Monica and Dworsul both wore grim expressions as they reached a dead end: a massive cave-in blocked the tunnel they had hoped to use.

“So…” Monica murmured, trailing off as her gaze traveled across the collapsed passage. Rubble choked the corridor from floor to ceiling, forming a jagged wall of broken stone.

Dworsul said nothing at first. Instead, he stepped forward and crouched, running his callused fingers across the debris. He picked up a palm-sized chunk of rock, turning it in his hand with a pensive frown.

Slowly, he squeezed the chunk between his fingers, letting powdery dust drizzle down from the edges. It was almost as if he could read the tale of the cave-in—how the stone had fractured, at what angle, and under what force—simply by feeling it.

"This whole tunnel was collapsed by something—or someone," he said calmly.

"The tunnel that leads to the Blacksmith District?" Monica asked.

Dworsul responded by tossing her the piece of stone he’d been inspecting. She caught it on reflex, only to look at the dull, gray fragment in confusion.

"Am I supposed to understand what this means?" She asked.

“No,” Dworsul said, shrugging with a resigned huff. “But this confirms there’s no chance we can clear the path in any reasonable amount of time. It’s more than just a few fallen rocks—entire sections of the corridor have caved in. We’re back to your earlier plan, Avatar.”

Monica’s shoulders tensed. “Meaning?”

“We’ve no choice but to use the forges in the marketplace,” Dworsul replied. “Though it’s far from ideal. The Blacksmith District has the real runic forges. The largest ore vaults. All the specialized tools. Everything you truly need is sealed behind this collapse."”

"I know—that's why I didn't go there."

"Not ideal," Dworsul sighed. "The marketplace doesn't have proper runic forges, and the large ore storages are all in the Blacksmith District."

"Do we have any other choice?" Monica asked.

"No."

* * *

Monica and Dworsul made their way back to the Ashen Archive where the Dwarf had them enter another magma channel that led them straight through the same lake of magma that Monica had dived into to evade the Wasps, emerging right beside the marketplace.

"These passages are very handy," Monica commented as she looked toward the ceiling, scanning for Wasps.

"There's not going to be monsters here for two hours," Dworsul said, taking a confident stride forward through the marketplace and right toward the same forge that Monica had used until now.

“How do you know?” she asked, arching a brow.

"I'm the strongest Blacksmith to ever live, Avatar. Stop asking silly questions."

He's unbearable, Monica sighed.

Dworsul examined the forge with a raised eyebrow and then looked at the mountain of discarded daggers on the ground. He picked up one as if it was poisonous, glaring at it and then at Monica.

"I thought you had brought me your worst attempt," Dworsul sighed. "The ore, however, is very pure. Is there a stash of smelted ingots somewhere?"

Now, it was Monica's turn to be smug.

"Well," she said with a smirk, "I guess I do have some talent. There's no ingots. I took one of these." She bent over to take one of the lumps of iron and dirt that she had used to smelt the iron for the daggers. "My Fire Trasmutation Skill isn't just made to create fire. I can use the Golden and Obsidian Flame to refine ore."

"Explain yourself," Dworsul said, incapable of hiding his curiosity.

She decided to show him, instead. So, she summoned a mixture of her Golden and Obsidian Flame, alternating them as she held the lump of ore in front of the Dwarf. The chunk sizzled and cracked, thick impurities blackening and crumbling away. Monica carefully modulated her Vitality expenditure, ensuring the flames didn’t devour the entire piece of iron. The end result was a perfect sphere of pure, glowing metal, free from slag.

Then, only after, she provided an explanation of how her Phoenix Forge Class worked.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"I should have expected something special," Dworsul said to himself, almost angrily. "Avatar, this is a blessing on a scale you cannot even fathom. Smelting is one of the hardest processes a Blacksmith has to learn. Your Divine Skills are perfect for it. Do they work on superior ores as well?"

"I tried them on Mithril but—"

"Foolish," Dworsul sighed. "You are too low-leveled to handle Mithril. Don't give me that face. I would have hammered the head of any Dwarf who wanted to deal in Mithril before reaching Level 200."

"I don't think I have time to level up my Phoenix Forge Class up to Level 200, Dworsul."

"I know," the Dwarf nodded pensively, eyeing her bracers. "But, as we've ascertained, you are a special case. If you used those two flames of yours and a runic forge, you might be able to work with Mithril. Might being the keyword here."

"How?"

"Runic Forging can channel your flames in the right patterns. We can activate the Runes in the Blacksmith District and your Flames, being ascended Skills, should be able to influence Mithril, no matter how low your Attributes."

"Really?!" Monica smiled widely.

"Don't get your hopes up. And let's also not get ahead of ourselves, Avatar. Now, show me this refining process again. But this time, you’ll shape the metal under my supervision—step by step.”

Under Dworsul’s watchful gaze, she hovered her free palm over the ore, letting slivers of Golden and Obsidian Flame spiral together.

* * *

She guided her Vitality into the forging flame, ensuring it wouldn’t run amok. Her Mana Sense painted the metal’s changing structure in her mind.

But then, Dworsul laughed.

"Fire Breathing for the forging, Avatar. Don't just use your Skill."

Gritting her teeth, Monica poured more Fire Mana into the forge’s coals. Instead of letting it run rampant, she used her new Skill to modulate the temperature, exhaling just enough heat to raise the iron to a workable glow. The sphere turned a bright orange, then yellow. Quickly, she lifted it from the forge with a pair of tongs and placed it on the anvil.

“Not too shabby,” Dworsul muttered, arms crossed. “At least you didn’t overcook it this time.”

Dworsul moved in closer, stoic but keenly focused.

“Hammer it. Slowly,” he instructed.

She hammered again and again, each blow forging the iron into a narrower, sharper outline.

But after just a few strokes, she sensed a clumping of Mana gathering near the iron’s midpoint. She hesitated, uncertain how to redistribute it with her next strike—and that moment’s hesitation was enough to ruin the forging flow. Dworsul spotted the error immediately. With startling swiftness, he snatched the half-formed blade from the anvil, glowered at the lumps in the metal, and flung it aside with a clatter.

“Again,” he growled, “and this time, don’t hesitate. The metal’s Mana flow won’t wait for you.”

Monica blew an exasperated breath through her nose but set her jaw. She heated another lump of iron, hammered, tried to sense the rhythms. Again, she fumbled the subtle timing, letting the Mana spike in one section. A single misaligned blow made the entire piece worthless in Dworsul’s eyes. He lobbed it aside, glaring.

“Stop daydreaming,” he snapped.

Annoyance prickled under Monica’s skin. She forced herself to focus, forging another piece with the same care—smoothing out each step, scanning the metal’s Mana signature with Mana Sense. When the swirl of energies threatened to pool, she used a slight exhalation from Fire Breathing to chase them into an even distribution. Then she brought the hammer down in a precisely timed strike, driving the forging heat deeper. Slowly but surely, she felt the dagger’s shape merge with the flow of Mana in a near-seamless way.

* * *

They repeated the process multiple times.

Whenever Dworsul felt something was missing, he would throw the blades aside. He would often tell her wait for the Mana to almost settle after her strikes and to hit it before it starts clotting in one part or the other. But just moments before the right time, Monica would start feeling a rhythm to it, but also often miss a beat and Dworsul would then take the blades, toss them aside and tell Monica to start from scratch.They repeated the process multiple times, Dworsul intervening with gruff corrections. Monica ignored the constant stream of System notifications chiming at the edge of her awareness—her entire focus was on refining her hammer strokes and her Fire Breathing.

Finally, as she was about to strike another blow, Dworsul suddenly grabbed her wrist mid-swing. His expression snapped from intensity to alarm. “Hide,” he ordered in a hushed tone.

Monica’s heart jolted. “Hide? Why—?”

Without waiting for an explanation, the dwarf ducked behind a nearby stall. Alarmed, Monica scrambled behind the forge, pressing herself flat against its warm outer wall.

Then she heard it: the droning buzz of wasp wings. She peered up to see three Corrupted Molten Wasps sweep low across the marketplace, scanning the area.

Only when the buzzing faded did Dworsul emerge. Monica crept out behind him, breath still unsteady.

“They’ll be back in six hours,” he said quietly, brushing off his tunic. The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt.

"You really don't want to tell me how you know this?" Monica asks.

"This is my city, Avatar," Dworsul replies. "I know what's going on here at any moment."

"Dammit, I wish you hadn't stopped me. I was so close—"

Monica saw Dworsul bend to retrieve a perfectly shaped dagger from the anvil and waving it in her face.

"You should learn to make handles, too, but this, Avatar, this is your first good work. Temper it."

Monica blinked, then nodded. She quickly quenched the blade in a basin of water. Steam boiled upward, curling around her arms, but it cooled evenly. When she lifted the dagger, its edge shone with a smooth brilliance that made her smile with cautious pride.

Then, Monica heard the sound of an onslaught of notifications going off in her head.