Alloy (3)
Most people think of dwarves as a race enamored with liquor and minerals.
Yet this is only half true. While every dwarf indeed adores alcohol, minerals are another matter entirely. It is simply that their innate physique and natural constitution endow them with staggering potential for all endeavors involving ore and metallurgy.
This naturally steered dwarven society to develop upon a bedrock of mining, and the speed of their progress outstripped all competition. When other races were still chipping flint in the Paleolithic or Neolithic ages, the dwarves had already leaped past the Bronze Age and marched straight into the Iron Age. Some scholars even argued that their strides had profoundly accelerated the advancement of every other race on the continent.
As the ages flowed on, the dwarves no longer outpaced the rest of civilization so singularly. Even so, the impact of that bygone era was so immense that the stereotype of the 'race of booze and ore' endured unchanged.
“Oh… Ohhh!”
And Gareth, known on the Gallery by his fixed-nick Passing Dwarf, was the spitting image of that very stereotype. He was a dwarf who did not merely enjoy liquor but worshipped it, possessing a profound, lifelong mastery over metallurgy.
Right now, this very dwarf was repeatedly gasping in awe at the weapon gripped in his hands.
Ssshhhaaak!
Dark violet stars twinkled across a sweeping, emerald-green galaxy.
Though an overtly poetic description, it suited the blade Gareth held to perfection. What had originally appeared as a dull, unassuming silver was now radiating a breathtaking luminescence.
This is the most magnificent blade I have ever laid eyes on…!
Gareth was a craftsman who had dedicated his life to metallurgy. Naturally, his knowledge regarding the quality and performance of bladed weapons was second to none. Though his relentless fondness for drink caused his forging finesse to lag behind the true master smiths, his eye for craftsmanship remained peerless.
The Mithril-Orichalcum alloy Grylls had smelted, and the sword poured from that very metal.
Among every weapon Gareth had seen in his entire lifetime, this blade claimed an uncontested, overwhelming first place.
Though the forging itself is still a bit crude…
Truthfully, setting aside the material, the sword’s construction bordered on mass production. When fashioning a delicate instrument like a sword, which had to transfer kinetic force with utmost precision, a true artisan never relied solely on a mold. A practical, beautiful weapon was born only when shaped under a blacksmith’s hammer, blow by deliberate blow.
Thus, the craftsmanship itself could hardly be called a masterwork. Yet the base material was so absurdly miraculous that it rendered every structural flaw completely meaningless.
Finding an implement cast from solid Mithril was already an impossible fantasy, and here it was, fused seamlessly with Orichalcum. The result resting in Gareth’s hands practically snatched his soul away.
And I barely channeled a sliver of mana into it. Just how high is this thing’s efficiency?
The sole reason the blade displayed such vibrant, celestial hues was mana. Yet even with a negligible trickle of energy, it glittered like the night sky. It was a sublime collaboration between Mithril, which naturally harbored a dense concentration of mana, and Orichalcum, the ultimate mana conductor. Gareth had known from the start that the chance of failure was low, but this… this had birthed a divine blade that defied mortal imagination.
Now is not the time to daydream. I have to hone the edge.
Gareth tore his gaze away from the radiant weapon and snapped back to his senses. Why had Grylls handed him this sword in the first place? It certainly was not a gift. It was to evaluate the alloy’s performance—and to grind its edge. Having roughly assessed the metal’s capabilities, it was time to sharpen it.
To think he can churn these out practically without limit…
Thoughts raced through Gareth’s head as his whetstone scraped against the blade. What would happen if the existence of this sword were revealed to the wider world? An uproar would not begin to describe it; kings and warmongers would cross oceans of blood just to seize it. A solid Mithril blade alone would plunge realms into chaos, and this was an alloy alloyed with Orichalcum.
Even legendary blades of myth weren't like this. Hell, not even the Holy Sword.
The Holy Sword of the Hero, Revolution.
Though imbued with Holy Power through the divine blessing of Aris, its physical foundation was merely ordinary steel.
Could the sword the Heavenly Demon gave him even stand a chance against this?
The sword allegedly forged from Ten Thousand Year Cold Iron. Cold Iron was an apex-tier divine mineral, far rarer than the Three Great Minerals—Mithril, Orichalcum, and Adamantium. If the Heavenly Demon’s claims were not mere bravado, it might just barely compete. Forging a weapon out of solid divine ore was an absurd anomaly in its own right.
Judging by the look of things, he’s probably going to give this sword to the Heavenly Demon…
Gareth froze mid-stroke, a deep furrow carving into his brow. Was it truly wise to hand over such an artifact to someone else so casually?
Of course, the rightful owner of the blade was strictly Grylls. Gareth had no authority to dictate what was done with it. Even so, anxiety gnawed at his gut. How would the continent react the moment this weapon came to light? Was it truly acceptable to bestow such a terrifying blade upon the Heavenly Demon, a shut-in who spent her days wasting away on the Gallery? It was a serious dilemma.
Well, someone who possesses a blade forged from Ten Thousand Year Cold Iron must hold an extraordinarily high station, but still…
Shaking off his worries for the moment, Gareth finished sharpening the blade to a razor edge. On top of that, he personally crafted and fitted a comfortable hilt.
Thus, bearing the deliberate touch of a dwarven craftsman, the Mithril-Orichalcum alloy sword reached absolute completion.
What should we even call an alloy of Mithril and Orichalcum?
Because it was a composite that had never existed in history, even settling on a name was a headache. An alloy that only Grylls could ever produce. Gareth nodded to himself. In the end, it was best if Grylls named both the metal and the weapon himself.
Shhhk—
To verify the keenness of the edge, Gareth swung the sword against a thick bundle of paper. With merely a whisper of pressure, the stack sheared clean through, offering no more resistance than air.
Because it's cast from solid Mithril, the weight is absurdly light.
Light as a feather, yet vastly outperforming the finest forged steel. On top of that, its mana conductivity was unmatched, not to mention the celestial radiance that bloomed whenever energy coursed through the steel.
Judging purely by performance, this looks far more like a Holy Sword than the actual Holy Sword.
After entertaining that borderline-blasphemous thought, Gareth immediately opened his interface and sent a message to Grylls.
Gareth raised his fingers to type a rebuttal, then stopped himself.
Grylls had clearly made up his mind; squabbling over it now would accomplish nothing. Besides, Grylls was nestled deep within the impenetrable bounds of the Forest of the Four Seasons. Even if the sword’s existence and the identity of its maker were exposed, Grylls himself was never in danger. Who on earth possessed the suicidal audacity to march into that deathly forest just to seize an alloy? Even if they somehow managed to find it, returning alive was an impossibility. Only Grylls could survive in that domain.
I just pray the Heavenly Demon doesn't go writing pointless posts about it.
Though her activity had noticeably dwindled lately owing to her duties as a deputy moderator, she was once a notorious fixed-nick who flooded the boards with unhinged shitposts. Gareth typed out another reply, fervently hoping that knowledge of this blade would stay buried for as long as possible.
It sounded utterly absurd, yet it was an undeniable reality. Gareth let out a hollow chuckle. It was an answer only Grylls could provide, and hearing such nonchalance never failed to leave a bizarre taste in his mouth.
Mythrecon. It was painfully uninspired, yet undeniably fitting. Since it was not an official academic designation anyway, calling it whatever they liked made no difference.
Their exchange concluded there. Grylls had undoubtedly returned to his makeshift furnace. Closing the interface, Gareth muttered to himself in mild disbelief.
Is this bastard going to stumble across Adamantium next?
The truly terrifying part was that the odds were disgustingly high.
Chief Strategist of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult and Gallery fixed-nick SmartFiend, Wi Seolak.
His days spun by in a relentless, dizzying blur. Befitting his title of Mano, the Demon Brain, he managed a staggering mountain of administrative and strategic affairs. Lately, ever since the heinous corruption of the Holy Kingdom, El Dorado, had been laid bare to the world, he had not known a single breath of rest.
While diplomatic relations between the Central Plains and El Dorado were merely lukewarm, it was an entirely different matter for other western nations. Countless realms had suffered profound scars during the Undead King Incident three decades ago. With those foreign powers now embroiled in escalating turmoil, the Cult had to orchestrate its own long-term geopolitical maneuvers.
Expanding the Demonic Cult's global influence—that was Wi Seolak’s principal duty.
Step. Step. Step.
In a situation where even having two bodies would scarcely suffice to finish his work, Wi Seolak was currently trailing behind a solitary woman. Slender shoulders, raven hair bound neatly into a single ponytail, and regal black silk robes radiating an effortless, terrifying majesty. And resting loosely in her hand was a sword of dull, tarnished silver.
Where could she possibly be heading?
Wi Seolak was following the supreme leader of the Cult, the Heavenly Demon Yu Sowol. He had been abruptly summoned right in the midst of his daily duties. From the instant the summons arrived, a mountain of worries had weighed on his mind, yet their destination seemed even more foreboding. She carried a sword he had never seen before. Setting its sharpened edge aside, its overall silhouette hardly conveyed masterful craftsmanship. In truth, a blade hammered out by an ordinary village blacksmith would have looked far more refined.
Who could have gifted her that sword? Don't tell me… Grylls?
Unless it was him, there was no plausible way she could have suddenly acquired such an unfamiliar weapon. Wi Seolak discreetly accessed the Gallery interface. Grylls’s recent posts were few—just one from this morning and another posted moments ago.
Mythrecon, was it…?
Using a makeshift furnace to melt and fuse Mithril with Orichalcum. A post detailing the successful creation of this impossible alloy was sitting right at the top of the board. Naturally, the comment section had been plunged into utter bedlam. An alloy of True Silver and True Gold! Even if the entire continent overturned in sheer pandemonium, no one could fault them.
Could the sword in Her Eminence’s hand be forged from that very metal?
Drawing upon his formidable intellect, Wi Seolak deduced a single conclusion: the blade Yu Sowol held was that very same alloy sword. Under normal circumstances, he would never have entertained such an outlandish fantasy, yet he had read Grylls’s post with his own eyes. It explicitly stated that Grylls had received molds and smithing implements from a dwarf, used them to cast a sword for the Heavenly Demon, and intended to keep the remaining pieces for his personal use.
“…My Sky.”
“Speak.”
“May this humble servant inquire why you have commanded my presence?”
If her intention was merely to test the weapon’s capabilities, she could easily have done so alone. Yet Yu Sowol had brought him along. She certainly had no intention of exposing her Gallery identity, so there had to be a distinct reason. Yu Sowol replied in an airy, unconcerned tone.
“Recently, this lady’s benefactor gifted her a sword. Yet he requested that this lady bestow a name upon it herself.”
“A name… you say?”
“Indeed. This lady possesses little talent when it comes to the art of naming. Thus, deeming your counsel preferable, I summoned you.”
“……”
She had dragged an overwhelmingly busy strategist across the mountains… solely to name a sword. Wi Seolak’s expression tightened with silent disbelief. Yet who was Yu Sowol? She was a transcendent sovereign who looked upon the mortal realm not through human eyes, but with the omniscient perspective of the heavens themselves.
“Your countenance suggests great discontent.”
“Not at all, My Sky.”
“Uttering words you do not mean.”
“I beg your forgiveness.”
“I appreciate your prompt contrition.”
Yu Sowol lightly brushed aside Wi Seolak’s momentary lapse, entirely unfazed. Just as Wi Seolak let out an inward sigh of relief, Yu Sowol’s steps came to an abrupt halt.
“Hm? My Sky. This place is…”
“This place should suffice.”
Where Yu Sowol had stopped was none other than the edge of a sheer, dizzying precipice. It was an ethereal, isolated perch where only a single towering, ancient pine reached toward the sky. Behind the ancient tree stretched an endless sea of rolling mountain ridges—a majestic, breathtaking vista.
W-Wait? We were inside the headquarters pavilion just moments ago!
Wi Seolak could not conceal his profound shock. Even if he bore the mantle of the Cult’s strategist, he was still an accomplished martial artist of the Central Plains. His cultivation was far from shallow, allowing him to perceive almost any shift in the subtle flow of qi. Yet before he had even realized it, they were standing atop a wind-swept cliff leagues away. It was as though they had walked through space itself.
Swallowing his bewilderment, Wi Seolak fixed his gaze upon her back as Yu Sowol slowly drew the blade.
Ssshhhaaak!
“An emerald… galaxy…?”
The instant Yu Sowol breathed a whisper of internal energy into the weapon, it flared into resplendent brilliance. The surface of the steel was bathed in an otherworldly luminescence, looking as though it contained an entire verdant cosmos within its edge. Yu Sowol cast a fleeting glance at the luminous glow, her deliberate motion never pausing.
Slowly, her arm rose toward the vast heavens.
Chwaak—
And then she brought it down. She did not strike with fury or unleash a cataclysmic thrust; she simply lowered her hand. So gently that only the faint murmur of parting wind could be heard. It was an exquisitely graceful motion, like an ink brush gliding effortlessly across pristine parchment.
Crack… Crrrack—!
Yet the aftermath was anything but gentle.
The ancient tree towering proudly toward the sky split vertically down its center, slowly groaning as its two halves separated. The blade had not even grazed its bark, yet a colossal, iron-hard pine had been cleaved cleanly in two.
As expected…
Wi Seolak swallowed hard as he beheld the sight. Though he had anticipated it, Yu Sowol had grown incomparably stronger than before. With this tier of peerless might, displaying the absolute supremacy of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult across the world would pose no challenge whatsoever.
“Hmph.”
Yet Yu Sowol herself appeared thoroughly unimpressed. Gazing down at the radiant edge, she murmured softly under her breath.
“A rather poor sword.”
“Pardon? What do you mean by…”
“A sword, by its very nature, should cut only that which its wielder wills.”
“…?”
Amidst her cryptic words, Wi Seolak suddenly felt a chilling sense of dissonance wash over him. The panoramic landscape visible through the gap of the split pine… something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong with it.
The first detail that caught his eye was the clouds. The vast bank of clouds that had drifted as a single mass was severed, its upper and lower halves shifted out of alignment. And it was not just the clouds. Across the endless, azure dome of the sky, a single, impossibly fine hairline seam had been etched.
With that hair-thin boundary as the axis, the sky on either side was entirely displaced.
“……”
The sky. The sacred heavens that all humanity was born to revere and look up to.
Had been severed clean in two by a single, languid wave of her hand.
It was a gesture too casual to even be deemed an attack. Yet that single descent had cleaved the firmament itself.
“Wielded carelessly, this blade will summon a deluge of blood.”
“……”
“So then. Has a fitting name come to your mind?”
Wi Seolak stood frozen against the whistling mountain wind, utterly unable to form a single word.
Meanwhile, at that exact same moment in the Forest of the Four Seasons.
Ssshhhaaak!
“Oh.”
Grylls let out a quiet murmur of admiration as he held up the newly cast blade in his hands, watching the green starry galaxy shimmer softly across the metal.
“Is it glow-in-the-dark? Pretty neat.”