The Incomplete Ethereal Blacksmith

Riding a blade of wind, an elderly man with a long beard and traditional Eastern robes shot through the sky.

Following closely behind him was a squad of winged warriors wreathed in flames—members of the Sigil Wardens Order.

"Who's the fool that tried forging a Core from a Spirit Monarch before reaching Grandmaster Blacksmith!?" the old man grumbled.

Behind him, one of the Sigil Wardens responded, "A mad researcher."

The old man clicked his tongue. "Tch!"

In the distance, a city engulfed in flames came into view, the fire strangely mixed with the torrential downpour.

"Are we too late?" the old man murmured.

"Damn it, hurry up!"

Riding his floating wind-forged sword, he accelerated, swiftly outpacing the Sigil Wardens behind him.

Before entering the storm, the squad swapped out their fiery wings for alternatives. Some conjured wind eagles, others summoned ice gliders or star-cloaked mantles. Their speed increased further.

—

The old man stopped mid-air, hovering high above the half-destroyed city.

"Ugh..."

"This is horrible," he muttered.

Watching the devastation firsthand, his expression tensed.

As a Grandmaster Blacksmith, witnessing destruction on this scale was nothing new. But such scenes were usually confined to the depths of the Abyssal Labyrinth. Seeing this outside—where civilization once stood—stirred something in him.

At first, he saw no movement.

The city was dead.

No signs of life.

Even from this altitude, amidst the storm, he could still smell the blood and sense the scattered currents of mana.

"This place has no hope left," he whispered.

For a man hailing from a distant Eastern city, this sight made him think of home. What if this happened there?

Then, just as he resigned himself to the city's fate, he caught a glimpse of a faint blue glow on the outskirts.

His eyes narrowed, focusing on what seemed to be... a survivor.

Immediately, he angled downward, using momentum to propel himself forward. As he moved, a lightning arrow formed in his grasp.

Swoosshh!!

Diving lower, he pulled the bowstring back, a golden lightning arrow crackling as it reached full draw.

Closer.

His vision cleared.

Below, a boy leaned weakly against the ruins of an unstable building. In front of him stood the very creature they had been sent to eliminate.

"Dreadclaw Ursurion," he identified the spirit rampaging below.

Though its appearance was monstrous, he knew the truth—this was once a human, now possessed by a Spirit.

A Spirit Monarch-class entity. In its normal state, it would have intelligence rivaling humans, but this one had fully succumbed to its primal instincts, moving like a bloodthirsty beast.

Swing!!

The old man released the bowstring, sending the golden lightning arrow streaking through the air like a natural bolt of lightning.

Boom!

The impact blasted the Dreadclaw Ursurion aside, hurling it several meters away.

Seizing the moment, the old man shot downward toward the half-conscious boy.

His brows furrowed slightly upon seeing him.

"An Ethereal Sigil?"

He recognized the type of hammer in Lucien's hands. But it was... different. Unlike the usual solid form of a Sigil Hammer, Lucien's looked like a mirage—an illusion barely holding together.

Flicker!

The pale blue glow of Lucien's hammer flickered, like a lantern being snuffed out and relit. It blinked a few more times before vanishing entirely, leaving only traces of dissipating blue energy.

At the same time, Lucien's consciousness finally gave out. Exhaustion had won. His small body had reached its limit.

"Gwarrrrhhh!!!"

The Dreadclaw Ursurion roared as it struggled back to its feet, its blood-red eyes burning with even greater frenzy.

The old man swiftly scooped Lucien up and shot back into the sky.

Above, the Sigil Wardens Order had arrived in full force.

Their first move was to shield the old man from the Dreadclaw Ursurion's ranged attacks.

The monstrous, sigil-covered bear let out a guttural snarl before launching spheres of black energy from its maw—cannonball-like projectiles that seemed to crush the air around them.

One of the Sigil Wardens rode atop a wind eagle, releasing his grip on his previous mist-crafted weapon and summoning a new one—a turtle-shell shield.

Before him, a two-layered hexagonal barrier unfolded.

Boom!

Boom!

Both layers shattered instantly.

"My shield isn't strong enough to block them all!" the military-clad Warden exclaimed.

In response, a comrade behind him conjured four floating daggers of ice. Raindrops that passed through them froze instantly.

Swoosh!!

Swoosh!!

The daggers shot forth, intercepting the remaining dark spheres mid-air and detonating them before impact.

Even with their superior numbers, the gap in power was evident.

Under normal circumstances, a Spirit Monarch was equivalent to a Grandmaster Blacksmith. For a Master Blacksmith, it would take at least ten of them to face a single one.

Excluding the elderly man, the squad consisted of eleven Sigil Wardens. Yet, it still wasn't enough.

"It's fully berserk! It's even burning its own life force just to wreak this much havoc!"

The old man glided toward one of the Wardens, passing Lucien's unconscious body into their care.

Then, he turned back.

"If Master Blacksmiths like you could handle it, this city wouldn't have fallen in the first place," he stated firmly.

"There were at least ten Master Blacksmiths in this city."

Raising his hand, a colossal sword began to materialize.

Its form shimmered with silver and blue hues. Near the hilt, an engraved eye wept slow, steady tears of water.

The blade was twice the size of the old man himself.

"Support me from behind," he commanded.

"Understood, Grandmaster!" the squad responded in unison.

They swiftly adjusted their formation, retracting their current weapons and summoning new ones.

—

Lucien felt nothing.

"A void?"

The question sparked his awareness.

His mind stirred.

Slowly, control over his body returned, though he lacked the strength to move.

All he could do was barely open his eyes.

His vision was hazy.

Blurry colors filled his sight—shifting orbs of purple, black, red, and green. Explosions rang in his ears, though they sounded muffled, distant.

To him, it felt like a sorrowful display of fireworks.

But every time his mind drifted, memories of destruction and agonized screams resurfaced—stabbing deeper than any wound.

—

With the Grandmaster's intervention, the battle ended swiftly.

The city, now little more than rubble, was left pockmarked with deep craters.

Under the relentless downpour, the Dreadclaw Ursurion staggered, barely clinging to life.

"You're still standing?" The old man smirked at the Spirit Monarch.

Raising his enormous blade high, he tilted his chin upward.

His serene green eyes and wise features betrayed no emotion.

Then, the raindrops around him froze mid-air—drawn toward his sword, converging into a floating sphere of water.

The Dreadclaw Ursurion made no attempt to defend itself.

It swayed weakly, yet its crimson eyes remained sharp—filled with insatiable bloodlust, even as its own body failed it.

At that moment, the Sigil Wardens ceased their attacks.

They knew.

This was the final blow.

And yet, awe lingered in their gazes.

There were few opportunities to witness a Grandmaster Blacksmith in battle. This was a rare privilege for them. The power they aspired to achieve was now right before their eyes—like a shadow, close yet unreachable.

In this brief battle, most of them had nearly reached their limits. Constantly utilizing their abilities, switching between mystical weapons, and channeling mana without pause—it was exhausting.

Yet, for the old man, this was nothing more than child's play. He showed no signs of fatigue or struggle. Throughout the fight, he had delivered the majority of the attacks, each one seemingly requiring a vast amount of mana. Seeing him still standing, unbothered and continuing without hesitation, made them fully aware of their place.

"This is the capability of a Grandmaster."

The same thought echoed in all their minds.

Although, in the hierarchy of sigil power, a Master stood just one rank below a Grandmaster, the gap in real strength was immense.

Everything ended with a single swing of his massive sword.

The gathered water transformed into a surging wave that flowed with the blade's arc. A wave so powerful that, in just one strike, the entire city of Aldenridge was swept away.

Dreadclaw Ursurion was shattered into pieces, like a mere stone that had lost its strength.

On the ground, the only thing left was the corpse of the human vessel the spirit had possessed—but in a horrifying state. At first glance, no one would even recognize it as a human body. In its hollowed-out chest, where a heart should have been, now lay a purple crystal marred with corrupted cracks.

It was the Core of Dreadclaw Ursurion, but tainted with vile mana.