The clinic door was slightly ajar. Before Xize could step inside, he heard a familiar booming voice.
"Blacksmiths these days have no sense of innovation! If this were ten thousand years ago—" Francis broke off as Ijona glanced toward the door, then followed her gaze. "Uh..."
"Kid, I told you not to come looking for me again," the blacksmith grumbled.
Xize ignored him and offered the priestess a sweet smile. "Sister Ijona, Uncle Francis was just asking me—"
"Mmph!" Francis lunged forward and clamped a hand over the boy's mouth, forcing an awkward grin at the priestess. "This kid loves making up stories. I'll take him outside for a chat—won't disturb your patients."
Under Ijona's gentle gaze, he hoisted the boy and hurried out of the clinic.
"Why'd you follow me here?" Francis set Xize down as soon as they rounded the corner.
The boy responded with an innocent smile and made as if to return to the clinic.
"Wait!" The blacksmith yanked him back by the collar. "What do you want with Ijona?"
"My stomach hurts."
Francis relaxed slightly, only to tense again when the boy added, "And I had a few questions about the history of blacksmithing."
To the blacksmith, Xize's smile suddenly seemed dangerously cunning.
"What do you really want?"
"Teach me blacksmithing."
"No! Wait—" Francis grabbed the boy as he turned to leave. "How about one more try? Last time's test might have been too simple..."
"Deal!" Xize agreed before the blacksmith could change his mind, his eyes curving into cheerful crescents.
Francis stood frozen at the courtyard entrance, his pupils slightly contracting in shock.
Young Xezer was swinging a thirty-kilogram forging hammer, the whooshing gusts of wind sending fallen leaves swirling through the air. Spotting his mentor's dumbfounded expression, the boy nimbly leaped forward, the hammer tracing a graceful arc in his palm. "Am I ready to officially learn forging now?"
"Not... not even close." Suppressing a wave of shame, Francis stubbornly pointed toward a shadowy corner. "An apprentice should start with that one."
Lying quietly in the gloom was an obsidian great hammer. Its dark surface gleamed with a subdued luster, and when upright, it would easily tower over the boy. Judging by the magical runes shimmering across its face, this weapon—inherited from a dwarven master smith—weighed at least a hundred pounds.
Xezer tilted his head back, staring up at the colossal tool. His slender frame seemed all the more fragile in comparison.
"Actually, you could..." Francis's voice trailed off, a flush of embarrassment creeping across his bronzed face. Though his conscience burned with guilt, the burly smith steeled himself and pressed on, determined to avoid future complications.
Without a word, Xezer strode toward the great hammer. As he bent to grip the handle—carved with anti-slip patterns—his knuckles turned white from the strain.
"Up—!"
With a sharp cry, the boy's muscles tensed abruptly. The magically-enhanced hammer quivered slightly before he leveraged his core strength to swing it overhead. But the uncontrollable momentum tore the weapon from his grasp, sending him stumbling backward onto the ground.
The obsidian hammer sliced through the air with a piercing whistle, hurtling straight toward Francis's face.
The smith had been mentally preparing words of consolation, but as he looked up, a dark shadow rushed at him. Instinct took over—his massive, fan-like hand shot out, slapping the hammer aside in a shower of sparks.
"No need to throw a tantrum just because you can't lift it," Francis grumbled, rubbing his stinging wrist.
Xezer's gaze followed the hammer as it crashed into the back chamber, striking the heart of the furnace. With a deafening roar, molten iron burst from the shattered crucible and flooded the room.
"My workshop!" Francis's wail echoed across the courtyard. But when he whipped around to confront the culprit, the boy had already vanished.
Xezer hunched his shoulders as he fled. That roar—woven with fierce affection and bitter regret—reminded him of a bard's impromptu lament. Who knew a man as sturdy as a hill giant could unleash such a soul-shaking cry?
As for the destroyed furnace? The boy's eyes suddenly lit up. In a kingdom with a *Child Protection Decree*, minors might just escape punishment. Still, it'd be wise to avoid the smithy for a while—after all, an enraged "monster" wasn't known for reasoning.
After idling away two days around the forging quarter, a slightly tipsy Xezer returned to the castle at dusk. The bronze gate, engraved with his family's crest, swung open at his approach. The guards saluted in unison, their eyes gleaming with newfound respect.
The magically-reconstructed castle stood transformed. Designed from the boy's blueprints, ancient timber and crystalline rock now formed landscapes that blended defense with elegance. What was once a grim military fortress now hummed with vibrant, magical energy.
When the warriors first received the renovation orders, they'd dismissed it as indulging their young lord's whims. But as construction progressed, they realized the new castle retained its combat readiness while revealing astonishing artistry. Slowly, their gazes toward Xezer began to kindle with hope for the future.
In a world that prized bloodline and legacy, the family's glory shaped every member's destiny. An heir displaying such extraordinary wisdom could undoubtedly lead them to greatness.
Though their living conditions had improved, the warriors trained more relentlessly than ever. Returning home, Xezer spotted Bevis trailing closely behind Maeron, gazing enviously at the soldiers drenched in sweat on the training grounds.
"Take your follower away, please!" Maeron grumbled, tugging at Xezer's sleeve.
Bevis flushed bright red. "But you told me to follow Sir Maeron... The castle is just so vast..." His stammered explanation fractured with nervousness. Whether it was due to that casual slap days before or the imposing aura of this enchanted fortress, he no longer dared underestimate the younger boy.
Xezer finally recalled the offhand arrangement he'd made yesterday. While brainstorming a new forging array, he'd directed their young guest to seek out the steward.
"About where you'll stay..." The boy massaged his temples, deep in thought.
"I've decided!" Bevis suddenly straightened his spine. "I wish to truly follow you—not as some child's game. You may lack Prince Arthur's martial prowess and royal bearing, and you're even a bit..."
Xezer's expression slowly froze. *So... I'm being looked down on?*
Marlon shook his head inwardly—this child truly had no sense of restraint. He glanced worriedly at Bevis. Though unfamiliar with the allusion of "an eye for an eye," he knew full well Xize's temperament.
Out of the corner of his eye, Marlon caught sight of Xize's face and felt a pang of alarm—the boy's cheeks were turning from flushed crimson to ashen gray.
Bevis, completely oblivious to the storm he had stirred, felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. He gazed at Xize with hopeful anticipation, unaware of the predicament awaiting him. His earlier complaints were merely the vanity of youth; had he truly been unwilling, why would he have sought out the castle and obeyed Xize so readily?
Xize paid no mind to the boy's thoughts, finding it utterly unbelievable: How dare someone criticize me to my face? Do they not know my reputation?
"You have my permission to follow me," Xize declared, already scheming: Now that he's under my command, I can mold him as I please.
"I, Bevis Thorne, hereby pledge my loyalty to my lord, Xize Graham. I shall follow you unto death, never to turn away," Bevis proclaimed fervently, dropping to one knee. The oath he had memorized during playful moments had finally found its use.
It was the universal knight's pledge of fealty, requiring only three light taps on the shoulder from the oath-receiver to complete the ritual. Though Bevis was no formal knight, neither cared—one ignorant of the rules, the other having waited for this very moment.
Xize lightly tapped his shoulder three times.
The next instant, Bevis collapsed face-first onto the floor.
"Youth these days—so frail," Xize sighed, shaking his head.
The castle housed two permanent guard units. Lord Barlow had taken one on his campaign, leaving Robert in command of the other. The guard captain was built like a bear, his stern brow radiating unwavering integrity and known for his exacting standards.
Noticing his young lord's signal, Robert halted the drills and strode over, bowing respectfully. "How may I serve?"
"This is my friend Bevis," Xize said, patting the boy's shoulder. "His constitution is lacking. See that you train him thoroughly."
*Thud.* Bevis met the floor once more.
Watching Robert lead the dazed boy away, Xize allowed a satisfied smirk to curl his lips. Regrettably, he had no time to observe the ensuing training session—he and Marlon needed to return to the main keep promptly. Barlow and Debbie had returned.
In the great hall, Marlon rushed to embrace their parents the moment he saw them. Though unaccustomed to such displays of affection, Xize mimicked the gesture, spreading his arms wide. "Father! Mother!"
After the warm greetings, Kelli led Marlon away, leaving Xize's family to converse privately. Debbie pulled Xize into her arms, showering him with endless affectionate words.
"What inspired you to remodel the castle like this?" she asked, still reeling from the shock of their return.
"The library is well-stocked," Xize replied vaguely, but his parents understood immediately. They had long known their son possessed extraordinary mental faculties—since infancy, he could lose himself in books. No doubt these innovations sprang from his readings.
Barlow placed a hand gently over Xize's forehead. A cool, soothing energy flowed into the boy, bringing immense relief. Moments later, the energy receded.
"Time for the medicinal bath," Barlow announced.
Though reluctant, Debbie released her embrace. Any delay would diminish the potency of the rare ingredients. In truth, their bi-monthly hunts for magical beasts were primarily to gather materials for this very bath.
At the center of the bathing chamber stood a stone barrel etched with intricate runes. As Barlow's ring glowed faintly, various herbs materialized above the half-filled hot water. Xize gazed enviously at the spatial ring, prompting a chuckle from his father. "It requires mental energy to operate. You're not ready yet."
The herbs infused the water, filling the room with fragrance. Next, powdered beast bones, blood essence, and unidentified powders were added, transforming the clear liquid into a viscous, blood-like brew. Finally, as seven high-tier elemental magic cores were slotted into the base, Xize thought he heard the agonized shrieks of magical beasts.
The runes lit up in sequence, and the calm surface erupted into a boiling, bubbling cauldron. Magic cores and crystals were essential for mages, accelerating mana recovery and amplifying spell formations.
Staring at the ingredients floating in the crimson liquid, Xize suddenly felt he was looking into a pot of spicy hotpot, with himself as the meat waiting to be cooked.
Stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the barrel with grim determination. The moment he submerged, the emerald staff mark on his nape flared violently, green light surging toward the back of his head. A nearly translucent scepter silhouette trembled in response—faint as mist, yet firmly suppressing the green light's advance.
A torrent of rainbow-colored energy flooded his body, and Xize felt as though his skull would split. The barrel's runes whirled rapidly, drawing power from the seven elemental cores and channeling it into the scepter silhouette. Strengthened, the phantom solidified, its crystal tip gleaming with prismatic light, pressing down on the green staff like a cross-shaped seal.
Savage elemental forces rampaged through his limbs and meridians, turning Xize as red as a boiled lobster. But long accustomed to this torment, he endured in silence, as if his body belonged to another.
Only when the liquid lost its color and the magic cores crumbled to dust did Xize rise and dress. As he reached for the door, hushed voices from beyond made him pause.
"It's worsening again," Barlow's voice was grave.
Debbie sounded anxious. "Is there truly nothing to be done?"
"It's a cursed staff of divine artifact level, sealed with a Grand Archmage's life sacrifice..."
"If the Holy Scepter hadn't been damaged..."
"So... I really am ill," Xize murmured to himself.
An autumn breeze whispered through the forest, rustling the gnarled branches of ancient trees. Their bark cracked like dragon scales, while withered leaves spiraled downward, slicing the sunlight into shimmering flecks of gold that dappled the crude wooden cabin nestled among them.
"I've contracted a strange illness."
Xize pushed open the creaking wooden door, his gaze settling on the white-bearded elder inside.