there were countless opportunities for him to act.

But today's scene was shocking—just one move from the blacksmith had displayed strength beyond a rank 10 guard, and his sudden burst of battle intent was something even Splitting Blade might have struggled to match. The only one who could possibly face him was Water Stream, but Water Stream wasn't here...

Such a powerful figure—why had he kept himself hidden in Spearpoint Valley for so many years?

Standing next to the blacksmith, Udo stood there looking upset, tears streaming down her face. She blamed herself for causing the crisis that led the old blacksmith to reveal his true abilities in order to save her.

The old blacksmith's rough hand gently patted her head.

He sighed deeply.

"Lord Kent," the blacksmith spoke slowly, "If you plan to expel me from the valley, can you leave this child behind?" His calloused hand gently stroked Udo's dry hair, unsure of the consequences his actions would bring, but the deed was already done.

"Old man, what are you talking about?" Kent laughed lightly, "Why would I want to send you away from the valley?"

"It's not because of me..." The old blacksmith raised his head, confusion in his eyes as he looked at Lord Kent. Though still young, Kent's gaze now carried a certain authority, along with a familiar warmth, "I've been hiding something..."

"Are you hiding the fact that you once served in a military legion?" Lord Kent asked, turning his gaze toward Graybeard, "Graybeard, have I asked about who has been in a military legion in this territory?"

"Ah? Lord Kent, no, you haven't..." Graybeard quickly answered.

"Then, have you ever told me where you hide your money?" Lord Kent asked suddenly with a strange question.

"Ah?" Graybeard looked perplexed, not understanding what Kent was getting at.

"Splitting Blade, what about you?" Kent turned to Splitting Blade, "When you've been gambling with the guards, have you ever cheated? Have you told me?"

"Ah? Boss, what's all this about?" Splitting Blade was completely baffled.

"And you, Crow—how many women did you sleep with on the Plateau?" Kent asked next.

"Boss, why bring this up...?" Crow muttered, flustered and embarrassed.

"See," Lord Kent spread his hands, "Everyone has something they've hidden from me, but does it matter?"

The old blacksmith opened his mouth to speak, but Kent raised a hand to stop him.

"I don't care where you come from, or what you've done in the past," Kent smiled, "Your blacksmithing skills have been put to use for me, and your other talents, well, we'll see when they are needed. What I care about is whether you're still willing to stay here in the valley and watch Udo grow up after what happened today."

"Lord Kent..." The old blacksmith understood Kent's meaning, tears flowing from his eyes, "I only know how to swing a hammer, and this old body will be buried here in Spearpoint Valley."

Satisfaction: +100, +100, +100...

Outside, a thunderous cheer could be heard. The tournament match was still fiercely ongoing.

But the old blacksmith's memories seemed to transcend the years...

The wind of reincarnation, carrying the dust of time, blew from the distant northeast, over the vast ocean that surrounded the eastern plateau, crashing against the towering red iron cliffs by the seaside. The thunderous winds brought dark clouds and raging snowstorms, spilling across the red soil of the continent, a land of crimson stretches as far as the eye could see.

The snow was behind, but the wind of reincarnation continued its path forward, sweeping over the undulating hills, crossing the vast Uru mountain range, and surging through the narrow, treacherous Nightmare Gorge. The wind gathered into an unstoppable storm, howling past the Blackwood Forest's southernmost edge, and then, breathing heavily, it changed direction and entered the boundless Aqiul Grassland.

The vast Aqiul Grassland, located at the southern tip of the continent, stretched endlessly with no trees to shield it, no hills to break its flatness, only the vastness of the open land—like the endless sky or the ocean.

Perhaps that's why the Grassland Alliance's various tribes had rooted here and flourished for thousands of years. They held star stones that glowed faintly in their hands, gazing at the starry sky at night, praying to the heavens, searching for a connection between their souls and the stars. Their world had known peace for hundreds of years.

But now...

Dark clouds covered the sun, and the once-white snow on the grassland was now stained dark red. Blood soaked the ground, and thousands of corpses lay scattered across the vast field—men, women, the elderly, children—many were unrecognizable, their bodies mutilated.

The warriors of the Grassland Alliance had their hearts torn out by claws, the other ends of those claws belonging to the Forest Alliance's orcs, their burnt bodies stiffened, still gazing with empty, lifeless eyes.

The blizzards howled, and the vanguard unit pressed forward.

Days ago, the army had begun to accelerate. The snow on the grassland was already knee-deep, and even the thick mountain goat-hide boots had accumulated a layer of ice mixed with grass fragments, bloodstains, and mud. The young old blacksmith, every step forward seemed to be a contest with the earth itself.

His armor was already ragged, and the longsword on his back hadn't been cleaned for many days. Its dark red sheen reflected the blood of countless enemies, with several deep chips in the blade.

The elders had prophesied that this winter would see the war end, but it had only just begun.

"Little brat..." He took another difficult step forward, his foot sinking into a snow pit, and he stumbled, falling to one knee in the snow. Panting heavily, he tried to push himself back up, but the icy shards he inhaled caused him to cough violently.