The Blacksmith wasn’t from Augustine’s era.
He was the companion of his era’s Hero King; in that Cycle, every role died—Hero King and Demon King alike.
Only he lived, long as a dried riverbed for a hundred years; an obsession kept him breathing—forge a sword, one blade unique under heaven and earth.
A blade that could sever the World’s line.
The Blacksmith believed, stubborn as a mountain, that though It had sealed the Hero King’s personal limit, It hadn’t set a ceiling for weapons.
If his own strength fell short, he’d lean on external force; with a weapon fierce enough, the Hero King or the Demon King could tear the worldline, reach the Z Layer, and fight It head-on.
But the Blacksmith made a mistake; he’d never seen power that could rip a worldline, so how could he create it?
He couldn’t picture its shape or weight; he couldn’t craft the matching blade.
He sank into gloom like dusk over fields, hammering without sleep, tempering day and night; no matter rare ores fed the furnace or the fire roared hotter, he lacked that final spark, a white gap hanging before him.
Until one day, while he focused and struck the blade like rainfall, the sky boomed.
Crack.
It was the sound he’d dreamed a thousand nights.
Not thunder; it was the firmament torn like cloth.
A violet figure flew across the Void, swung with all their strength, split the heavens, then slipped into another World, leaving a pale scar on the blue.
He had seen Heaven’s scar in dreams, but none matched this—so that’s what the sky’s wound looks like.
The Blacksmith lowered his hammer, mouth open, eyes wide; he stared like a starving wolf at that scar in the dome.
A tiny wound, yet blindingly bright.
His lips pulled back; he laughed, sunlight breaking through smoke.
He’d found a way to deepen her destructive bite.
He’d also found her master.
…
“That’s how it was,” the Deity said, voice cool as still water. “And you killed Augustine.”
“So the Blacksmith seeks vengeance for Augustine?” Ye Weibai watched Him like a hawk over frost.
Pages rustled like wind through pines; He spoke slowly, “Not the Blacksmith—the sword. A godblade has a spirit. When forged, she knows her master.”
“A godblade has a spirit?” Ye Weibai’s lips curved, a winter plum opening under snow.
His fingers twitched; His tone sank like a stormfront. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I just think—” Ye Weibai rose tall, black robes fluttering like ravens, and he laughed. “You know a lot.”
He fell silent; depth pooled in His eyes like night over a lake; the page-turning grew louder, like rain gathering.
“Quit dazing off,” Ye Weibai said, back to Him, voice light as ash. “Start recording.”
In the distance, violet-red light charged like a spear through bamboo.
Before it drew close, the red spread like dye in water, layer by layer painting the sky crimson, surging fast like a sweeping skyfire, a devouring blaze.
The momentum felt like heavens collapsing and earth breaking; skyfire poured like a tilted ocean—hard to believe it was only a masterless sword.
But Ye Weibai’s face stayed calm; his black eyes were cold as obsidian; he let that red stain roll in, yet it couldn’t redden the thousand-meter belt of darkness before him.
He noticed it, and He frowned, a ripple under stone; a wild thought pricked His mind—could even this sword fail to harm this era’s Demon King?
Impossible. This sword was forged for Augustine, truly able to split a worldline; even It would hesitate, let alone—
Boom.
His thoughts snapped like a bowstring breaking.
His sight drowned in boundless black light.
Black.
Endless black burst from Ye Weibai’s palm, then condensed like storm clouds packing tight.
The same black pillar formed in a blink in his hand, and with a casual sweep, it scythed across the entire sky.
Black returned to the horizon like night reclaiming day.
It was like a boundless black ruler, a long measuring rod that swept the firmament clean.
Where it passed, every red gleam died, vanishing at a speed the eye could track.
It left no scar, not a speck of ash.
One strike, and the weapon crafted for the strongest Hero King, Augustine, was ground to dust and gone.
His eyes flew wide; disbelief froze Him like ice on a river.
He couldn’t see.
He had prepared; as the black light rose, He focused His senses like a hawk. Yet He still sensed nothing.
His mind probed the black glow, and found only Void.
Beyond that, a subtle current flowed; the faint drift tugged His heart, but He couldn’t grasp it.
Madness clawed His thoughts; His nature couldn’t allow another thing in this World to be beyond His understanding, aside from It.
He had to know what happened.
Again. He swore, one more time, and he’d discern that black light, and he’d figure out what that Demon King truly was.
…
Again—could study make it clear?
It pondered, thoughts layering like stormfronts.
For a being like It, one thought could birth a plot that topples an empire.
Even so, It couldn’t see through Ye Weibai, nor pierce his way of attack.
What was the strike condensed from that black glow?
It sensed the black light held no destructive force, yet it erased attack after attack. What was it?
It searched countless abilities of Hero Kings, Demon Kings, and Companions, and found nothing similar.
Data stayed thin. Again—would another clash make it clear?
But the Blacksmith’s sword was apex battle strength; if even that couldn’t force more from Ye Weibai, further investment might waste resources.
More crucial, It began to doubt. Maybe Ye Weibai crafted this scene on purpose—to delay Time, to drain Its reserve of battle assets, or to draw Its gaze and buy time for the current Hero King, that little girl.
It watched the Demon King, yet It could read all that like script on bamboo.
It didn’t believe Ye Weibai truly treated himself as the Demon King, standing there inviting Hero Kings to wheel-fight from all over the World.
But this was an open stratagem, Ye Weibai’s upright trap; and to learn why the scar vanished, It had to enter the trap.
