The Blacksmith’s Legacy... and the Hero’s Echo

Arion sat on the cold stone floor in front of the forge, staring at the shimmering blue liquid that had once been a treasure of starmetal mithril.

The headache pulsing in his skull wasn't from exhaustion—it was pure existential pain, the kind you get when you realize the whole universe delights in watching you stumble.

"Soup..." he whispered the word softly, as if trying to confirm the absurdity of it all.

"I went through hell, fought glorious rats, defeated an elite squad of cursing goblins… all just to become a cosmic chef by accident?"

He glared at the system window that still proudly displayed "Primordial Star Essence Soup."

"'We recommend not eating it directly.'" he read the note out loud, dripping with sarcasm.

"Thank you for the advice, you damned system. I was about to look for a giant spoon."

He had forty-seven hours left to wait.

Forty-seven hours trapped in this tomb, with an ancient, mythical soup slowly bubbling away, and a strange aroma that smelled like blueberry mixed with molten iron filling the air.

He could have just sat there, counting the minutes on the walls.

But the mindset of a King of Kingdoms would never allow that.

"Time is the most precious resource," he muttered as he stood up, ignoring the urge to kick the forge.

"And sitting idle is a free ticket to death."

---

Exploring the Silent Kingdom

If he had to wait, he wouldn't wait with empty hands.

This dead dwarven city was no longer just a graveyard—it had become his private treasure chest, waiting for someone brave enough to open it.

Arion began a methodical exploration.

He no longer ran in fear; he walked with deliberate steps, his mind working at full speed.

[Pulse Scan] became his eyes and ears, sketching a three-dimensional map of every corridor and chamber, while [Vibration Sense] acted as his guard, ensuring he was truly alone in these depths.

He wandered through the residential halls.

He saw the dwarven homes carved into stone, once alive with laughter and bustling life.

He found dining tables still set with stone plates, tiny children's beds now forever empty.

Each scene stabbed him in the heart, a brutal reminder of the ghoul's savagery and a chill reinforcement of his resolve.

Then he found it—the Grand Library.

It was a massive hall, its stone shelves stretching up to a towering ceiling.

Most scrolls and manuscripts had turned to dust with time and moisture, but a few books with metal bindings or magically treated leather still survived.

He couldn't read them, but thanks to [Dwarven Rune Comprehension], he could decipher the titles engraved on their covers.

"Principles of Advanced Mechanical Engineering"

"The Art of Inscribing Runes on Metal"

"History of the Seven Dwarven Bloodlines"

They were treasure troves of knowledge.

Arion took the most practical and useful ones, placing them carefully in his inventory.

"I'll find a way to read you one day," he promised the silent books.

---

The Blacksmith's Legacy

After the library, he discovered an old armory.

Most of it had rusted away, but behind a pile of shattered armor, he found a chest made of sturdy oak, reinforced with iron bands.

He couldn't force it open, but he noticed a simple rune-lock mechanism on its side.

He placed his hand on it and applied his new knowledge.

Channeling a bit of mana, he felt the mechanism respond.

Click.

The chest opened to reveal a set of tools that made his heart race with excitement.

They weren't swords or axes—they were something far more precious:

Hammers of different sizes, tongs with rune-hardened tips designed to endure extreme heat, and a chisel etched with razor-sharp runes.

They were the tools of a master blacksmith, perfectly preserved.

"Now," Arion grinned. "Now we can talk seriously."

He returned to the workshop—not as a refugee, but as a craftsman reclaiming his kingdom.

He laid out the new tools with care beside the forge.

Then he pulled out a smooth stone slab he had found in the library, and with a piece of charcoal, he began to draw.

He wasn't drawing for art. He was planning.

Thanks to [Basic Forging Principles], he began designing his first true weapon.

It wasn't just a sword; it was an integrated system.

He sketched out a long, light blade with a hollow in the hilt.

Then he drew plans for a lightweight chest-and-arm guard—not to block crushing blows, but to deflect quick strikes and aid his agility.

Most importantly, he began weaving a network of runes onto every piece.

Runes to strengthen the metal.

Runes to lighten the weight.

And tiny runes on the sword... to channel mana.

He was completely immersed in his work.

Hours passed like minutes.

He forgot hunger, forgot the darkness, even forgot the monster slumbering atop the mountain.

All he could see were blueprints, possibilities, and the future he would forge with his own hands.

---

The Hero's Echo in Arcadia

While Arion played the part of an engineer in his hidden tomb, the city of Arcadia above was living in a different world altogether.

Two full days had passed since the tragic return of the expedition.

Two days that turned the story of Lord Arion from legend to epic, and from epic to faith.

In the bustling tavern "The Sleeping Dragon," the tale was being told for the hundredth time.

"He stood alone!" roared a dwarf adventurer, slamming his fist on the table.

"He stood alone before an unspeakable darkness, giving his comrades the chance to escape! He didn't think of himself for a second!"

"I heard his final cry wasn't a scream of pain," added a young witch, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"It was a powerful protective spell that drove the beast away and bought them time! He gave his soul for them!"

In a shadowy corner of the tavern, young Finn sat polishing a simple dagger.

When he heard a few skeptics whispering that the tale was exaggerated, he stood and faced them, eyes burning with fierce loyalty.

"You don't understand anything!" he said, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Master Arion didn't die. Real heroes don't die. He became one with the mountain—to guard it forever! His sacrifice wasn't the end; it was... an ascension!"

Silence filled the tavern.

His theory was ridiculous, but his raw, honest passion shamed them into silence.

---

Waiting in an Empty Home

This atmosphere of grief and reverence didn't stop at the taverns.

It seeped into every home—including the big, quiet house that now felt painfully empty.

In the spacious living room, Leora sat on the floor, trying to build a tower of wooden blocks with Kalin.

But Kalin wasn't playing.

He kept staring at the front door, as if expecting Arion to walk through it at any moment.

"Leora," he asked in his small voice, "is… is Brother's training really hard this time? He's late."

A sting pierced Leora's heart.

Two days had passed.

The message he left behind had been vague.

And the whispers she heard at the market when buying bread were frightening:

"The fallen hero"... "His great sacrifice"...

"Of course, Kalin," she said, trying to sound brave.

"Brother is very strong. Hero training takes a long time. Maybe he's fighting an evil tree the size of a castle!"

She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling.

She could no longer fool herself.

Fear was creeping in, cold and sticky.

The house that once meant safety had become a prison of silence and waiting.

At that moment, a polite knock came at the door.

Leora jumped up, rushing toward it, crying out with desperate hope: "Brother!"

She opened the door to find Serena from the Adventurer's Guild.

Serena wore simple black clothes, her face carrying a gentle, sorrowful expression.

"Hello, Leora," Serena said softly. "May I come in? I came to check on you both."

The smile faded from Leora's face.

She knew this wasn't an ordinary visit.

Serena sat down on the couch while Kalin hid behind his older sister, staring at Serena with wide, curious eyes.

"Leora," Serena began carefully. "Your brother… he was the greatest hero this city has ever known. He was brave, and noble…"

"Was?" Leora cut her off, her voice sharp as broken glass. "What do you mean 'was'? Brother isn't dead! He's training!"

Serena sighed, her expression heavy with sadness.

"Sweetheart… we all wish that were true. But what he did in that mine… he saved his comrades, and saved this city from a threat we can't even describe. His sacrifice will never be forgotten. That's why the 'Arion Orphan Fund' will make sure you and Kalin never lack for anything…"

Leora wasn't listening anymore.

The word "sacrifice" kept ringing in her ears like a funeral bell.

She looked into Serena's pitying face, at the tears welling up in her eyes.

She understood the truth.

Everyone believed he was dead.

The entire city mourned a hero… while she sat here, waiting for a ghost.

Tears pooled in her green eyes, but they didn't fall.

She bit her lip hard, refusing to cry in front of this stranger.

"Brother will come back," she said, her voice cold and defiant—too strong for an eight-year-old. "He promised me. And heroes… don't break promises."

But deep in her small heart, for the first time, certainty began to crack.

A bitter seed of despair, planted by the world's pity, started to sprout in the dark.

Leora stood at the window, staring out at the empty street, waiting… and waiting…

while her brother's legend, the hero everyone thought was dead, grew and blossomed in every corner of the city.