The sharp, urgent rhythm of the knock against the oak door of room four-hundred-and-twelve sounded less like a polite visitor and more like a battering ram handled by an impatient blacksmith. Nikolai Reindhart let out a groan that originated somewhere near the floorboards, slowly peeling himself out of the sagging leather armchair. He dragged his feet across the dusty floor, muttering curses under his breath about the absolute lack of respect modern students had for the sanctity of a professor's evening rest. When he yanked the door open, he was met by a towering wall of broad shoulders and soot-stained leather aprons. Standing on the landing was a young man whose sheer physical presence made him look like he had been chiseled directly out of a granite quarry. His name was Garon, a second-year student specializing in earth shaping and mineral elemental crafting. His thick, dirt-streaked brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his massive, calloused hands were trembling slightly—not from fear, but from a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. "Professor Reindhart," Garon breathed heavily, his voice carrying the deep rumble of an underground tremor. "Thank the ancestors you're still here. I didn't know who else to turn to." Nikolai leaned lazily against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his dark velvet tunic and fixing the young smith with a heavy, unbothered stare. "Evening, Master Garon," Nikolai drawled, his tone dripping with sluggish resignation. "Let me guess: you were building a defensive fortress, your earth walls crumbled into dust under a mild breeze, and now you want my advice on how to make rocks behave without using a hundred chanting syllables? Because if so, I am currently off duty and my brain has retired for the evening." Garon shook his head frantically, his amber eyes wide with distress. "No, Professor. It's not the coursework. It's... it's my final practical project for the smithing and mineral crafting guild. I've failed three times this week, and the master guildsman told me that if I can't infuse raw earth mana into a living metal alloy by tomorrow morning, my apprenticeship is revoked and my family's debt-ridden workshop back in the outer province will be seized by the local creditors." Nikolai sighed, a long, soulful exhalation of pure spiritual weariness. Another one, his mind whispered. Another kid carrying the weight of an entire family's survival on their shoulders. He hated how easily he could spot the look of quiet desperation in a student's eyes. It was a mirror reflecting his own past in the filthy alleys of the lower districts. "Step inside, Garon," Nikolai muttered, stepping aside and gesturing listlessly toward the messy room. "And try not to track too much dirt onto my floorboards. I just spent zero minutes cleaning them." Garon ducked his massive frame to step through the doorway, awkwardly squeezing past the towering stacks of ancient books until he reached the center of the room. He pulled a heavy, cloth-wrapped object from a leather satchel slung across his broad chest and placed it gently onto the mahogany desk. With trembling fingers, Garon unwrapped the cloth to reveal a thick, dull-gray broadsword blade forged from rough iron ore. It looked heavy, brittle, and utterly lifeless. "I spent forty hours hammering this alloy," Garon said, his voice cracking with frustration. "I poured every ounce of earth mana I possess into the metal during the quenching phase. But the moment I try to channel a strike through it, the structure shatters like dried mud. The guild masters say my spiritual resonance with stone is fundamentally flawed, that my hands are too heavy and my soul is too blunt to shape true elemental steel." Nikolai walked slowly around the desk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his fur-lined cloak. He looked down at the dull blade, his subconscious mind instantly unraveling its molecular and magical composition with terrifying, effortless precision. The problem wasn't that Garon lacked talent. The problem was the exact opposite. "Your masters are idiots, Garon," Nikolai said flatly, picking up the heavy broadsword with one hand and casually tossing it from palm to palm as if it weighed nothing at all. Garon gasped, stepping forward instinctively. "Professor, careful! The edge is—" "The edge is dead," Nikolai interrupted smoothly, cutting him off. "Because you're treating the metal like an enemy you have to beat into submission. Look at your technique. You're forcing your earth mana into the iron like a miner driving a iron spike into solid granite. You're treating stone and metal as rigid, unyielding obstacles." Garon blinked, lowering his head. "Isn't... isn't that what earth magic is? Unyielding strength?" "Absolute nonsense," Nikolai replied, shaking his head. "Earth isn't just stubborn rock. It's patience. It's the foundation that supports everything else without complaining. When you forge a blade, you aren't fighting the metal—you're listening to its breath. You're inviting the stone to sleep inside the steel." As Nikolai spoke, a warm, resonant hum of amber-gold mana emanated naturally from his fingertips. The passive weight of his hidden traits flooded the room, washing over the dull broadsword in his hand. Without a single incantation, without striking a single anvil, the dull gray metal began to glow from within with a soft, iridescent sheen. The rough, brittle impurities in the alloy smoothly realigned themselves, transforming into a flowing, marble-like grain of legendary craftsmanship. The blade didn't look heavy anymore; it looked like a living extension of the earth itself, perfectly balanced and infinitely flexible. Garon stared at the weapon, his jaw dropping so low it nearly hit the floorboards. He fell to his knees in front of the desk, his massive frame trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. "By the ancestors..." Garon whispered reverently. "It's... it's breathing." Nikolai gently laid the glowing sword back down onto the desk, letting out a heavy, exhausted sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Take your sword, Garon," Nikolai instructed quietly, his lazy persona returning as he shuffled back toward his armchair. "Go pass your practical test, keep your family's workshop, and please—do not tell Dean Alistair that I helped you, or he'll make me write a fifty-page report on metallurgical philosophy." Garon picked up the weapon with trembling hands, bowing his head until it touched the floor. "I will never forget this, Professor. You saved my family." With swift, careful steps, the giant youth gathered his satchel and hurried out of the office, closing the door softly behind him. Nikolai collapsed into his sagging leather armchair, pulling his fur cloak over his face as he prepared for sweet, uninterrupted oblivion. But before he could even close his eyes, a violent, piercing screech echoed from the academy courtyard below, shattering the night.

Chapter 17: The Hammer and the Anvil