"Charles, are you busy?" A firm voice cut through the steady rhythm of Arthur's hammering.
Arthur paused mid-strike, turning toward the entrance. Outside stood Benjamin—Runewood Village's elder.
Dressed immaculately, his calm, authoritative presence stood in stark contrast to Charles's rugged, indifferent demeanor.
"Arthur, come here."
"Let Grandpa take a look at you," Benjamin called, his voice warm yet insistent.
Arthur stepped forward and saluted respectfully. "Grandpa Benjie, hello."
Charles barely spared them a glance. "I'm busy, village elder," he muttered, his tone clipped as he worked.
Benjamin shook his head, a gentle but firm expression crossing his face. "Arthur is six now. He should attend this year's Gene Activation Ceremony."
Charles cast a glance at his son, expression unreadable. "Then go. When is it?"
"In five days," Benjamin replied, his tone firm yet laced with care, as though Charles's involvement might only complicate things.
Arthur's curiosity stirred. "Grandpa, what exactly happens at the Gene Activation Ceremony?"
Benjamin leaned in slightly, his voice measured, carrying the weight of tradition.
"Every person is born with a gene—an inheritance of potential, unique to them."
"At six, during the Ceremony, that gene awakens. Even an ordinary gene can enhance your abilities. But if you are blessed with an exceptional one, you can train further… perhaps even become a Runic, a Master of Runes."
Benjamin paused, his voice softening with admiration. "Each year, a lord attendant from Solgard City's Runic Sub-Shrine oversees the awakening. That attendant is a true Master of Runes."
At the mention of a Master of Runes, reverence softened Benjamin's features—respect, maybe even longing, for the power such a title carried.
"Grandpa Benjie, what does 'Master of Runes' really mean?" Arthur asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.
Benjamin smiled patiently. "A Master of Runes is a high-ranking Runic—one of the most respected professions in this world. Everyone awakens their Gene at six, and with it, their Rune Force."
"At first, you're a Rune Scholar. But if your Gene is trainable, and you cultivate the Rune Force to the peak of Tier One, you become a Rune Practitioner, entering Tier Two."
He paused again, glancing at Arthur to ensure he was following. "After Rune Scholar and Practitioner comes Master of Runes, then Rune Seer, Rune Sage, King of Runes, Emperor of Runes, Rune Monarch… and beyond that, the Runic Sovereign and Runic Titan—the pinnacle of power."
Arthur's mind swirled with images of those grand titles—each one a step toward something unimaginable.
He spoke without thinking, "That's… quite a climb."
Benjamin's smile deepened. "Yes, and it's one many have failed to reach. But there's potential in everyone, Arthur. And you're no different."
"Hundreds of years ago," Benjamin added quietly, "Runewood Village produced a Rune Monarch. That is a rarity, even in all of Solgard City, perhaps even the entire Solvora Territory."
A scoff came from nearby.
"That's just a legend," Charles muttered, barely looking up from his work. "Nothing more."
Benjamin's expression darkened. "A legend? It's history, Charles."
"You've lived here for six years—you should know by now that the Rune Monarch was real. If you insult him again, I'll personally see to it that you're banished from the village."
"And trust me—if not for Arthur, I'd have no reason to step foot in this doghouse of yours."
Charles grunted in response, hammering a heated bar of iron as if Benjamin's words were nothing but passing wind.
Benjamin's gaze softened as he turned back to Arthur. "You have potential, Arthur. Don't waste it."
With that, he turned on his heel and left, still bristling with irritation.
....
Later that night, after dinner, Charles wiped his mouth and rose from his seat, ready to leave as usual—to drink the cheapest ale he could find.
"Dad."
"Wait a moment," Arthur said, not bothering to clear the dishes still on the table.
Charles halted, impatience flickering across his face. "What?" he snapped, his tone sharp.
Arthur hesitated before speaking, his voice steady but filled with determination. "I've completed the thousand blows."
For the first time in years, Charles's eyes brightened with something other than fatigue. "Fetch it for me."
Arthur nodded and hurried back to the forge. He returned with a chunk of iron.
The once crude mass had been refined into something dense and polished—its surface pitch black, yet gleaming with an inner light.
It was barely a quarter of its original size, yet in Arthur's hands, supported by his Scarlet Eclipse Technique, it felt weightless.
Charles took the metal, running his prosthetic fingers over its surface, inspecting every imperfection. "Do you understand now?"
Arthur nodded slowly. "When metal is forged continuously, even low-quality iron can be refined into high-grade steel. That's the principle, isn't it, Dad?"
Charles was silent for a moment. His eyes lingered on the piece of iron as if searching for a flaw.
He had expected Arthur to struggle, to give up, maybe even to fail. But here he stood—strong, steady, and also understanding.
Wordlessly, Charles handed the chunk back. "Then keep going. Forge it down to the size of a fist, and bring it to me."
With that, he turned and walked out into the night.
Arthur's thoughts buzzed. 'A fist-sized piece? Can iron even be refined that far?'
The answer was clear.
'Of course, it can.'
'I understand the laws of energy and matter well enough from my past life. But it will take a very long time.'
A low growl of exertion rumbled in his chest as he gripped the hammer and resumed his work.
Outside, the steady ting-ting—dong-dong of metal meeting metal echoed from the house, a relentless rhythm that carried into the night.
...
Five days passed in a blur of dawns and hammer strikes. Every morning, Arthur climbed the hilltop to exercise, then returned home to cook and forge—testing his strength against that stubborn iron.
With each strike, his tempo quickened, fueled by his Scarlet Eclipse Technique that rapidly restored his physical energy.
"Arthur, Grandpa's here to see you," came a familiar voice.
At his home's threshold, Benjamin, the village elder, waited. He didn't even step inside, merely calling out. Arthur glanced over at his father, who had just finished eating.
Charles, as usual, replied curtly, "Go."
Arthur nodded and followed Benjamin out.
They headed for the Runic Shrine—a large log cabin in the village center, one of many subsidiary halls where children awaken their genes each year.