Chapter 145: Dragon Shortswords [II]
The second chamber of Elyon’s smithy was like stepping into a contradiction, a very serious contradiction.
Azel paused on the threshold, his senses jolted the moment the door creaked open.
The air clung with a strange chill, which was normal since the first time he had come here, it was very cold yet his lungs burned with heat as if he’d stepped too close to a forge.
Frost spread like veins across the floor, but sweat beaded on his brow within seconds.
It was like the room couldn’t decide what it wanted to be — a tundra, or the heart of a volcano.
His crimson eyes scanned the clutter, his instincts ticking.
A dozen tables littered the space, stacked with Elyon’s works-in-progress.
Swords, spears, and axes — none of them masterpieces, not yet.
They bore uneven seams where monster bones had been force-fused with iron, or jagged edges that pulsed with faint, unstable magic.
What had he even been doing?
Azel looked back on the more successful weapons that lined the walls, he had already succeeded in this before so was Elyon trying to do something new?
Azel’s gaze fell on one forge in particular.
Its mouth glowed molten orange, embers drifting lazily from its belly.
It looked like it had been recently used which showed Elyon had worked, after all last time there was nothing.
’So this is what’s causing the heat,’ He thought as he continued walking.
Feng, trailing behind him, wrapped his threadbare sleeves tighter around himself, his breath fogging in the air.
His eyes flicked nervously across the weapons, as though one might leap at him.
He had bad experience with weapons.
"Oi!" Elyon barked suddenly, making both of them stiffen. "Don’t stare at the scraps. Look forward."
Azel turned his head.
And froze.
On the wall, above the clutter of failed experiments, mounted proudly beneath his father’s wewpons, were two short swords.
They crossed in a neat X, their steel glinting faintly even in the forge’s dim light.
But it wasn’t their beauty that made Azel’s breath hitch.
It was their presence.
Even from here, he felt it, they were giving off magical ice energy that felt like it could freeze someone, but at the same time, it gave off another aura that he didn’t recognize at all.
Azel narrowed his eyes as he saw it.
Elyon’s grin stretched ear to ear. "You feel it, don’t you? The dragon bones."
The words landed like a hammer blow.
Azel blinked, stunned. "Dragon bones?"
Behind him, Feng choked.
His knees buckled, and he clutched his chest. "D-did you say... dragon bones?"
His voice cracked with disbelief. His pupils shrank, wide and trembling.
To him, the words weren’t casual. They were sacred.
In Feng’s homeland, dragons weren’t just powerful beasts — they were revered as divine.
Gods cloaked in scales, keepers of heaven’s wrath.
His sect’s Grand Elder cultivated with marrow from a dragon bone fragment and made disciples prostrate themselves before it daily.
The thought of holding, let alone forging, dragon bone into weapons was blasphemy beyond compare.
And yet here stood Elyon, beaming like a child showing off a toy.
"Yes," the blacksmith said, reverence sliding into his tone as he straightened. "Believe it or not, the goddess herself once slew a dragon. Black as the void, fire strong enough to melt glaciers. It descended from the northern wastes, intent on burning Winter to ash."
His eyes gleamed, the firelight flickering across them. "She felled it with a single slash."
[Estemeed Husband! Did you hear that? You must reward me for that too!]
Kyone’s voice broke through Azel’s thoughts, sharp and smug.
[Oh, I remember that! It was amazing!]
Nyala chimed in, her tone bright, almost musical.
Azel’s brow twitched.
Nyala rarely spoke anymore unless he crossed into her plane.
Lately she had been quieter, was she planning something or she didn’t want to talk to him? He wouldn’t know.
"Believe it or not, we’re standing on the place where the corpse of the dragon fell," Elyon continued, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And my ancestor — the first Blacksmith of Winter harvested its remains. From its bones, he forged the goddess’s weapon. And he kept the rest beyond the reach of anyone else."
Azel raised his hand, and the blade appeared mid-air, summoned with a flicker of his ring.
The goddess’s sword shimmered with cold brilliance, frost forming instantly along its length.
The very air seemed to bow to it.
"That," Elyon said, staring reverently at the blade, "is a perfect fusion of ice, dragon bone, and Winter’s essence itself. Death and divinity fused in steel. But—"
His grin snapped back into place, toothy and wild. "I wasn’t content with admiring the past. So I tried my hand at it again."
He pointed at the short swords on the wall.
Azel dismissed the goddess’s blade, the frost vanishing in a faint hiss, and stepped forward.
His footsteps echoed softly against the frozen floor.
The hum of energy grew louder as he approached, prickling against his aura.
The swords radiated a contradiction, frost licked their edges, yet heat pulsed from their cores.
He reached out.
The moment his hands closed around their hilts, power surged.
Cold bit into his skin, seeping straight into his bones, while fire seared his palms, sharp enough to sting.
It was like gripping storm and sun at once.
They felt alive...
"They’ll return to you when called," Elyon explained quickly, practically bouncing his head in pride. "Pour your aura or magic into them, and no matter where they are, they’ll fly back to your hands. I designed them to match your style."
Azel tested their weight, spinning one blade, then the other.
They felt lighter than he expected when he made Elyon do the job, they were fluid and perfect for twin strikes, as long as he could use them well.
Feng, meanwhile, could barely breathe. His throat tightened, eyes wide with awe and terror.
Dragon bone weapons weren’t just tools.
They were destiny carved into steel.
Proof that his Master wasn’t merely strong — he stood among legends.
Azel’s lips curved into a sharp grin.
He turned toward the far end of the room, lifted both blades... and without warning, snapped his arms forward.
The swords whistled through the air, streaks of steel and frost, aimed not at the wall but directly at Feng.
The boy’s heart lurched violently. His stomach dropped.
"Ah—!" His voice strangled as panic froze his limbs.
The blades screamed toward him, fast and merciless.
For a heartbeat, he could only stand there, wide-eyed, as death rushed closer with the weight of dragons behind it.
The air itself seemed to tighten.
And then—