Chapter 372. A Death Sentence Wrapped in Pretty Metal

The weeks that followed dissolved into a grueling but familiar rhythm at the academy. For William, time became measured not by days, but by the increasingly complex visits to Grock’s forge.

He became a silent witness to a different kind of warfare, one fought not with blades, but with hammers, anvils, and raw, stubborn will.

He watched Grock pour the same meticulous, almost obsessive care into this project that he had once poured into Aetherion itself, treating every failure not as a setback, but as a personal insult from the metal.

During one particularly sweltering afternoon, the forge smelled of sulfur and burnt oil. Grock beckoned William closer, holding up a thin, gossamer fine sheet of metal that seemed to pulse with an unnatural light.

"Mana conductive alloy," Grock grunted, his voice thick with exhaustion but edged with something approaching reverence.

The silvery material shimmered faintly in the dim, amber light of the workshop, casting dancing reflections across Grock’s sweat-streaked face. "I’ve layered it beneath the primary striking surface."

"It’s delicate work; one wrong strike with the hammer and the entire lattice shatters like glass!"

"But when it’s done..." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he imagined the potential. "Someday, when she’s learned to channel her mana with precision, she won’t just be hitting things with metal."

"She’ll be channeling raw energy straight through her knuckles!"

"She’ll become the blade itself! No steel between her and the target!"

William reached out, gingerly taking the sheet. It felt impossibly light, almost as if it wanted to float away.

"That’s genuinely remarkable, Grock."

"The conductivity alone"

"It’s genuinely difficult," Grock cut him off, his tone sharp but laced with unmistakable satisfaction. "Getting the conductive layer to bond to the impact-resistant core without causing the whole structure to delaminate under stress... that took me seven days of hell!"

"Seven days of watching beautiful work crack and splinter under the slightest pressure as well because most smiths would have seen that failure, cursed their luck, and settled for a compromise something that works eighty percent of the time."

"But eighty percent gets people killed." He slammed a fist against his chest. "I don’t settle for compromises when the material shows this much promise."

William saw what he meant. More than once, he had arrived to find the forge in a state of controlled chaos.

Grock would be in the throes of a productive, muttering fury, his face flushed crimson. William would watch from the shadows as the dwarf would snatch up a nearly completed gauntlet, examine it for three seconds, and then with an irritated, guttural grunt toss it aside like common refuse.

"This one’s wrong!" Grock roared during another visit, the sound echoing off the stone ceiling.

He held up a gauntlet that looked almost perfect to the untrained eye, but his thick fingers traced its surface with a critical, angry scowl. "The balance is fucked."

"The weight distribution is garbage!"

"Too much mass concentrated in the wrist joint—it’ll throw her entire swing off by three degrees!"

"Three degrees is the difference between breaking a rib and shattering a skull."

With an unceremonious flick of his wrist, Grock hurled the prototype across the room. It landed with a hollow clang atop a growing mountain of discarded failures in the corner, a twisted graveyard of steel and leather that William realized now contained at least half a dozen attempts.

"Back to the furnace," Grock growled, already reaching for fresh ingots.

William glanced at the pile, a genuine sense of awe mingling with concern. "How many attempts is that now?"

"You’ve been at this for weeks, and you’re still throwing them away."

Grock didn’t even pause to look up. The rhythmic clink, clink, clink of his hammer began again, relentless and steady.

"Doesn’t matter if it’s forty or four hundred," he said gruffly, the heat from the forge making his words vibrate. "A weapon that fails its wielder at the moment their life is on the line is worse than no weapon at all!"

"It’s a death sentence wrapped in pretty metal!"

"I won’t send anything out of this forge that I’m not willing to trust with my own damn life."

On another visit, the forge was quieter than usual, the air thick with the acrid smell of rare minerals and the low hum of magical residue.

William found Grock hunched over a small, glowing crucible, his face illuminated by an eerie purple light. The dwarf was measuring out precise quantities of a dark, glittering ore that seemed to writhe like living shadows beneath the surface.

His hands, usually scarred and calloused, moved with the delicate precision of a surgeon.

"Ratio’s got to be exact," Grock muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper.

He didn’t even glance up as William approached. "Too much of the heavier alloy and the gauntlet becomes sluggish, turning her into a slow-moving target."

"It would kill the very thing that makes her dangerous: that explosive, terrifying speed."

"But too little, and the first time she connects with something solid, the feedback will shatter her wrist bones like dry kindling."

"It’s a narrow window between perfect protection and lethal incompetence. And I intend to hit it precisely."

William watched the dwarf work, mesmerized by the intensity. "You could probably charge triple what you’re charging for this kind of precision, Grock."

"This isn’t blacksmithing anymore; it’s alchemy."

Grock let out a dismissive grunt, the sound echoing hollowly in the forge. "Money’s not the point! And it never has been."

"Most smiths work to fill their bellies; I work to prove something exists!"

"The point is building something that actually deserves to exist—something worth the damn metal it’s forged from." He paused, the purple glow reflecting in his eyes, and for a fleeting second, something almost wistful crossed his weathered face. "I don’t get commissions like this often anymore!"

"Most people want something shiny to hang on a wall to impress their neighbors. But this? This is going to matter out there!"

"This is going to be the difference between a girl living through a massacre or becoming part of one! That’s worth every sleepless hour!"

William said nothing, simply nodding. He recognized that fire.

It was the same relentless, uncompromising pursuit of perfection he had seen in every master he had encountered across two lifetimes.

It was during one of those long, suspended weeks of waiting that the academy’s atmosphere finally shifted. Lia returned, but she wasn’t alone.

Word had spread through the academy that Catherine had sent for Ellie and Clara, insisting they come to the academy grounds to properly welcome Lia home.

The three women had been inseparable in spirit, and Catherine knew that Lia’s return deserved more than just a quiet conversation; it deserved a reunion.

Lia arrived looking pleasantly exhausted. It wasn’t the hollow, drained fatigue of someone broken by hardship, but the satisfied, bone-deep weariness of someone who had been tested and found worthy.

Her travel bag was slung over one shoulder, and she clutched a small, carefully wrapped bundle beneath her arm like a treasure.

The moment she crossed the courtyard, Ellie and Clara spotted her.

"Lia!" Clara cried out, her voice ringing across the cobblestones.

Both girls abandoned whatever they were doing, rushing across the courtyard with matching expressions of delighted triumph.

"How was it?" Clara asked breathlessly, nearly tripping over her own feet as she reached Lia.

Before Lia could even answer, Clara was already fumbling for her journal, her eyes bright with hunger for every detail, every scrap of military gossip, every new protocol.

"Overwhelming, in a good way," Lia admitted, letting out a long sigh as she sank onto a stone bench near the training grounds.

She stretched her legs out, the relief evident in the way her shoulders finally dropped. "There’s considerably more involved in joining an elite military unit than I anticipated."

"It’s not all glory and steel... There’s a mountain of administrative paperwork that seems to follow you like a curse, endless orientation meetings, and formal introductions to the entire command structure."

"That sounds... official," Ellie said warmly, settling down beside her with a smile that could melt winter snow. "Like you’re already part of something bigger."

"I am," Lia said, and as she spoke, a quiet, fierce pride settled into her expression. "It’s strange, being taken seriously as a future officer rather than just another student who might fail a test."

"Commander Ardyn introduced me personally to nearly a dozen squadmates, real soldiers, Ellie."

"And the strangest thing was... they didn’t treat me like a trainee."

"They didn’t look at me like some kid playing soldier... They treated me like I’d already earned my place in the formation."

Ellie leaned forward, her voice firm and unwavering. "Because you did earn it."

"You didn’t just pass some test; you beat Ardyn herself! We all saw it... well, almost everyone in the academy saw it!"

Lia smiled softly, looking down at her hands. "I remember."

"I remember the sound of the impact, the way the air seemed to leave the room when I landed that last blow." A distant look entered her eyes. "It still feels somewhat unreal, though."

"Like I’m still waiting for someone to tell me I’m in the wrong place."