A few days later, Mira called Lucien to her office. She stood by the large window, sunlight catching the red waves of her hair as she turned toward him.
"I have to leave for a while," she said. "The guild received a call from the northern regions. Another Rift opened near Lille. It's bad."
Lucien nodded. "I see."
"You can stay here as long as you need," she continued, her tone softening. "Use the forge whenever you wish. There's enough material for months."
Then, with a small smile, she added, "Just don't burn down the courtyard."
Lucien gave a faint smile in return, though it faded quickly. "Safe travels, Mira de Beaumont."
She tilted her head. "Mira is fine."
And with that, she left, her guild following her out of the manor gates.
The days that followed were silent.
Lucien spent most of his time in the forge, the rhythmic sound of hammer against steel echoing through the courtyard. Each strike brought clarity, focus, and memory. His body moved instinctively, guided by years of battle and something deeper—a craftsman's intuition awakening for the first time.
The System occasionally flickered before his eyes, glowing faintly in the heat of the forge.
[Class Level Up]
Blacksmith – Level 2
New Skill Unlocked: Appraisal
Allows the user to evaluate the properties of metals, weapons, and armor.
He tested it immediately, focusing on a piece of glowing steel. A small window appeared:
Refined Iron (Common) – Moderate Durability. Imperfect Structure.
Lucien smiled slightly. For the first time since his arrival, something made sense.
Days passed, then a week.
The forge became his sanctuary. He worked through the nights, shaping, melting, reforging—searching for the perfect form. Eventually, he began what he had long delayed: the creation of a Templar's sword.
As the blade took shape, his thoughts drifted to the past. To the brothers who had fallen beside him at Jerusalem. To the light that had vanished behind the Rift.
Each strike of the hammer was a prayer.
Each spark that flew was a memory.
He worked until his hands trembled and his arms ached. When the blade finally cooled, he set the hammer down and exhaled.
It was not yet perfect, but it was his.
Later, while resting, Lucien turned on the tablet Mira had given him. News broadcasts filled the screen—images of Hunters, guilds, and collapsing Rifts across the world. The headlines spoke of danger, destruction, and heroes.
Then, a live feed caught his attention.
Guild "Blades of Lyon" enters a B-class Dungeon near Calais. Mira de Beaumont leads the assault.
The camera followed her as she strode through the ruined streets, her green eyes cold and focused. When monsters charged, she raised her weapon—a long, slender firearm, polished and engraved.
A musket, Lucien thought. He read about it on the internet it's an old weapon for this era.
But when she fired, it was no musket. The shot tore through the creature's chest and erased it from existence, light swallowing everything in its path.
The reporter's voice trembled with awe.
"Once again, Mira de Beaumont proves why she is one of France's five SS-class Hunters."
Lucien watched until the feed ended. His reflection flickered on the darkened screen, sweat and ash still clinging to his face.
"The difference between us," he whispered.
For a moment, doubt lingered. But then he turned toward the forge, where the unfinished blade waited.
He picked it up and ran his hand along the cold steel.
"No," he said quietly. "Not yet."
He set the sword back on the anvil and began again.
When dawn came, the first light touched the blade's surface, and Lucien smiled.
His first true sword was complete.
It was time to test it.
Lucien stared at his reflection one last time before leaving the forge. His hair was still damp from the heat, and streaks of soot darkened his jaw. The sword hung across his back, its polished surface catching the faint light of dawn.
He walked back to his room and opened the chest hidden beneath his bed. Inside lay the remains of his old armor—what little had survived the last battle.
The right pauldron. The bracer.
That was all.
He fastened them carefully, the sound of metal clicking into place echoing in the quiet room. Then he pulled a dark cloak over his shoulders, the hood shadowing his face and the gleam of his blade.
On the table, the smartphone Mira had given him blinked to life. He had learned enough to use it, and within moments he found what he needed:
Nearest Rift – E-Class – 5 kilometers north of Lyon City.
Lucien slipped the device into his cloak and left the manor without a word.
The sky was overcast when he reached the Rift.
A swirling portal of dark light hung above the cracked asphalt, pulsing like a heartbeat. Around it stood a small security post and a few guards in black uniforms, weapons slung at their sides.
Lucien approached silently.
One of the guards looked up. "Hunter ID, please."
Lucien handed him the card he had received only days before. The man scanned it and frowned.
"E-Class? Are you sure you want to go in alone? Even for a beginner Rift, solo runs can—"
Lucien met his gaze without speaking.
His eyes, dark and steady, said enough.
The guard hesitated, then sighed. "All right. Entry authorized. Be careful in there."
Lucien gave a brief nod and walked toward the Rift.
He stopped a few steps from the swirling portal.
The air trembled around him, humming with energy.
Slowly, he knelt.
He planted the tip of his sword into the ground and pressed his forehead against the guard of the blade. The world faded around him as he whispered a prayer—not to the System, nor to any god of this new world, but to the brothers he had lost beyond the Rift of Jerusalem.
"Guide my hand," he murmured. "As you always did."
When he rose, his expression was calm. Determined.
He looked at the Rift.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward and vanished into the light.