The air in Winston's central square was thick enough to choke on, a physical weight of expectation and heat that pressed against the lungs of the thousands gathered.
The rhythmic clack-thud of the bellows and the roar of the twin furnaces provided the heartbeat for a drama that was rapidly spiraling out of control.
The crowd, once feral with the anticipation of a simple competition, had settled into a low, buzzing hum of judgment.
On the elevated stages, the contrast between the two workstations was jarring. It was a clash of aesthetics, of class, and—unbeknownst to most—of fundamental cosmic laws.
Euphemina, masked behind the porcelain features of "Erina," stood motionless for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. Her mind was a whirlwind of frantic calculation.
The "Variable" had defied her logic. Her [Skill Observation] had bounced off Grid as if he were a god veiled in soot, returning only the terrifying error of "Level Too Low."
She was a Duplicator who couldn't duplicate her target. She was a hunter who had found her prey was actually a mountain.
'Think, Euphemina, think!' she screamed at herself. If she couldn't copy the successor, she had to copy the source. Her eyes darted to the side of the stage where Khan stood, his weathered face etched with anxiety.
"What? Are you frozen? Jealous of my skills, kid?" Grid's voice rasped over the roar of the flames. He didn't even look up; his eyes were fixed on the glowing orange bar of iron as if he were trying to melt it with his stare alone.
Euphemina didn't answer. She couldn't afford to. She turned toward the Mero Company officials and the announcer, her voice pitching into a tone of arrogant, regal confidence that masked her desperation.
"This is boring," she declared, her voice carrying across the square. "The 'Successor' is so far beneath me that I feel no inspiration. To make this a challenge worthy of the capital, I want a real opponent. Mr. Khan! Come up on stage! I request that you assist your successor. I shall compete against the legacy and the future of Winston jointly!"
The square shifted instantly. A wave of murmurs turned into a roar of approval.
"Two against one?"
"She's so confident, she's pitying him!"
"What a queen! She wants to crush the whole lineage at once!"
Grid's hammer stopped mid-air. His pride, already paper-thin and reinforced by layers of bitterness, shredded into confetti. "This chick dares...! She thinks I'm a handicap?!"
It was a brilliant move. By framing it as a handicap match, she gained the crowd's absolute adoration while creating the one opening she needed: she needed Khan close enough to analyze.
Cecil, standing near the forge's edge, stepped forward, her hand on the hilt of her blade. "That brat... Arthur, let me go up. I'll show her what a real 'prodigy' looks like."
Arthur caught her wrist, his grip firm. He shook his head slowly. "No. Let the old man go. This is his stage, Cecil."
Arthur's eyes flickered toward Rabbit. 'Besides, Euphemina needs to copy Khan's skill to even stand a chance. If she copies Cecil, she might actually create something too dangerous for Grid to handle right now. Let the original story play its part. That's the best course of action, Or the opening to rescue Huroi would be vanished.'
Khan stepped onto the stage, his eyes moist as he looked at Grid. He didn't see the "gargoyle" the crowd mocked; he saw a young man carrying the weight of a dying forge.
"Grid, calm yourself," Khan said, grabbing a pair of long-handled tongs. "I don't care about her arrogance. I want the honor of working with the Successor. Let us show them the soul of this smithy."
Grid let out a breath that sounded like high-pressure steam escaping a valve. "Fine. Old man, hold the metal. I'm going to hit it so hard the vibrations break her teeth."
As Khan took his place, Euphemina didn't waste a millisecond. She activated [Skill Observation] on the old master.
[You have successfully analyzed 'Advanced Blacksmith's Craftsmanship' Lv.2.]
A predatory smile touched her lips. This was the missing integer.
"Skill Duplication!"
[You have successfully duplicated 'Advanced Blacksmith's Craftsmanship' Lv.2.]
[The skill is available for one-time use.]
She reached into her personal inventory and pulled out a shimmering, ornate tool: the [Blessed Blacksmith Hammer]. It was an Epic-rated item that boosted the probability of higher-tier results.
She was a flurry of golden hair and calculated, academic strikes. She was forging with the borrowed experience of fifty years, backed by the stats of an Epic class and the rare Raging Deer's Antler Rabbit had provided.
But beside her, Grid was becoming something else entirely.
He was no longer a man; he was a furnace of concentrated, unadulterated spite. As Khan held the metal steady, the world outside the anvil vanished for Grid.
The taunts of the male users, the disgust of the women, the manipulative beauty of the girl next to Grid—it all filtered through the hammer.
[The Legendary Blacksmith's Patience has been activated.]
[The Legendary Blacksmith's Breath has activated...]
Grid didn't have Arthur's "purity." He didn't have a saint's heart or a hero's resolve. He had the soul of a man who had been stepped on, mocked, and ignored his entire life. He poured his jealousy of Huroi's hidden quest, his hatred for the "pretty" society, and his absolute malice into the iron. Every strike of the hammer was a curse. Every drop of sweat was a grievance.
Ttaang! Ttaang!
The sound of his strikes was different—darker, heavier. He reached into his inventory and pulled out a Minotaur Horn, a ten-gold gamble he had purchased for this competition.
Grid began to carve the hilt and sheath, the dark, bone-like material absorbing the unnatural heat of his forge until it glowed with a sickly violet hue.
Euphemina finished first. With a triumphant flourish, she quenched her blade in the cooling vat, a cloud of white steam billowing up to frame her like a goddess.
Euphemina presented her work to the host. The display board behind the stage flickered to life, showing the weapon's stats to the gasping audience.
[Dagger of Bewitchment]
Rating: Epic
Attack Power: 122~127
Special Property: 15% Probability of 'Bewitching' the enemy (3-second stun).
Description: A lethal beauty that steals hearts and halts the breath.
"It's over!" a user in the front row shouted. "An Epic dagger with a stun proc? Erina is a goddess!"
The residents of Winston began to weep. It was a masterpiece of elegance and power. Rabbit's smile was a thin, razor-sharp line of victory. He looked at Valmont and nodded; the smithy was practically theirs.
Grid scoffed, holding his finished blade aloft. It wasn't shiny or elegant. It was a matte, hungry black, the surface looking as though it were drinking the light around it.
"Look at my work and try not to die of shock, you loli fox," he sneered.
But the moment of appraisal never came as the sound of heavy iron boots thundered onto the wooden stage.
A platoon of knights, their capes bearing the crest of Baron Lowe, surrounded Grid. They were led by a man in full plate whose visor was up, revealing a face full of bureaucratic malice.
"Grid!" the knight roared, his voice amplified by a skill. "You are under arrest for conspiracy with the criminal Huroi! You are accused of plotting against the peace of Winston and high treason against the Lord!"
"Huroi? That useless, lucky Orator?!" Grid shouted, his eyes wide with genuine confusion. "I don't even like that guy! I was just jealous of his quest! Get your hands off me!"
"Do not resist," the knight warned, his blade singing as it left the scabbard. "By order of Baron Lowe, you are to be cast into the depths of the castle until your execution."
The crowd watched in stunned, uncomfortable silence as the soldiers grabbed Grid's arms. Khan screamed at the Mero Company officials, calling them cowards and thieves, but Valmont simply stared into the distance, as if Khan were nothing more than a barking dog in a heavy rainstorm.
The host, trembling under the tension, nervously picked up Grid's discarded dagger. He hurried over to Rabbit and Valmont, handing it to them for a private inspection before the "official" (and rigged) results were announced.
When the system window appeared before Rabbit's eyes, the blood drained from his face so quickly he nearly fainted.
[Dagger of Malice]
Rating: Unique
Attack Power: 245~282
Passive: For every 1% of enemy health lost, Wielder's Attack Power increases by 0.5%.
Skill: [Cold-Blooded Strike] (Guaranteed Critical, 250% damage).
Description: A masterpiece created by a craftsman who lacks reputation, born from a state of absolute, venomous desperation. The blade is stained with a permanent dark hue of pure resentment.
The square was still cheering for "Erina," unaware that the man being dragged to prison in chains had just produced a weapon that eclipsed hers in every conceivable metric. It wasn't just better; it was a different category of existence.
"Unique..." Rabbit whispered, his hand trembling so hard the dagger nearly fell. "He made a Unique item... in a public square... while being mocked by everyone."
"It doesn't matter," Valmont said, his voice cold and final. He grabbed the dagger and shoved it into his cloak. "The results will say Erina won. The successor is in the dungeon, and the law says the smithy now belongs to the Mero Company. History is written by those who are still standing, Rabbit. Not by those rotting in a hole."
Across the square, Arthur watched the soldiers disappear toward the castle. He felt the cold weight of the situation ticking in his mind.
"The fortress is locked," Arthur whispered, turning to Cecil, Nana and the twins. "Go and protect Khan, don't let him take rash decisions and join Grid in castle dungeon. Stage a roit with villagers to attract the guards towards the people of Winston but do not engage with the knights and guards. Meanwhile, I'll go and save Grid. The plan B is officially on."
Behind them, Piaro stood in the shadows of the forge, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "A Unique blade born of hate," the Great Swordsman murmured. "The boy has found his power. Let us hope he survives the dark he has invited."
The Winston Tournament ended not with a cheer, but with a theft. But in the silence of the dungeon, two legends were about to meet in the dark, and the Mero Company was about to learn that some debts are paid in blood, not gold.