The moment the word "dead" left his lips, the man’s furious expression shattered into shock, then despair, then disbelief, before finally hardening back into rage.

"Who the hell are you? Why deceive me? Boy, I’m not someone to trifle with. Where is Aerya?"

Zhang Luan spread his hands. He’d told nothing but the truth.

Aerya Maoyin *was* dead. In a past-life player forum, someone had shared a side quest where they’d found her skeleton—and a diary revealing the identity of the man before him.

"I’m not lying. Your wife is truly gone."

The man shoved aside his blacksmith’s anvil and stormed toward Zhang Luan, his rugged face twisted with anguish.

"You’re lying! Aerya vanished over a decade ago. If she’d been adventuring with you, why didn’t she come find me herself?"

He’d pounced on the flaw in Zhang Luan’s words—a flaw deliberately left there.

"Exactly. She vanished for ten years. Why didn’t she seek you out? She *is* dead. Need me to remind you where?"

Zhang Luan prodded his memory. Aerya Maoyin’s death had been this man’s doing.

"The City of Lost Corpses…"

The man collapsed to the ground. It all rushed back.

Zhang Luan patted his shoulder and sat on a nearby chair, watching the weeping man with quiet pity.

Aerya’s diary from that side quest had read:

*"I protected the man I loved. Even as a loathsome corpse, I have no regrets. Oh… gods, let him forget me. May he find new love."*

They’d ventured into the City of Lost Corpses for a Lich King’s crystal—to fuel his dream of forging a mythic weapon. But fate intervened. To save him, Aerya took a killing blow meant for him, using her last strength to teleport both the crystal and him to safety.

"I killed her…"

"Yes. You killed her."

Mission accomplished. The man was breaking. Zhang Luan produced the holy scripture, flipped it open casually, and channeled the Force of Creation and Stellar Flame. An artificial radiance swirled behind him.

"*Ahem.* I am the Holy Son of Akamana Temple. I’ve come to absolve your sins."

Zhang Luan didn’t believe a word of it. But this shattered soul craved absolution. Whether any god would grant it? Not his problem. The scripture was proof enough of his "holy" status. Belief wasn’t optional.

Forgiveness was the gods’ duty. He was just a phony holy man—a con artist.

The man lifted his tear-streaked face. Despair melted into fervent devotion.

"Gods! Are You forgiving my sins?"

"Yep, yep~ Your wife’s already forgiven you."

Technically true. Her diary held no resentment—only a wish for him to move on.

Laughter and sobs wracked the man’s body. As a Mountain Sealing Smith, he shouldn’t worship Goddess Akamana. But the buried guilt over his wife’s death, ripped open by Zhang Luan’s words and theatrics… in this moment, he became a zealot.

Zhang Luan tucked away the scripture. Great for show. Annoyingly heavy.

This man was a Mountain Sealing Smith—a master craftsman. Only the truly gifted entered the Sealed Mountains to apprentice. Perfect for custom arrows.

But he carried a burden. A burdened smith couldn’t forge custom gear. True mastery demanded a mind focused solely on creation.

"Holy Son," the man choked out, wiping his tears. "Thank you for absolving me. Name any item—I’ll forge it for you!"

*Exactly what I wanted.* Converting him to Akamana’s faith had shattered his mental block, restoring his purity as a craftsman. And as the "Holy Son," Zhang Luan wouldn’t pay a copper.

"Didn’t I say it when I arrived? Custom arrows. Can a Mountain Sealing Smith handle that?"

The man straightened, solemn now.

"Your grace reminded me of my purpose. Moments ago, I couldn’t craft custom gear. But now—I can."

Zhang Luan smiled. *Custom* meant high-tier gear at minimum. Ordinary blacksmiths couldn’t even forge basic white-rarity items, let alone high-grade ones. White and common gear didn’t deserve the title "custom."

Just as Zhang Luan prepared to detail his requirements, he realized—he didn’t know the man’s name. Even at the peak of his mythic forging fame in the past life, this smith had remained nameless. Curiosity flickered.

"By the way—what should I call you?"

The man shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

"Holy Son, Mountain Sealing Smiths renounce our names. We devote everything to creation. But the items we forge bear no maker’s mark—it would disrespect the craft. True glory belongs to the wielder, not the smith. If you must call me something… locals just say ‘Blacksmith.’"

Zhang Luan thought the tradition foolish. Maker and wielder should elevate each other. But he didn’t care. He was here for arrows. Nothing else mattered.

The Blacksmith studied Zhang Luan, hesitant.

"Holy Son… have you… undergone your First Advancement?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

"No, just… unexpected. To find talent like yours in a backwater like Acamana City."

"I’m a genius. Enough talk." Zhang Luan cut him off, listing his demands. "Heat-resistant. Explosion-proof. Dissolution-proof. Energy slot. Spiral-accelerating arrowhead. No random enchantments. Can you do it?"

The Blacksmith rubbed his glistening bald head, thought for a moment, then nodded firmly.

"Solid!"