Arthur considered the question carefully. "The best toolmaker is one who can craft sacred artifacts."
Charles chuckled, amusement flickering in his tired eyes. "Sacred artifacts, huh? And what do you think they're made from?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. "The best materials, of course."
Charles shook his head, raising his prosthetic finger. "That makes you a specialist, not a master."
"The best toolmaker—one worthy of the title—can create sacred artifacts from the most ordinary materials."
Arthur blinked. "Ordinary materials?"
Charles leaned back slightly, his voice growing softer. "It's not about what you have—it's about what you can make of it."
Arthur stared at him, momentarily thrown. His father rarely spoke this much. In fact, this was the longest conversation they'd ever had.
Charles glanced at Arthur before pointing to a roughly 30-centimeter block of iron resting on the far side of the room.
"If you want to be a toolmaker, hammer this block a thousand times. Only then are you qualified."
Arthur's mind raced. This isn't pure steel—just common, impure iron. But yesterday's delivery told a different story. There's real treasure hidden in these chunks.
Charles, already drifting toward sleep, shrugged. "You can still change your mind."
Arthur's response was firm. "No. I want to try."
Charles studied him for a long moment before nodding.
Without another word, he hefted the iron block and placed it by the bellows, stoking the coal fire until it roared to life. Then, he turned and disappeared into the inner room to sleep.
Arthur inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames.
The heat of the forge wrapped around him, a reminder of the fire he had once endured. His mind flickered to the excruciating ordeal of forcing the god's genes into his body—a process that had burned his skin and scorched his bones.
The memory of the volcano's oppressive heat, of his body wracked with violent convulsions as foreign power coursed through him, was a sharp, distant echo. But that chapter was behind him now.
Lighting the charcoal and pumping the bellows, he watched the iron slowly heat, its dull surface turning red-hot beneath the flame.
"Listen," he told himself, gripping the long-handled hammer, "the laws of thermodynamics are simple—energy must be transferred. Every strike today is a lesson in physics."
The hammer was taller than him, but as he lifted it, his body responded with ease, empowered by the Scarlet Eclipse Technique.
Then, he swung.
A thunderous clang echoed through the forge, the vibration shuddering up his arms. Again. And again. Each strike rang out like a war drum, the rhythm of his ascent.
In the inner room, Charles stirred, half-awake. "He can lift the hammer…?" he muttered.
"Was he born with superhuman strength…?"
Outside, the relentless pounding continued.
...
From that day on, Charles gave Arthur his own furnace. No instructions. No praise—just quiet acknowledgment. But the change was undeniable.
Charles drank less. The family's meals grew more plentiful.
The clang of the hammer echoed in Arthur's ears long after the rhythm of his strikes had slowed.
Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop. The iron was nearly shaped now, its surface smooth and gleaming in the firelight. His chest heaved with each breath, but there was something more than exhaustion, more than pain.
"I'm not just making this iron stronger," he murmured, his grip tightening around the hammer.
"I'm strengthening myself."
A brief pause. The forge's heat had become a dull hum in the background.
Arthur let the hammer rest against the anvil, staring at the block of iron. In the silence, his thoughts drifted.
"Genovia." He felt the weight of the word settle in his chest. A continent split between two great empires. He lived in the Shining Rune Empire, a land that boasted wonders far beyond any simple forge.
Yet, even as he labored here, far from the bustling cities of the Empire, the world beyond seemed to tug at his mind.
To the north lay the Solar Rune Empire and between them stretched Solvora Territory.
Runewood Village, where he had grown up, was a mere speck on the map—500 kilometers from Solgard City, a place whose grandeur now felt so distant.
His father's words echoed in his mind: 'It's not about what you have—it's about what you can make of it.'
...
At a hundred strikes, the iron had barely heated.
Each strike drained him, but by drawing upon the Scarlet Eclipse Technique, he pushed past exhaustion.
It wasn't just about muscle; it was willpower, tempered like steel.
At three hundred strikes, its surface began to purify.
At seven hundred, impurities burned away, leaving behind something stronger. The block had shrunk to less than a third of its original size.
Meanwhile, Arthur's body had hardened, his endurance stretched to new limits.
Charles watched in silence, his gaze lingering on Arthur's relentless strikes.
'I never imagined he'd last a day with that hammer in hand.'
Meanwhile, Arthur's mind raced.
'By now, my palms should be raw—blisters, abrasions, the laws of friction taking their due. And yet… nothing.'
Then, the answer clicked.
Beneath the calloused surface of his hands, the truth lay hidden: 'The Infernal Palm.'
This technique not only hardened his skin beyond human limits, but also shielded him from pain, heat, and impact. Even the relentless hammering failed to leave a mark.
At sunrise, his vision sharpened.
In that fleeting moment, Hell's Vision reached its peak, revealing details unseen by ordinary eyes.
His training had taught him the full extent of his abilities—Infernal Palm didn't just harden his body. It repelled poisons, nullified hidden threats, even deflected soul attacks.
'I have now somewhat mastered the Demon's Grasp,' he thought, gripping the hammer tighter.
He swung again. And again.
Each strike reverberated through the forge, steady and unyielding. Yet beneath the rhythm of his labor, something restless stirred within him.
"This village… it's just a speck in the world," he reflected.
In this world, every person is born with a unique gene, passed down like a family heirloom.
And these genes fall into two categories: Metal Genes and Wild Genes.
Metal Genes manifest as gears, weapons, or tools—iron, forged into power.
Wild Genes, however, manifest as animals… or something more mysterious.
He remembered a villager whose Gene had taken the shape of a simple kitchen knife—useless in battle, but mysteriously enhancing his hand speed when cutting food.
A spark of curiosity ignited in Arthur's mind.
'I need to know what my gene is.'
'Metal or wild—it doesn't matter,' he thought. 'What matters is whether it can be trained.'
As he hammered away, his thoughts hardened into resolve.
'I'm not drawn to the path of a Runic—the noblest profession in this world—but if I can uncover the power within me, I can forge my own path with clarity.'