Ark White adjusted himself, entwining his fingers on the table as he slowly exhaled, the sound of his breath a gentle whisper in the quiet room.
The air was thick with the musty scent of old parchment and the faint tang of ink, a reminder of the countless hours spent pouring over ancient texts and drawing intricate machine designs.
“It’s quite demanding, My Lord,” he began, his voice steady and calm, but with a hint of tension beneath the surface.
“First, they would require giant oak trees which we don’t have around our domain and lots of warp ore.”
He glanced at Asher, his gaze meeting the younger man’s with a sense of quiet intensity. “I know you gave us the warp ore to forge daggers. We’ve done that, but the warp ore has great capabilities, like its lightness, durability, and currently, it is the only metal able to absorb the high amount of force.”
His voice took on a note of enthusiasm, his passion for the subject evident.
“Due to that, these machines can be moved, but since the warp stones only react to your blood, we shall need mage pilots trained and infused with your blood to move them.”
He tilted his head to the orc siege catapult, its wooden frame looming in the corner of the table like a dark specter. “Except for that one. What it needs is just wood from the giant oak tree and hulking wolves.” Asher leaned forward, his eyes locked on Ark’s, his expression filled with awe.
“This is…”
Dan’s voice rang out with confidence, his words infused with a sense of pride and accomplishment.
“They can be produced, My Lord,” he began, his tone unwavering. “Ark is a master-grade inventor and a senior-grade blacksmith. With both combined, he’s basically a genius.”
A hint of admiration crept into his voice as he spoke of Ark’s exceptional skills. “Forging the warp stone has been of great help to the blacksmithing community, as most of us have gained knowledge and successfully broken through to the next grade.”
Dan’s eyes sparkled with a sense of personal triumph, his expression reflecting the pride of having achieved a long-sought goal.
“I am now a master-grade blacksmith,” he declared, his voice filled with a sense of pride and ownership. “And with my help, bringing these designs to life shouldn’t be a problem.” His words were laced with a sense of assurance, as if the very notion of failure was inconceivable.
“Where can we find giant oak trees?” Asher asked.
“There are forests of them in Adamos County,” Ark replied, his voice measured. “We could get a steady supply from them, but they might want something in return.”
Dan nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ll write a letter to them. We shall provide them discounts on whatever they purchase from the Dukedom.” Asher said.
His gaze remained fixed on the miniature structures, his mind racing with possibilities. He envisioned a future where these machines dominated the battlefields of Boundless, ushering in a new era of advancement.
“We need to start training mage pilots,” he declared. “I shall send word to Commander Aquila and also inform Commander Paul about the Titan X. It is the ultimate machine for an archery troop.”
Both blacksmiths nodded in agreement. Asher’s gaze lifted, his eyes meeting Ark’s. “What about the daggers?”
Dan promptly replied . “Hmm… We’ve made 100 pieces so far, so you have 100 angels equipped for any assignment.”
“Good. Have them sent to paradise.”
After requesting for gold ranked armour blueprints, Asher moved about the forge, his mind preoccupied with the weight of his responsibilities.
Before returning to Nineveh that evening, he found himself lost in thought, the passing of days a blur of frantic activity as he covered up for months of work Kelvin didn’t have the authority to handle.
Each night, he would train with the sword, the familiar rhythm of combat a temporary respite from the turmoil brewing within him.
However, the moment he unsheathed Ithamar, the sword seemed to come alive, its power coursing through him like a tempest, always trying to devour him.
Days turned into weeks, and Asher’s train of thought journeyed into the abnormality of his talent – Ancient Blood Shura.
Of late, anytime he used it, it felt like rage consumed his sanity, forcing him to become a being filled with the bitterness of hundreds. A walking embodiment of rage, regret, unhappiness, pride, contempt.
The emotions of late Ashbourne lords swirled within him, a maelstrom of feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.
All these began to happen when the connection between him and all the lords were established. Previously, it was just the four great dukes, and then he had a little bit of sanity even in the Shura mode, but now he feared one day, he would lose control and slaughter his own men.
The day he would wake up to a battlefield filled with foes and allies, all slain by him, would be his worst nightmare.
All this was because of one thing — his Shura talent had kept growing, its power unfolding like a dark flower within him.
Even now, he could feel it reaching for the next rank, Zenith, a prospect that filled him with a sense of foreboding.
At this point, this talent was beginning to take the form of a curse, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked within him.
This realization made him remember the gaze Lucas Adamos had, a piercing look that seemed to see right through him, into the very heart of his darkness.
Step by step, he descended down the spiral staircase, the darkness swallowing him whole, until he reached the bottom.
The moment his foot touched the last step, flame torches hung on the walls roared to life, casting flickering shadows on the cold stone. His hands caressed the old, slightly rough surface of the Ashbourne records, the worn leather a testament to the weight of history that lay within.
As he lifted his gaze toward the hook, a melancholy smile crept onto his face, envisioning the day when his own children would walk down these stairs, their footsteps echoing through the silence.
With a gentle touch, Asher leaned the broken sword against the wall, his eyes lingering on it with a mix of sadness and reverence.
No craftsman could fix it, for the metal was a strange and elusive one, like water that refused to be shaped by the heat of flames.
“El,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “This is the most sacred place in Ashbourne land. You may have been slain by your own kind, but your honour has been regained. Rest here, your spirit at peace.”
The words hung in the air like a benediction, and suddenly, the broken sword began to tremble, as if stirred by an unseen force.
The phantom of a great wolf emerged from the shattered blade, its ethereal gaze locked onto Asher, piercing and unyielding. The air seemed to vibrate with an ominous force, as if the very essence of the sword had been unleashed, and Asher felt himself drawn into the wolf’s haunting stare.
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A/N: I had to skip update because my brain needed it. Honestly. But did you guys have to punish me with low power stone?