All my weapons were complete.
The sword.
The spear.
The bow.
They lay before me, finished and functional. I should have felt only satisfaction—and I did—but beneath it, something heavier lingered.
A quiet sense of ending.
My purpose for coming to Duracal's forge had been fulfilled. I had learned. I had forged. I had reached the goal I once believed was enough.
Which meant… I should be leaving.
As that thought settled, Duracal appeared beside me. Whether he read it on my face or simply understood, I didn't know. He smiled faintly.
"Don't start thinking about leaving yet," he said. "You've only just begun to understand forging."
Then, more bluntly:
"And I'm not letting useful hands walk away so easily."
Despite the words, there was no malice in them. I couldn't help but smile.
My next plan had already taken shape.
I wanted to register as a mercenary. Real battles. Real monsters. The kind of experience no controlled training could provide. My weapons were finished, but my fighting style was incomplete.
I also needed to learn dark magic. My dark aura could already function as mana. Ignoring that potential would be nothing short of wasteful.
When I shared this with my instructors, they rejected it instantly.
"You wouldn't survive," Bharam said plainly.
"Not because you're weak," Siena added. "Because you're unfinished."
Rathen didn't bother explaining. He simply shook his head.
They spoke with Duracal instead.
By nightfall, my training schedule was rewritten.
Two days each week were assigned to blacksmith work—real labor, not lessons. The remaining days, from morning until night, were reserved entirely for training.
All of them were veterans.
All of them smiled as if they'd gained a new test subject.
The routine was merciless.
Forge work under Duracal.
Study when time allowed—especially the miasma texts.
Then training.
No restraint.
"Instead of explaining a hundred times," Rathen said once, striking me down with a practice blade, "pain teaches faster."
During breaks, I was allowed into the forest—but only to observe. Monsters. Animals. Insects. Territory. Movement. Reaction.
No hunting. No fighting.
Only watching.
Days blurred together.
One evening, Rathen stopped me mid-practice.
"You have aura," he said. "But you're using it wrong."
He released his own aura—not explosively, not impressively. It clung close to his body, thin and restrained.
"In most regions," he continued, "aura is treated as proof. Proof of strength. Proof of status."
He stepped forward and struck—fast, decisive.
"People pour it out so others can see it. They forget why aura exists in the first place."
He lowered his blade.
"Aura is not meant to be shown. It's meant to kill."
He looked directly at me.
"There's no rule saying only weapons carry aura. Every fiber of the body can be coated. Muscle. Bone. Nerves."
Then he tapped his temple.
"And the brain comes first."
From that day, training changed.
For the first half of every session, I wasn't allowed to spar.
I had to coat my aura inward—slowly, carefully. Brain first. Reflexes sharpened. Thought accelerated. The pain was intense. Headaches. Nausea. Moments where the world tilted sideways.
It took two full days just to stabilize aura around my mind.
Siena took over next.
"Legs and hands," she said. "They generate force. Without them, technique is empty."
Under her instruction, my movements grew faster, cleaner. Aura layered thinly—never loud, never wasteful.
"Thin coating," she emphasized. "Low presence. If the enemy notices your aura first, you're already late."
Then Bharam.
"Eyes. Ears. Nose."
The senses.
The hardest training of all.
Bleeding was common. Disorientation worse. But I endured.
Time passed.
Two years slipped by—not marked by seasons, but by scars, calluses, and refinement.
When the training finally eased, I stood before the mercenary guild hall.
My weapons were ready.
This time, so was I.