Denvar and Ronald stood frozen as Derek’s small frame moved across the stage like a blur.
Even the people who had been busy with their own work stopped what they were doing and turned toward the training platform.
A few blacksmiths who had been giving final touches to their weapons outside their huts halted mid-strike, tools dangling in their hands, eyes fixed on Derek.
’Where did this oddball come from?’ Denvar thought in disbelief. ’His sword isn’t cutting through the targets because there’s no aura, yet those movements... those perfectly measured strikes... it feels like watching a reincarnated sword master who’s lost his aura by mistake.’
On the stage, out of the fifteen dummies, five were already out of commission. The remaining ten lunged at Derek all at once. Each attack looked like it would hit him, but Derek slipped through every assault, sometimes smoothly, sometimes just barely, yet never once taking a blow. And whenever he struck back, his blade never missed.
Another dummy went down as a clean horizontal slash severed its head.
Derek leapt forward, twisting mid-air between two dummies. One dummy’s wrist flew off, the other’s chest split open.
He didn’t pause. Derek darted toward his next target.....
but then, all of a sudden, the dummies froze in place.
Derek stopped too, blinking in surprise. Though this was supposed to be nothing more than a demonstration to convince Denvar, he had been enjoying the spar more than expected.
Turning around, he saw Denvar standing beside the stone pillar at the edge of the stage.
"Why did you stop them?" Derek asked, slightly frowning.
"Huh?! Why did he stop them? You still need to ask?" Ronald snapped before Denvar could speak. "You already destroyed eight of them! Who’s going to pay for that, huh?"
He looked utterly lifeless, his earlier excitement gone. He had been hoping to make some easy money, but after witnessing Derek’s performance, he knew it was over for him. No one would reject a customer with such skill. Derek might not be an Auran, but the display of swordsmanship he had just shown and at his age, was beyond extraordinary. It was unprecedented.
Derek, however, ignored Ronald completely. He turned his gaze back to Denvar.
"I suppose you’ll forge a sword for me now, right?" he asked calmly.
Denvar didn’t answer immediately. His eyes had dropped to his hands. They were trembling. He tried to still them, but it felt like his fingers were itching, longing for something. ’What is this feeling? Am I actually... being desperate to forge a sword for him?’ he wondered, bewildered.
Just then, a few people approached. Among them were two blacksmiths. Chapters fırst released on 𝗻𝗼𝘷𝗲𝗹•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝕟𝕖𝕥
"Hey kid," a chubby man with a friendly grin said while stroking his beard. "You’re here to get a sword forged, right? Those moves were incredible! If you want, I can make one for you myself."
"Don’t listen to him," the other blacksmith interrupted. "I can forge a much better sword than he ever could. Come to my hut.. you can inspect the blades I’ve already made."
The first one glared at him.
Both men were eager, almost desperate. They knew that forging a sword for someone like Derek would bring immense fame to their names.
A mere few minutes of swordplay had already changed many hearts.
"Damn it!" Ronald meanwhile cursed inwardly. "I should’ve known he was trouble from the start. Even if I didn’t lose any money, I’ll still have to explain those broken dummies to the boss..."
While everyone around them talked, Derek remained still, his eyes locked on Denvar, patiently waiting for a response.
Finally, Denvar clenched his fists and looked up again. "Come with me," he said quietly before turning and walking toward his hut.
A faint smile tugged at Derek’s lips as he followed. ’Looks like he’s convinced now... I can’t wait to see the sword he forges. I hope it’s like the same one he made for me in my past life,’ Derek thought, chuckling softly as he walked behind Denvar.
Just like before, after only a short walk, Derek and Denvar arrived at Denvar’s hut.
But unlike last time, everyone they passed along the way kept staring at them.
"Let’s get inside first," Denvar said, pushing open the creaky wooden door.
Derek was about to follow when Ronald’s dispirited voice came from behind. "I’ll head back to the shop, kid. Come by once you’re done here." He didn’t wait for a reply and headed toward the stairs.
"Alright," Derek replied softly before stepping into the hut.
Inside, he found weapons of all kinds hanging haphazardly on the walls... axes, daggers, swords, even a few incomplete blades. The forge itself looked cold and untouched, as if it hadn’t been used for an entire month. Dust had gathered on the anvil, and the faint smell of old metal lingered in the air.
Denvar took a long sip from his drink bottle, then slumped into a nearby chair. With a brief motion of his hand, he gestured for Derek to sit on the empty chair across from him.
Derek took the seat quietly.
"So," Denvar began, leaning back and eyeing him with curiosity, "what’s your name?"
"Derek," he replied simply.
"Alright then, Derek." Denvar exhaled, his tone turning more serious. "How exactly do you plan to help me defeat my brother?"
Derek’s lips curved slightly. "Isn’t it simple?" he said. "By fighting the man your brother forged his best sword for."
He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before continuing calmly...
"After all... that’s how blacksmiths compare their skill, don’t they?"
Hearing Derek’s words, Denvar fell silent. For a long moment, he simply stared at Derek, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to read something hidden behind that calm expression.
Finally, he spoke again after taking a sip from his bottle, his voice was low but clear. "How do you know about my brother? I don’t recall ever mentioning him or anything about him to anyone."