The rhythmic clank-clank-clank of an iron hammer hitting an anvil echoed down the narrow, muddy alley of Rin. Julius stood right outside the heavy wooden frame of a dusty forge, his white mask catching the amber glow of the furnace.
He didn't walk in immediately. Instead, he observed the blacksmith—a gruff, heavily scarred dwarf named Troval, who was currently cursing at a warped broadsword.
Trope analysis: The underappreciated local blacksmith, Julius thought behind his mask, a slow grin forming.
In 80% of fantasy stories, local smiths are sitting on rare, prototype weapons that fail standard magical conductivity tests because the native mages use the wrong logic.
Time to exploit the system.
Julius stepped into the heat of the forge, his midnight-dark trench-cloak sweeping across the soot-covered floorboards.
"I don't have time for tourists, young man," Troval grunted without looking up, wiping sweat from his brow. "If you want a standard iron blade, the rack is outside. Three Aurelion gold."
"I am not looking for a toy, Master Smith," Julius said, his voice carrying a deliberate, hollow resonance behind the porcelain structure.
He pointed a slender finger toward the absolute back of the workshop, where a pitch-black, irregular chunk of metal sat rusting under a pile of discarded coal.
"I want the failed experiment."Troval stopped his hammer mid-air. He turned, his squinted eyes fixing on the stark white visage of the masked teenager. "How do you know about that?"
"It's Abyssal Iron, isn't it?" Julius lied smoothly, blending a scientific guess with absolute confidence. "You tried to forge a blade with it, but every time a mage tries to coat it in fire or light spells, the mana simply vanishes. The local guild called it 'un-enchantable trash' and refused to buy it."
Troval's jaw dropped slightly. He set his hammer down with a heavy thud. "Aye... the high-and-mighty court wizards said the metal has a 'broken core.' It completely eats any magical circle drawn onto it. It's a sponge that absorbs light but outputs nothing. It's useless."
"Useless to a native who relies on rigid magic formulas," Julius countered.
He stepped closer, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his last asset—a pure, unrefined beast stone he had secretly carved from the throat of the Ursine warrior before faking his death.
"I will trade you this high-grade monster core. In exchange, you will forge that dark metal into a sleek, single-edged straight blade. No runes. No flashy guard. Just a raw, light-absorbing edge."
Troval stared at the glowing beast stone, then at the mysterious white mask. The smith's pride was pricked.
"A raw edge? No enchantments? You're mad. It won't hold a standard spell."
"Just forge it," Julius whispered, tossing the core onto the anvil. "And leave the rest to me."
Three hours later, Julius left the forge holding a weapon that looked less like a sword and more like a physical tear in reality. The blade was entirely matte black, casting absolutely zero reflection even when the noon sun hit it. It was heavy, but balanced perfectly for a high-speed draw.
He tucked the sheathed weapon under his dark cloak and made his way to the rougher side of town, where a wooden sign featuring a cracked skull marked the entrance to the Rogue's Guild.
Unlike the prestigious Grand Adventurer's Guild in the royal capital, this place didn't care about royal decrees or imperial draft papers. It smelled of stale ale, tobacco, and blood.
Julius walked straight to the wooden counter. The receptionist was a sharp-eyed woman with a scar across her cheek, casually sharpening a dagger.
"No identification papers," Julius said plainly before she could speak, resting his hand on the counter. "I want a basic registration."
The woman looked up, her eyes lingering on the pristine, white mask. A few mercenaries in the back stopped drinking, their hands drifting toward their weapons.
"No papers means you take the entrance test," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "We don't let imperial spies or weaklings slide through. Walk into the back arena. If you can survive three minutes against the Guild Examiner, you get your token. If you bleed out, we keep your cloak."
"Fair enough," Julius replied, his heart racing with an addictive mix of anxiety and sheer excitement.
The back arena was a sunken, circular pit made of cracked stone. Standing in the center was a massive, scarred brawler wearing leather armor, twirling a pair of spiked iron knuckles.
"Alright kid!" the examiner laughed, baring yellowed teeth. "Let's see what's under that pretty white mask!"
The moment the bell rang, the brawler lunged forward with explosive speed. Julius didn't panic. He's an Agility-Brawler build, Julius analyzed. Verypredictable.
The brawler threw a heavy right hook. Julius didn't bother using his physical strength to block. Instead, he utilized his newly discovered method. He cast his low-tier Friction [LV 2] spell chantlessly, directing the kinetic heat directly onto the bottom of his own leather boots.
The sudden burst of heat created a micro-explosion of thermal energy against the stone floor, acting like a rocket booster. Julius didn't just dodge—he literally glided backward across the sand at a speed that defied the world's physical constraints.
"What the—" the brawler gasped, his punch hitting empty air.
Before the man could recover, Julius closed the distance. He didn't draw his new black sword; he kept it sheathed, using the heavy iron pommel to strike the brawler directly in the solar plexus. Simultaneously, he funneled raw, compressed mana through his left palm, triggering a secondary kinetic shockwave.
BOOM.
The heavy brawler was lifted completely off his feet, crashing hard into the stone wall of the pit, gasping for air as his stamina bar bottomed out. He didn't get back up.
The arena went dead silent. The receptionist, watching from the wooden overlook, slowly stopped sharpening her dagger.
"I've never seen anyone fight like that before," she murmured, a twisted grin appearing on her face. "You pass."
Julius walked back up the wooden steps, his breathing entirely steady under his white mask. The receptionist pulled out a blank, obsidian-carved guild token and a bottle of dark ink.
"Name?" she asked, her pen hovering over the parchment.
Julius thought for a while before he answered.
"Vantablade"
She paused, then scratched the letters into the book.
"Class or specialties? Anything else?"
"Magic Swordsive versatility," Julius responded, deliberately misleading her with vague terminology. "I use whatever gets the job done."
She handed him the obsidian token.
"Welcome to the Underworld, Vantablade. Your first mandatory assignment to validate your rank is the Gloom-Weaver Labyrinth just outside the eastern valley. It's an uncharted F-Rank dungeon filled with Cave Stalkers. You must go alone."
Julius snatching the token and left.
The entrance to the Gloom-Weaver Labyrinth was a jagged fissure in the side of a moss-covered mountain, completely hidden by thick briars. The air radiating from the cave was freezing, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of raw, unrefined dungeon mana.
Julius stepped into the cavern, the light of the outside world slowly dying behind him. He didn't light a torch. Instead, he pulled his new black sword from its sheath.
The darkness of the cave seemed to stretch out, but the moment the blade was exposed, an incredible interaction occurred. Because the dwarf's failed metal absorbed all light, the minor ambient luminescent moss on the cave walls seemed to dim, funneling their light particles directly into the matte-black edge.
To any monster looking at him, Julius was completely invisible from the neck down—his dark cloak and light-absorbing sword blended seamlessly into the void. Only a sharp, terrifying white mask appeared to float effortlessly through the subterranean dark.
Sreeeech!
A low, clicking sound echoed from the ceiling. A Cave Stalker—a mutated, four-legged arachnid monster with razor-sharp mandibles—dropped from the shadows, aiming straight for the floating white mask.
Julius's eyes narrowed behind the porcelain slits.
This is it, he thought, his blood pumping with cold, calculated precision.
"My first real solo grind. Let's see how much experience this system gives me."
He held the pitch-black hilt with both hands, his mind already formulating a brand-new spell-sword synergy to test on the beast.