Chapter 507. A Raven Three Days Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 507: 507. A Raven Three Days Before the Apocalypse

On the second day, the peaceful morning was shattered by the arrival of a messenger from Grock’s Forge.

The dwarf didn’t bother with pleasantries or formal seals; he simply handed William a crumpled note written in his characteristically blunt, aggressive handwriting.

The message was terse: ’Need you at the forge. Market district. ASAP.’

’Overdue inspection, and several words I intend to have with you before you break something irreplaceable.’

William knew that tone. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an accusation.

When William arrived at the forge, the heat of the furnace hit him like a physical wall, accompanied by the rhythmic clang clang clang of hammer against anvil. Grock was already waiting, standing beside a scarred wooden workbench with his massive arms crossed over his barrel chest.

His face was a roadmap of soot and fury, his expression suggesting that the ’words’ he intended to speak were going to be less of a conversation and more of a verbal assault.

"Well? Don’t just stand there catching flies with your mouth open," Grock growled without preamble, thrusting one broad, calloused palm toward William. "Let me see it."

William didn’t argue. He reached for the hilt of Aetherion, feeling the familiar hum of the blade through his gloves.

As he unsheathed the weapon, the steel caught the orange glow of the forge, revealing microscopic nicks along the fuller that shouldn’t have been there. He handed it over, feeling a strange sense of vulnerability as the weapon left his grip.

Grock took the blade with surprising delicacy for a man who looked like he could crush boulders. He turned Aetherion slowly under the harsh forge light, running one thick, scarred thumb along the edge with the focused, deadly scrutiny of a physician examining a terminal patient.

The silence in the forge grew heavy, broken only by the hiss of steam from a cooling trough.

"You fought an entire army with this," Grock said flatly, his voice dangerously low. "A full battle mage unit, tearing through your defenses with elemental fury."

"And then from what the whispers in the market are saying, you went up against some transformed prince wielding some manner of forbidden, corrupted artifact."

William shifted his weight, feeling the weight of the dwarf’s judgment. "That’s... roughly accurate, yes."

"And when, precisely," Grock’s voice suddenly rose, cracking like a whip through the workshop, "were you planning to bring it in for proper maintenance afterward?"

"Do you have any idea what dark, corrupted energy does to fine enchanted steel if you let it sit festering in the housing mechanism for days at a time?"

The dwarf’s thumb pressed harder against the metal, and William could almost imagine the steel screaming under the pressure. "I was going to get to it, Grock."

"Things have been... complicated."

"You were going to get to it," Grock repeated, his tone dripping with the particular, withering contempt of a craftsman who had heard that exact excuse from countless reckless fools over the decades.

He slammed the blade down onto the workbench with a metallic thud that made William flinch. "Four years, boy! Four years of sweat, blood, and rare reagents went into forging this masterpiece!"

"Four years of my life, and you treat it like some crude stick you found rotting in the woods!"

"It’s performed beautifully every single time," William countered, defensive now. "It hasn’t failed me once."

"That’s not the point, you stubborn whelp!" Grock barked, though as he turned away to grab a leather apron, the harshness in his voice softened by a fraction, a sliver of something that sounded almost like wounded pride. "Performance isn’t everything! Survival is!"

"If you let the corruption eat the soul of the blade, it doesn’t matter how well it cuts; it’ll shatter in your hand when you need it most!"

"And then what? You’ll be dead with a broken toy."

Grock began unpacking a small arsenal of cleaning tools: fine wire brushes, specialized oils, and enchanted whetstones with brisk, efficient motions that spoke of decades of muscle memory. The clatter of metal against wood filled the space.

"Sit down," Grock commanded, pointing to a stool stained with oil and ancient scars. "Sit."

"This is going to take hours, and you’re going to watch every single fucking step."

"If you’re going to carry something this precious into hell, you’re going to learn how to keep it alive."

"You’re going to learn to do this yourself next time."

William took his seat on the scarred stool, and what followed was less a lesson and more an exhaustive, one-sided interrogation.

For the better part of an hour, he endured a relentless lecture on the molecular integrity of enchanted alloys, the corrosive properties of necrotic residue, and the absolute stupidity of neglecting a weapon’s spiritual equilibrium.

Grock spoke with the fervor of a zealot, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of his work, the scritch scritch of fine wire brushes, the rhythmic slosh of alchemical solvents, and the occasional sharp clink of metal tools being laid aside.

Despite the gruff admonishments and the creative profanity Grock hurled at William’s perceived negligence, it was impossible to ignore the underlying current of satisfaction.

The dwarf took obvious, unspoken pleasure in the fact that his masterpiece had not merely survived but had single-handedly acted as the fulcrum upon which the fate of an international conflict had tipped.

Every time Grock found a microscopic imperfection and corrected it with surgical precision, he was unconsciously celebrating the blade’s resilience.

"Now, pay attention," Grock growled, holding up a vial of shimmering, viscous oil. "This isn’t some cheap lard you’d rub on a wagon wheel."

"This is the distilled essence of drake scale and moonstone."

"You apply it in thin, circular motions, letting the magic seep into the grain, not just sitting on top like grease on a pig."

William watched, mesmerized despite himself, as the dwarf worked. The way Grock handled Aetherion changed when the work became delicate; the roughness vanished, replaced by a reverent, almost tender touch.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of meticulous labor, Grock stepped back. The forge seemed to grow quieter as he raised the weapon.

Aetherion gleamed with terrifying beauty, freshly restored to its original splendor. Every trace of that oily, black, corrupted residue—the residue that had threatened to poison both steel and soul—had been scrubbed away, leaving behind a blade that seemed to drink in the torchlight.

"Not bad," Grock finally admitted, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

He held the blade up to the forge light, studying the flawless edge one last time. "Not bad at all, actually."

"I’ll admit, I had my doubts... I didn’t think anyone would ever truly put this thing through its real paces. I thought it would die in some noble’s ceremonial sheath."

"But it held. It sang." He turned the blade toward William, his eyes meeting his. "I’m glad it was you who pushed it that far."

William felt a rare flash of genuine pride. "High praise, coming from you, Grock... I’ll treasure it."

"Don’t let it go to your head, boy, or you’ll start getting sloppy again," Grock grunted, though the warning was hollow.

A slow, satisfied grin was spreading beneath his thick beard, undermining any pretense of anger. "And listen to me: bring it back in a month... Properly... With a schedule."

"Not after you’ve nearly died fighting some cursed prince or some god knows what eldritch horror."

William took the sword back, feeling the perfect balance, the familiar, reassuring hum of a weapon that was once again whole. "I’ll try to schedule my emergencies more conveniently, Grock."

"Next time, I’ll send a raven three days before the apocalypse."

Grock snorted, already turning back to his anvil to clean his tools. "See that you do."

"Now get out of here before I charge you for the time you’ve wasted listening to me talk."