Chapter 630: The Legendary Blacksmith [Part 1]
Even amongst the strength and energy-demanding non-combative courses, blacksmithing was different. The strength and power it demanded and built up in its practitioners placed them on a different stratum.
Of course, in the end, talent comes to play a mammoth role in who ultimately is stronger. But no students overcome their physical limits more than blacksmiths.
Blacksmithing was more than just swinging a hammer or enduring endless hours in the heat of a forge.
It was an art form that demanded precision, endurance, and the perfect synergy of strength and control.
To master it, one's body had to become a machine in itself a finely tuned construct of muscle, bone, and resilience.
Not just brute force, but tempered power, capable of explosive bursts without wasting an ounce of energy.
This was why, as Northern stood amidst the roaring furnaces and glowing embers, the forgemasters' eyes swept over him with a peculiar intensity.
They weren't admiring bulk or size; they were measuring potential.
His frame, lean yet impossibly taut, radiated a strength that defied convention. His muscles, coiled and compact, didn't boast the oversized girth of most blacksmiths but instead held a subtle sharpness, as though every fiber had been refined under pressure.
It was a body built for efficiency, for speed and precision.
Each movement he made seemed purposeful, the alignment of his form betraying a natural affinity for the rhythm of the forge.
The forgemasters exchanged knowing glances, recognizing something extraordinary- Northern's body could not be ordinary. It seemed like it had been forged deliberately by something, only that they couldn't tell what it was or how it had come to be.
"You've got the makings of a blacksmith," one of them-the brunette-haired one-said finally, his voice gruff with admiration.
"But not like the rest of us. Your muscles-" his hand gestured vaguely, as if words failed him, "—they're like tempered steel. Stronger, sharper... different."
The other forgemaster grinned, his eyes narrowing as he studied Northern's posture. "If you take up the craft, boy, your body'll change even more. Blacksmithing doesn't just demand strength-it reshapes you. Refines you. But with a foundation like yours...." He trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief. "You won't just forge weapons; you'll forge yourself into something we've never seen before."
Northern shifted under their scrutiny, feeling the weight of their words settle over him. He could sense it in their tone: awe, curiosity, and maybe even a hint of envy.
"Lean strength," one of them muttered, almost to himself. "It's rare. Most of us had to build it the hard way, hammer blow by hammer blow, till we turned into walking anvils. But you-" his gaze sharpened, "-you're already there. All you need is the forge to finish the job."
Northern said nothing; he just stood there expressionless and thought for a moment.
'Could this be caused by the fact that Void changed my body? Perhaps this may be the best time to test the limit of my body and forge it into something even more vile.'
Northern flashed a small smile and looked at both forgemasters.
But there was a problem. These two wanted him to choose. No. He didn't want to.
He stared at them intently, and at the same time, their gazes gripped their balls firmly, waiting for his decision.
"I'd like to learn from both of you and if possible the head forgemaster too."
"Huh?" The grey-haired forgemaster growled, his eyes viciously burning with a faint pale light like fire that had been so much tempered and lost its orange light, transforming into something tender, insidious, and unhurriedly destructive.
"Boy, how dare you? You might have a gifted body but your manners are a disappointment. Do you know who we are? We are the best in this entire continent. Weapons forged by Santhik here alone are sought and pursued by even the best of drifters out there. Not to speak of me, the great Ironwill. And then the head forgemaster, who hails from the divine lineage of Embervein."
"Hey, you bastard, why do you speak of me like I'm some second-rated guy..." The grey- bearded blacksmith groaned, glaring grudgingly at Ironwill.
"That's not the point here. The point is this boy certainly does not know our greatness and takes us for granted because of his gifted body. Isn't that nettling?"
"Hmmpph, hmph, you are right. He certainly is full of pride. It won't do."
Northern exhaled. "In the end... your weapons are mundane weapons, and are outdone by item weapons harvested from slain monsters. According to my research, only one blacksmith has ever been able to repair items. Since then, no one has ever been able to. Doesn't that make all of you second-rated?
"You all stand here before me, chanting about how great you are, but you don't even measure up to one single person who has lived and carved a path that many should have surpassed a long time ago. Don't speak to me about manners and pride."
A melancholic glint ignited in Northern's eyes, and he pointed to both of them.
"Certainly, neither of you deserves to be my teacher."
The entire workshop fell dead silent again.
The two of them gritted their teeth, their faces folding darkly as their fists clenched with veins almost popping out on their hands.
"How dare you talk down on the two continental greatest blacksmiths," Ironwill marched forward with palpable burning wrath.
But he stopped midway as he saw someone enter the smithy. They each gulped as the person, steps as light as a feather, drew closer to Northern.
The figure's crimson hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, flared like a banner of war with every subtle movement, the stray strands framing a face that spoke of both fire and mischief.
A white headband cut across their brow, soaked with the sweat of their labor, yet unyielding -just like its wearer.
"Oh? So what are you implying... freshman."
Northern turned around as an accent that strangely reflected the nature of this environment
reached his ears.
"...are you saying the forgemaster's incompetent?"
Compared to the confidence that radiated from her like the heat of the forge, her voice was surprisingly warm like a crackling ember that had not gone out.
Northern tilted his head slightly. "If they feel that what they are right now is the best of them, then you took the word right out of my mouth."
Northern's gaze did not falter, not even a tad bit. He glared into the woman's eyes with a cold, indifferent light burning in his deep gaze.
Suddenly the girl beamed and began to cackle with a loud laughter that resonated across the
gravely silent workshop.
Her trembling shoulders slowly came to a stop as she finished laughing. And then she looked
at the forgemasters who were standing behind Northern.
"See, this is what I'm always telling you. You guys are so incompetent it irks me. Certainly
this boy sees it."