Forged in Crimson Flame: The Sword of Hope
My entire body is ablaze with Hope. Flames coil in with every inhale, blooming outward with every exhale. I raise my hand—it's pretty damn impressive, wreathed in scorching crimson flames. There's only one possible explanation. The Crimson Flame Tempering Art has reached a new realm, triggering this transformation in my body.
To confirm my hunch, I glance at the chat window. Well, even without checking, this has to be it—
Even Elf Hater Sis, who knows her stuff, seems totally caught off guard—her flustered vibe punches right through the chat. If that arrogant, dwarf-honorary blacksmith is reacting like this, no one saw this coming.
Elf Hater Sis goes full rage mode as I confess the truth. Martial arts manuals are like intricate code—one wrong synapse in the operation, and boom, total crash. And I rerouted it entirely—
Elf Hater Sis seems too stunned to continue. My master, who's been listening in, feels the same.
Seeing my master's genuine worry, I meekly bow my head in the chat. But what's done is done. And right now, that's not the point. The important thing is this.
"...Kill... me..."
"...Fuc...k..."
I scoop up the blood vessel root floating in the bubbling lava. Voices still groan in agony. The good news? I think I can free them now.
"Yeah. If death is your only salvation."
Squeeze—I grip the blood vessel root tight, channeling the crimson flames coursing through my body.
Whoosh!! Flames roar fiercely. They don't aim to incinerate it completely. The target is those murky somethings tangled amid the screams—the disgusting, slimy unease I've felt since grabbing it. The flames surge to burn it away.
"Kyaaack!!"
Flames have always symbolized purification. This fire, born of Mother Earth's ley line grace, burns even holier, proving its divine origin. The foul energies staining the root wail in torment, but the crimson flames in my grasp relentlessly purge every last drop.
And the result—
"...Keeek... Pop."
Like a butane canister running dry, something pops and fades. The souls trapped within begin to release.
"Ahh... Ahh..."
"Ah... Ahh..."
"Ah.... Ahh..."
They've suffered so long their minds are gone—they can't form proper words. But that's enough. They sense the chains loosening. I grab the Yoji-filled gourd sitting nearby and sprinkle it over them.
"You've got a long journey ahead. At least wet your throats."
This is the utmost respect I can offer—like handing water to a traveler heading far away. As the resentful spirits, soaked in Yoji, finally depart on their one-way trip to the beyond, the now-unprotected gourd crumbles to ash with a crackle.
"Phew."
Mission phase one: complete. Time for phase two.
"Kyaack!!"
"You little shit. Quite the bellow you got."
Surprisingly, even after sending all the spirits to rest, a beastly howl echoes from the root. This is its true voice—the one I heard through the Steel Communion Method. It must've been suppressed by the other spirits till now. Freeing them let it roar properly.
"Alright. Your turn now."
The root thrashes like a freshly caught fish. Metal or living heart? Hard to tell. True to its savage origins, it bares its wild temper without filter.
But no swordsman fears the blade, no hunter fears the prey. Even as its ferocious roars transmit through the Steel Communion Method, I don't loosen my grip. If anything, I tighten it like reins on a wild horse.
"Not so fast."
I circulate the Crimson Flame Tempering Art again. Crimson flames engulf it, turning its already red surface scorching crimson. I hammer down on the now-boiling, thrashing thing.
Claaang!!!
"Kraaaack!!!"
It writhes wildly. A mere ore, rampaging like a beast. Part of me wants to drain its spirit with the Absorption Great Law, but no, that's not the way.
A smith who fears his ore? Ridiculous. I let it howl freely. But I never slacken the reins. Thrash all you want—you're in my hands. And in my hands, thrash to your heart's content. I grip harder.
Clang! Clang!! Claang!!!
The hammering doesn't stop. It tells me where to strike—where its fury surges strongest with each blow. That's the spot.
How long do I pound? Its shape shifts, its attitude changes. At first, pure hatred for me tormenting it. But realizing this sharpens and toughens it, it starts twisting toward the hammer—as if begging for harder hits here, more heat there.
I oblige eagerly.
Claang! Claang!! Claaang!!!
Crooked spots get smacked flat, warped ones hammered true. I thought I was taming it at first. Now? I'm its servant, hammering to its whims.
But it doesn't feel bad. Hell, it's like becoming a parent.
So that's why smiths call their creations "my baby."
Wondering what shape my "child" will take. How magnificent it'll grow. Just imagining it is pure joy. I'd do anything for it. I infuse heat via Crimson Flame Tempering Art, ley line energy via Ley Line Resonance Art. Steel Communion Method reveals its itches—I scratch them with relentless blows.
The ley lines writhe in response. Mother Earth seems thrilled too. Just hours ago, this place echoed with unrestful laments, unliberated agony. Now? Only the stirrings of something newborn.
Yeah, this is right. Even in this godforsaken world, nonstop screams, blood, tears, groans—who'd wanna live? Mother Earth craves this more. So let's party.
Cling, clang, claang!!
The hammering builds to a crescendo. Its cries demanding more tempering boom loudest. I feel it—this is the finale. Time for the grand finale!
I pour everything into the final strike.
CLAAAAANG!!
A resonance beyond any before shakes the area. Then, deep silence descends. Bubbling lava quiets. The savage root falls still. Mother Earth joins the hush, celebrating the birth.
In that silence, I exhale heavily.
"...Huuuuh."
The flames scorching my body wink out. Like crafting an elixir, forging this weapon drained my qi dry. Back to normal human form, only a long, whip-like sword remains in my hand.
Quiet now, after all that racket—waiting patiently for blood scent. I gaze at my creation, then check the chat.
The window, hushed like it was holding its breath with me, lights up with Elf Hater Sis.
Elf Hater Sis thinks the same.
"A name. A name, huh."
It does seem to be waiting for one.
"I'm shit at naming, though."
I'm the type who writes 15 chapters of a webnovel but agonizes two weeks over the title. Naming's torture. But in this moment, one name bubbles up unbidden.
"Alright, decided."
I stroke its blade and declare.
"Your name is Hope."
That's it. Elf Hater Sis chimes right back.
Yeah, those suit its bloody aura. But.
"There's a story I know like that. Long ago, a god gave humans a jar, warning never to open it. It was packed with every disaster imaginable."
The human was Pandora.
That's Pandora's Box. A tale symbolizing human folly in opening the forbidden.
"One day, curiosity won out. She opened it, unleashing calamities on the world. Despair and ruin came—but humanity endured."
Why? Because at the bottom of that box...
"...lay Hope, letting them carry on."
It also shows hope blooms even amid disasters.
"Born of despair and ruin? Doesn't mean it gets a name like that."
On the contrary—I want it to say hope can emerge from such depths.
"So, its name is Hope."
I call its name again, firmly.
Hummm—
Now truly named—Hope—it hums contentedly.
