The interior of Khan's smithy had become a theater of two clashing philosophies.
On one side sat the furnace of the master, where Arthur and Cecil worked with a calm, rhythmic precision that seemed to harmonize with the very molecules of the air.
On the other, tucked away in the soot-choked corner, Grid sat hunched over a secondary anvil like a gargoyle, his face illuminated by the flickering orange glow of a resentment that refused to die.
Grid had spent the last six hours in a trance of bitter productivity. He hadn't spoken to the girls, he hadn't looked at Piaro, and he had barely acknowledged Khan. His mind was a storm of interest rates and inferiority complexes.
"Hey, Arthur," Grid rasped, his voice cracking from the dry heat.
Arthur paused, his hammer suspended in mid-air. He turned his silver gaze toward the corner. "You've finished the batch?"
"Finished?" Grid let out a jagged, triumphant laugh. He stood up, his legs shaking from exhaustion, and slammed a bundle of dark, black-tinged arrows onto the central workbench. "I've done better than your masterpiece. I've surpassed you."
Khan stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the arrows. They didn't pulse with the steady, heroic blue of a Epic item. Instead, they seemed to leak a faint, oily smoke. The Jaffa-steel heads were obsidian-black, etched with grooves that looked like the claw marks of a drowning man.
[Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment]
Rating: Epic
Attack: 43~51
* [Spiteful Strike]: If the user harbors genuine resentment or jealousy toward the target, the damage dealt is doubled.
"Look at them," Grid hissed, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "My base attack power is higher than your 'Special Jaffa Arrows.' And the buff? Against an enemy you hate, these are potentially 2 times stronger than anything you've ever made. I did it, Arthur! I took your 'perfect' blueprint and I made it better by pouring my own misery into the forge!"
Grid puffed out his chest, a smug, lopsided grin appearing on his soot-streaked face. For a moment, he felt like the true Legend. He had weaponized his own saltiness, turning his debt and his jealousy into a physical force of destruction.
Khan picked up one of the arrows, his expression one of profound irony. He looked at Grid, then at the "Successor" mark on the boy's status.
"Pagma was a man who forged to save the world, lad," Khan whispered, his voice tinged with a strange sadness. "To see his successor specialize in 'cursed' weapons fueled by a grudge... it is a bitter joke the heavens are playing on us."
Arthur didn't look angry. He didn't even look impressed. He simply set his hammer down and wiped his brow with a silk cloth.
"They're efficient, Grid," Arthur admitted, his voice cool. "Malice is a powerful fuel. It's consistent, it's cheap, and heaven knows you have a bottomless supply of it."
Grid's grin faltered. "What's that supposed to mean? Efficient? They're the best arrows in the Kingdom! I sold a hundred of these for a fortune!"
"The best?" Arthur asked softly.
He reached into a velvet-lined chest beneath his anvil—a chest he had kept locked since they arrived. From it, he pulled a single shaft of metal that seemed to redefine the very concept of a weapon.
The arrow wasn't wood or iron. It was a seamless fusion of translucent Jaffa and sanctified silver. It didn't pulse; it glowed with a steady, blinding white light that made the shadows in the smithy retreat to the corners.
The fletching was made from the feathers of a Griffon, shimmering with iridescent hues.
[Mythical Jaffa-Silver Arrow]
Rating: Unique
Attack Power: 380~420
Property: Divine Piercing. Ignores 100% of Physical and Magical defense. Deals 300% additional damage to Undead and Demonic entities.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Grid's jaw didn't just drop; it seemed to unhinge. He looked at his "Resentment" arrows—dark, jagged, and petty—and then he looked at the radiant pillar of light in Arthur's hand.
"Four... four hundred and twenty...?" Grid's voice was a strangled squeak. "That's... that's not an arrow. That's a ballista bolt in a toothpick's body! How?! How can a consumable have an Attack Power higher than most Level 200 Greatswords?!"
"It's not fueled by resentment, Grid," Arthur said, his eyes turning toward the furnace. "It's fueled by Harmony. Eternal Silver sap for purity and magic containment, Jaffa for conductivity, and a technique that requires a calm heart. Malice can bypass a shield, yes. But Purity? Purity ignores the very idea of a defense."
Arthur tossed the arrow lightly in the air and caught it. The light reflected off his silver-white hair, making him look like a god standing in a peasant's workshop. "Your arrows are 1.5 times stronger than my base work. But compared to my actual work? They're just very expensive sticks."
The smugness evaporated from Grid's face, replaced by a hollow, crushing dejection. He slumped.
He looked at his hands—blackened, blistered, and shaking. He had worked so hard to "surpass" the ghost of Arthur's talent, only to find that Arthur hadn't even been trying.
"I'm a failure," Grid whispered, staring at the soot on the floor. "Even with a Legendary class, I'm just a second-rate hack. I can only make things that smell like a grudge."
Khan walked over, placing a heavy hand on Grid's shoulder. "Lad, don't look at it that way. You found a path. It's a dark path, yes, and it's a path built on your own flaws, but it is a path. Most smiths never even find the gate."
Grid didn't hear him. He was already looking back at the forge. The dejection was turning, slowly but surely, back into a cold, stubborn spite.
"Fine," Grid growled, his eyes narrowing once more. "Unique grade, huh? 420 attack? You think you're so high and mighty with your 'divine' light?"
He grabbed his hammer with a white-knuckled grip.
"If light is that strong, I'll just make the darkness deeper," Grid muttered, a manic glint returning to his eyes. "I'll make an arrow so cursed it rots the bow that fires it. I'll make something so foul that even your 'Mythical' silver turns black just being near it!"
Arthur watched from the corner of his eye as Grid began to hammer again, the strikes faster and more violent than before.
'Good,' Arthur thought. 'Let the resentment grow. Let the salt accumulate.'
Arthur knew that for a Sword Saint to be born, he couldn't just defeat a "Legend" in name. He needed to defeat a Legend of power and specialized madness. If Grid wanted to become the "God of Cursed Weapons," Arthur would let him.
He would feed him materials, give him the best anvil, and protect him from the world.
He would fatten the pig with the finest slop of experience and legendary materials.
"Piaro," Arthur called out toward the back garden.
The Great Swordsman appeared in the doorway, a hoe in one hand and a look of eternal boredom on his face. "Yes, Arthur?"
"The boy is ready for his first lesson. He has enough spite to fuel a small army. Take him to the grey wolves in the outskirts tomorrow. Don't let him die, but make sure he feels every tooth."
Piaro looked at the hunched, muttering Grid. "It will be a waste of my time and effort. But if it is your wish, I shall 'plow' his spirit."
Arthur turned back to his own anvil. The sun was setting over Winston, casting long shadows across the floor. In the North, the guilds were searching for a hero. In the studio, the world was debating a natural Swordsman.
But in the smithy, there was only the sound of hammers. One side it was a song of celestial order, and the other was a scream of mortal resentment. And Arthur knew that when those two sounds finally collided in a duel, the world would finally understand the difference between a Legend and an Absolute.