Today was the day—the one he'd quietly been counting down to.
The weapons. They were supposed to be ready. Whether they'd arrive peacefully… or come with bloodshed, fate hadn't decided yet.
Evan sat cross-legged on the inn's bed, shirtless, his breath steady, posture sharp. Though fully recovered, he wasn't resting—his eyes were shut in deep focus.
Before him, suspended in midair, two raw elements pulsed and twisted: Ashen Fire and Earth. Their energy sparked like wild serpents barely tamed, crackling with volatile promise.
This was his new frontier.
In the days spent hidden away from the world, he hadn't wasted a second. He trained relentlessly to master Elemental Manipulation—an ability with godlike potential but demanding control.
But potential meant nothing if it couldn't be wielded.
His first revelation: his mana consumption was too high. Every attempt bled him dry faster than expected. His control was clumsy. His imagination, limited. And despite holding four elemental affinities… he could barely use two at once.
For most Tier 1 mages, that would be a pipe dream. For Tier 0? Unthinkable.
But Evan wasn't most mages. Not anymore. Not after everything.
Each failure refined him. Each success—no matter how small—pushed him forward. And by the second night, he had done it. Simultaneously manifested two elements. Not yet controlled them like a single thought… but progress was progress.
//The Morning of the Delivery//
When he finally stepped out of his room, the floor of the inn turned quiet.
Adventurers glanced at him curiously. A tall figure in a half-burnt cloak and a mask… reeking of sweat and ash.
He hadn't left the room in days, and it showed. Not even wild beasts would come close to the stench.
He bathed in the inn's public bath, letting warm water soak the soreness and wash away the isolation. Then, with damp hair and a new set of clothes, he made his way downstairs to the bar for breakfast.
That's when he saw them.
Members of Twilight—Sylen's party—spread casually across two tables. Their black armbands bore the insignia of a crescent moon swallowed by shadows.
A warning to all: don't provoke these people.
Evan spotted a few familiar faces from that day. He silently slipped into a chair at the far edge of the room, ordered a modest meal, and listened to the idle chatter around him. Nothing useful.
Once done, he paid and left. There was no time to linger. Drogmir was 'waiting'.
He passed through the busy morning streets, winding between vendor carts and smithing stalls, before finally arriving at the building that bore the name:
Ember & Anvil.
He blinked. The place had changed.
What was once a tired, beaten shack now stood a bit more polished—wood repaired, tools cleaned, the forge's brickwork scrubbed of soot.
'Hmph. Maybe that guy finally found a spark again.'
He stepped inside.
…Only to be met with cold silence.
No hammering of iron. No smell of burnt steel. No familiar clanking sounds of work in progress. The temperature was wrong—unnaturally cold.
His eyes narrowed. Something's off.
"Drogmir?" he called. No answer.
He moved deeper inside, his boots echoing in the emptiness. The front hall led to the forge area, where the fire still burned faintly—ashen and smouldering, just like his own element.
But the place was… empty.
Just as he turned to leave—
CRACK.
A white-hot sting burst through his back.
Blood ran down his spine.
His hand reached instinctively, grabbing the thick shaft of an oversized arrow lodged just beside his heart.
It missed. Barely.
He yanked it free and froze the wound to stop bleeding.
Standing across the forge, his hands trembling—was Drogmir.
He was holding a grotesque, modified crossbow. His face twisted with panic and madness.
Before Evan could speak, another arrow fired.
This one struck clean—just under the heart.
THUMP.
Evan collapsed. Groaning. The arrow shattered, leaving the tip embedded deep inside. Poison already coursed through his veins.
Drogmir stood over him, sweating, panting, laughing through clenched teeth. Another arrow was knocked. He waited—watching the life drain away.
Until Evan's body went still.
Unmoving.
Unconscious.
He dropped the weapon. Grabbed Evan's legs. And began to drag him toward the furnace.
"Just need to get him in… and the flame will be mine… hahahahaha…"
He chanted. The forge roared. Magic circles spread across the floor as ancient runes lit up in a sinister blue glow.
But when he turned back—
Evan's body was gone.
The blood trail stopped cold. Nothing remained.
"What…?" Drogmir spun, panic rising—— and then he felt it.
A heat like death. A fury like wildfire.
Behind him, the Ashen Flame was raging out of control.
His precious forge—engulfed.
"No, no, no! This shouldn't happen! The flames were bound—sealed!"
"And the poison—he should've been dead—!"
Then—
A voice. Calm. Ruthless. Unforgiving.
"Who told you I ran away?"
Drogmir turned. Evan stood beside the inferno, the flames dancing on his palm before leaping back into his hand like a loyal beast.
"And as for the flames... You tried to kill their master. You thought they'd sit still?"
Drogmir stared in disbelief. Evan's chest—no longer bloodied. No sign of poison rot.
"W-What?! The poison—! Even peak-tier warriors would die in seconds! How are you—"
Evan raised an eyebrow, brushing off ash from his shoulder.
"You mean that poison?" He smirked. "Yeah, no big deal."
Ding! Ding! Ding!
System Notifications:
[Talent: ⟪Supreme Adaptation⟫ detected high-tier toxin. Neutralising agent released.]
[Poison resistance increased drastically.]
[Skill: Low-Grade Poison Resistance levelled up → Lv. 67.]
He glanced at his health bar—dangerously low.
'Without my talent, I'd be dead.'
But he wasn't.
And now… it was Drogmir's turn to fall.
His Talent had saved him. Again.
If not for it, he would already be a corpse cooling on the forge floor.
Evan looked down at the bloodied dwarf trembling in fear, his hand slowly extending toward him.
"Now then… let's rip out all the answers. Why did you do it, Drogmir?"
Drogmir flinched at the voice, his legs stepping back instinctively. Panic seized his mind.
His plan had failed. And the consequences…They'd be fatal.
He hadn't expected this outcome.
But I'm not dead yet, he thought, wild desperation flashing in his eyes.
With a sudden burst of movement, he turned and dashed toward the forge.
His hand wrapped around a rune-etched warhammer, hidden beneath the cooling embers. The weapon vibrated with an old magic, humming as if it too sensed its wielder's fear.
Evan cocked his head slightly.
"Still pretending you want a fair fight… but your body's already betrayed you."
His voice was calm, almost disappointed.
He glanced down—Drogmir's legs were visibly trembling.
The dwarf snarled and charged, his hammer raised high. He didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Just attacked with every ounce of strength he had left, aiming to end it in a single, brutal blow.
But the moment he entered striking range—
Dark, vein-like tendrils burst from the ground.
They erupted like vines of cursed earth, wrapping around his limbs and torso in a blink. The hammer dropped with a heavy clang as Drogmir's body was hoisted into the air, suspended and immobilised.
He couldn't move. Couldn't resist.
He could only watch as Evan slowly shook his head, a flick of his fingers commanding the tendrils to tighten.
Then—They emerged.
From the walls. The shadows. The corners of the forge.
Skeletons. Dozens of them. Tall, twisted warriors clad in broken armour, wielding cracked blades, their empty eye sockets burning with blue flame.
Each of them radiated death.
Veteran adventurers would piss themselves in fear facing just one of them. Drogmir was staring down a platoon.
He gulped, his eyes wide with terror as realisation dawned.
"No… this… this isn't possible… he's the Necromancer?"
The fear turned to horror.
"I made a fool of myself today…"
"I'm going to die."
He stared helplessly at Evan—who was now healing his wounds slowly, grimacing as his Talent mended the poison's lingering damage.
Evan didn't even need to command the Undead. They waited silently, watching Drogmir with hollow stares that promised only death.
The flames in their eyes flickered—like they were amused.
Drogmir's thoughts spiralled, and then—The past came rushing in.
{Drogmir's POV}
I was born the second son of the Ironbelch Clan—a proud line of master blacksmiths whose name rang through the dwarven halls.
But pride was never for me.
No matter how hard I tried, I was a failure.
My elder brother was a genius—born with Divine Fire affinity, already selected to become the next head with his excellent talent in blacksmithing.
My sister—blessed with Holy affinity—had joined the Church and was rising through the ranks of the Paladins.
Even my younger brother—a prodigy in his own right—became a Bronze Rank Adventurer at seventeen, far younger than the average.
They called him the Flameforged Juggernaut—his name spread like wildfire through inns and guildhalls.
He reached the Peak of Tier 0 in mere months.
And me?
My blacksmithing was average.
My affinity? Low Fire, Medium Earth—laughable at best.Combat? I tried.
I trained under a retired war veteran for an entire year. But he gave up. Said I had no talent.
I tried everything.
Even dark methods.
Even the forbidden.
Nothing.
And soon, even my parents stopped believing in me.
I asked for the tools. Denied.
Requested lessons? Ignored.
They looked at me as if I were a burden they couldn't shake.
Even the servants treated me with contempt.
My nanny? She left me the moment a more "promising" sibling needed her.
My sister, once kind… became distant. Cold. She couldn't even look me in the eye anymore.
And then came the day that shattered me completely.
I returned home late—drunk, filthy, my clothes soaked in ale and shame.
My father was waiting.
There was a cake on the table. My birthday cake.
He hurled it in my face after looking at my condition.
Then came the fists. The screaming. The shame.
He beat me in front of the entire family, calling me a disgrace, telling me I'd polluted the family's honour just by living.
I looked around that room…My siblings stared at me with disgust.
My mother wept—not for me, but for the shame I had brought.
Even my sister's gaze felt like a blade.
That night, something inside me snapped.
I packed what I could.
Stole a few items from the vault.
I tried to take my father's prized forge—a divine artifact that could withstand even Grand Dragon Flame.
But it was too heavy. It must have weighed tons.
So I settled for the third-best forge—a royal gift from the King, no less. I also took what I could carry in gold and materials.
And I ran.
Hiding in alleyways. Sleeping in barns. Dodging bounty hunters and family knights.
But luck was never on my side.
They found me.
They were aiming for my life.
I ran—through alleys, over rooftops, across empty streets—until my legs gave way beneath me. Cornered, with nowhere to turn, I found myself standing before the towering Grand Gate of the Expanse. One of the many colossal gateways situated at the edge of the Kingdom's sectors.
Legends said these gates led toward higher Expanses—toward opportunity, glory, and ascension. Countless adventurers had passed through them to rise above their fates, while others from lower realms crossed upward to chase dreams of power and purpose.
Without a second thought—without a shred of hesitation—I hurled myself into the gate. If I stayed, I'd die. But if I leapt… maybe I could find my future.
I was wrong.
Instead of rising toward a higher Expanse, I plummeted into demise. The place I landed wasn't gilded in power or opportunity—it was a dull, forgotten town. I assumed it might be a small border settlement of the Empire.
But reality struck with cold cruelty.
I had landed in the Zeroth Expanse—the place infamously known as the Ground of Failures.
A realm where the discarded gathered. Where the forgotten trudged on. And where the echoes of broken dreams whispered through cracked cobblestone streets.
Drenched in despair, I nearly gave up.
Maybe… maybe I really was a failure.
But then I met him—an old blacksmith who ran a shabby little smithy tucked in the corner of a crumbling district.
Its name was simple: EMBER & ANVIL.
The man was well past his prime, crafting only low-grade Caldo-rank weapons. Barely suitable for beginner Tier-0 adventurers, and only purchased by desperate newcomers who couldn't afford even the average Vernis-tier gear.
Still… I needed something—anything—to survive.
So I became his apprentice.
I worked hard. Every day. I endured burns, cuts, curses, and the suffocating stench of molten metal. I earned his trust. His praise. And eventually… his support.
My rank began to rise.
In time, I reached 3-Star Grade 0—a small achievement, perhaps, but it gave me hope. A sliver of belief that maybe I hadn't been completely wrong about my future.
But life wasn't done with its cruelty.
My master passed away just months after I advanced.
I mourned. But I remembered his final words—to raise the name of EMBER & ANVIL to the peak… using my own hands.
So I poured myself into the forge. I used my Dwarven heritage and affinity for fire to craft dozens of Caldo-rank weapons and armour. My skill grew, and my name started to spread—at least within the lower zones of Zeroth Expanse.
Within two years, I had reached 5-Star Blacksmith.
I started to believe—no, knew—that my talent had been stifled back in the upper realm… overshadowed by my siblings, dismissed by those who couldn't see past my failures.
I began aiming higher.
I set my sights on Erith-rank weaponry.
Reaching the peak of 5-Star, I believed I was ready.
So I gambled everything.
I poured all my savings—and borrowed the rest from ruthless loan sharks—to gather materials. Enough for 150 weapons.
I thought… just a few Erith-rank weapons would be enough. I could pay my debts, raise my rank, and maybe even take the first step out of Zeroth.
But when the week ended, my dream lay shattered before me.
Only two of those weapons managed to reach Erith rank—and even they were of the lowest quality. The rest were a depressing mix of Caldo and Vernis.
I sold them all, just barely managing to repay my debts.
I told myself to try harder. To reach the 6-Star Blacksmith level, where my hands might truly be ready for consistent Erith creation.
And so the years passed.
//Seven long years//
Until I reached the Peak of 9-Star Blacksmith.
I was so close. Just one step away from the Great Perfection of the 10th Star.
I tried everything. Different forging techniques, rare materials, meditation under the moonlit flames, and even praying to the ancient Flame Spirits.
I succeeded a few times—creating peak-grade Erith weapons—but I couldn't grasp that spark of enlightenment needed to transcend.
Eventually, the fire in my forge was replaced by the burn of liquor in my throat.
I began to drown myself in drinks. That was when I met him.
A boy.
Just like me—perhaps even more unfortunate. No family. No wealth. No status. No direction.
He had nothing. Not even a path to walk on.
His name… was Kael.
I don't know why he helped me. Maybe he was too foolish to give up, or maybe he saw something in me I had long forgotten.
When I reached the brink—ready to throw my life into the flames I once mastered—he stopped me.
He reminded me that death was not the answer.
That my life, my legacy, still had meaning.
That I had yet to prove myself—to my family, to my master, and most of all… to myself.
I became friends with a boy who lived a life even more miserable than mine.
While I had a roof over my head, a small forge, and the pride of being a Dwarf, he had nothing—not even a home. He slept on the streets, took odd jobs just to eat once a day, and yet… he always smiled.
A bright, genuine smile. Even in the face of sadness, even while starving, even when life offered him nothing.
Something I could never do.
So, I offered him a job at my smithy. Not because I pitied him, but because—for the first time—I found peace. We'd talk, laugh, share meals. He became my first true friend.
Kael.
But peace is never eternal.
One day, I heard he had died while working as a porter in a Forbidden Zone called the Undead Bed.
I still remember begging him not to take that job.
He only grinned and said, "A life without thrills isn't a life worth living."
Those words lit a small flame in my heart. A longing for something more. But that flame died with the news of his death.
He once told me his dream: to buy a house with his own money and live peacefully with his childhood friend.
That dream… would never come true now.
I drowned in grief.
Until a few days later, rumours reached my ears—of a boy who bore the same name, Kael, a boy whose power shook the very foundation of the city.
At first, I ignored it. It couldn't be him.
But then… the leaderboard changed.
The Twilight Team, long dominant, had been shaken. A new challenger had climbed to second place overnight.
His name?
Kael.
I thought about going to meet him—but a part of me held back. If it really was my friend, he would've come to see me first… right?
And just when I had buried the thought…
A knock came at my smithy door.
My life changed in that instant.
When I opened the door, the man standing before me was no longer the scrawny street rat I once knew.
He stood tall, radiant with power—like a man who had climbed from the gutters to the peak of the world.
Beside him stood two women. Graceful, fierce, and beautiful beyond words. Just their presence was enough to make my breath catch.
I was frozen. My mind screamed that I didn't belong in this picture, that I was about to be mocked for the lowlife I was.
But instead…
He hugged me.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. And in that warm embrace, I realised—it really was him.
My friend had returned.
We caught up, shared stories. And then, Kael did something that shattered me.
He handed me a flame. Not a literal fire, but a spiritual one—an essence that could elevate my craft, maybe even awaken me to Tier 1, a realm most Dwarves started to awaken their racial traits in the art of Blacksmithing or their fields, which determined their paths ahead.
I accepted it gratefully.
But…
Greed whispered in my ears.
Seeing him so far above me—adored by beauties, feared by elites—I felt something dark take root.
I wanted that power.
I wanted his glory.
I tried to suppress it. But then fate played its twisted hand again.
Another young man arrived at my forge.
Evan.
He wanted gear. Seemed like one of those fools who believed he could master sword and sorcery alike.
I humoured him.
But then—I saw it.
The flame within him.
Not just any flame. No… this was Cold Divine. Potent. Maybe even greater than Kael's.
My hands trembled. My heart raced.
This… was my chance.
A chance to take power without guilt. Without betrayal. Just a stranger, gone without a trace.
I agreed to craft the items he wanted. Even smiled at him.
Meanwhile, I prepared.
Harpoon-sized bolts—meant for big-sized beasts.
A potent poison—barely enough coins to buy it, but enough to kill.
And an old, forbidden technique—meant to draw out his soul and extract the flames for myself, which I stored before leaving my house to avoid leaving any evidence.
Tonight was the night.
The forge was hot. The poison is ready. Evan entered.
Everything was perfect.
And then…
Everything collapsed.
He didn't fall. He didn't scream.
Instead… he sat.
His body healing itself before my eyes—through holy magic and life energy. 'Holy magic and life magic'. Light and life radiated from his wounds.
And then he looked at me.
Those eyes…
Cold. Piercing. Eternal.
They didn't belong to a boy. They belonged to a reaper.
And behind him—undead skeletons emerged, blades drawn, ready to kill at a single command.
My knees gave out.
He wasn't just some wandering fool.
He was the Mage of Death.
A necromancer—no, a commander of the dead. The kind of being whispered about in fear.
And now, his soul-piercing gaze was locked on me.
The man I tried to betray.
The man I tried to refine.
My heart went cold. My soul trembled.
Because I knew what necromancers were capable of.
They don't just kill.
They enslave your soul—to serve them forever.
And today… that was my fate.
{POV END}
To be continued...
What will happen to Drogmir? Will he die today, or will a miracle save him, sending by Kael or someone else here?
Check back for the new chapter to find out, and add it to your library for updates.
Enjoy the chapter!