The sun rose in crimson hues over the city, casting long shadows across the cobbled alleys and low roofs. Inside Boran's Forge, sparks flew in rhythmic bursts, the hiss of steel in water punctuating the morning air. Kael moved with steady purpose beside Bram and Boran, his once frail form now hardened, moving with the precision of a seasoned apprentice. Four months had passed in relentless discipline, and each day spent beneath the anvil's song had forged more than steel.
"Hold it steady, Bram," Kael said, sweat streaking down his temple as he clamped the half-shaped sword.
Bram grunted, adjusting his grip. "You trying to show me up again, twig?"
"Says the guy who blew up the last blade with his fire flair."
Boran chuckled from the bellows. "You both talk too much. The iron doesn't care for your banter. It only listens to fire and will."
"Yes, Master Boran," they chorused in mock obedience.
Despite the work, the forge felt alive. Grel, the grumpy ore dealer, often dropped by during midday hauls.
"Still alive, boys?" he'd bark. "Or has Boran finally melted your bones?"
"Almost," Kael would grin, wiping his hands on his apron.
Kael's routine had become sacred: up before sunrise, an hour of Iron Root stances in silence, his breath syncing with the old rhythms of compression and release. Then hauling ore, fueling the forge, working the bellows, shaping metal, sharpening tools, and ending the night with another hour of body cultivation. The stances had deepened over time, his muscles now dense like hardwood, and his strikes carried unnatural power.
Each week, Boran pushed him harder—no crest, no shortcuts. Pure strength, forged by grit.
Nearly a year had passed since Kael had left House Vahn. In the deep hall of House Vahn, silence thickened the air. Lord Vahn sat beneath the sigil of their house, eyes shadowed, fingers clasped.
"He's still alive," he muttered, voice low.
"Yes, Father," Elias said, his tone composed. "He's working in Boran's forge. That's confirmed."
Selene, arms folded, leaned against a carved screen. Her gaze was distant. "He should be eliminated as soon as possible lest he reveals our secret father."
Lord Vahn nodded slowly. "Then it's decided."
Elias stepped forward. "I've arranged for three mercenaries. Fang-level. Wind affinity. They're not locals—no trail. They'll eliminate Kael, Boran, and Bram. It'll look like a robbery."
Selene's lips curved. "Let the flames of the forge burn them all."
Lord Vahn stood. "I don't want to hear his name again."
At the same hour, Lyra placed the final touch on a modest cake, humming a quiet tune. Powdered sugar dusted her sleeves.
"Happy birthday, Kael," she whispered. She wrapped it carefully and stepped into the evening streets.
The forge glowed with the gentle blaze of its evening fires. Kael hammered the glowing metal while Bram observed, arms crossed. Boran was just placing tongs into the coals.
As Lyra entered, Boran raised an eyebrow.
"What girl? Took you long enough to visit my forge again. What brings you today?"
Lyra held up the bundled cake. "It's Kael's birthday. Thought I'd bring something."
"Birthday?" Bram blinked. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Kael shrugged. "Didn't think it mattered."
"Boy," Boran said, stepping forward, "in my forge, we celebrate strength, fire, and birthdays. Bram, cups. Now."
They cleared a small table. The cake was unwrapped—lopsided, a bit scorched from the journey, but heartfelt. Kael cut it slowly, smiling faintly.
"Happy birthday," Lyra said, her voice warm.
Boran handed Kael a cloth bundle. Inside was a sword, sleek and balanced. Its hilt mirrored the Iron Root pattern.
"Forged with your own hands," Boran said. "It belongs to you."
Kael's heart stirred. "Thank you... all of you."
They raised cups in a quiet toast. For a brief moment, the forge was filled with laughter, the scent of cake, the warmth of camaraderie.
Then the wind howled.
A silver streak sliced through the air.
Bram, still chuckling at a joke, stood upright—then staggered. A thin red line split across his neck. His head separated cleanly from his shoulders, eyes frozen mid-laughter. Blood fountained, staining the walls, the floor—and the cake.
It all happened in a breath.
The cake, once dusted in sugar, was now drenched in crimson. The contrast was sickening.
Kael froze. His eyes locked onto Bram's falling head, that smile still etched onto his face, absurdly calm as it rolled to the floor.
Lyra screamed. Her voice cracked through the forge like a whip.
Three figures emerged from the shadows of the entrance, black-cloaked. Blades drawn, their steps noiseless.
Kael's instincts screamed. The speed, the pressure—they were Fang-level. Wind affinity. His mind was in a state of disorientation-"Anger, sorrow, stupor" all emotions surged within him once.
Boran surged forward, roaring, but a blade flashed past Kael's vision. It punched through Boran's shoulder. He gasped, he still couldn't swallow the feeling of his precious apprentice dying, his apprentice who was with for 10 long years gone just like that for no apparent reason, but he still maintained his calm and screamed-
"You, the knights would arrive soon , how can you kill someone in the city under house Vahn, you will surely be thrown in prison once you get caught, better leave before."
Blood still gushed out nonstop, from where his shoulder got punctured.
The trio laughed in response to Boran's threat-One of the guy asked the other in the group in a sarcastic way-"Brother who is the one that hired us? I forgot"
Oh I remember -"It is lord Elias of house Vahn"
The three of them broke in stupor hearing this.
The three of the attackers moved as fast as wind to attack Boran and Kael. Kael's body moved on its own, he slipped the sword Boran gave under the foot of one of the attackers.
The move was precise and accurate to the point, the attacker hadn't expected such a move to be pulled by Kael under his fast movement, even Kael hadn't expected it, it was a result of his subconscious reflex honed during the technique he practiced for a year.
The guy slipped down, dragged onward, unable to control himself. How could he? His speed was due to his crest and the wind magic produced by it, not due to his subtle control over it. A normal person might find it shocking and wouldn't be able to react to such speeds generated by wind magic, so the trio had grown arrogant about it.
By far, wind attribute is one of the weakest of the attributes—it grants the user only the ability to manipulate wind around them and move much faster, unless one reaches very high levels and gains the ability to manipulate wind to form blades, hurricanes, etc. One might wonder why this contrast exists compared to other elements. It is because air is the most hard to control, as it is the most erratic of all. But wind users still have an edge over most crest users—this is because no matter how powerful an attack is, unless you hit them, it is useless. The speed also makes it very hard to defend against them.
That is why the one slipping against the floor was so shocked by it. Even most crest users of the same level can't predict his attack speed. To predict—and even more, to respond—to that speed as a crestless was an understatement.
In a matter of fate playing a crooked game on the guy, he slipped into the furnace, full of molten stag.
"Arrrghhh..." his skin peeled off layer by layer, his body burning away in intense heat. It was the worst way possible to die.