The training to suppress her mana kept Flamme trapped in a rut for a very long time.
Those birds, far too human-like in their cleverness, would always launch a sudden surprise attack just as she thought she was on the verge of succeeding.
That briefest of split seconds was enough to shatter her hard-won concentration, sending the suppressed mana surging back up like a frightened surface of water.
This repeated tug-of-war was more agonizing than any standard magic practice she had ever endured.
Even so, beyond her training in mana suppression, she still had to complete her daily meditation and spellwork.
She was walking a path few had ever tread—a path that demanded she compress what usually took normal mages over a decade, or even several decades, into a mere few years.
Occasionally, she would pause and wonder: Why do I need to be even faster?
What am I chasing after?
No one gave her an answer, leaving her no choice but to push that question deep into her heart.
Yet such relentless hardship could easily breed thoughts of retreat, even in the heart of a young genius.
Back then, Link had said to her: “Flamme, destiny will present you with the same test again and again until you give your answer. If you cannot answer it, you will find yourself trapped in similar circumstances, bound by the exact same question.”
Flamme engraved those words in her memory.
What she did not know was that Link was actually speaking those words to himself.
When Link first heard that Flamme’s training had hit a wall, a dark thought had even crossed his mind for a brief moment: Finally, something managed to stump you.
Though, to be fair, he was never much of an noble or selfless dragon to begin with.
He was caught in a contradiction.
He feared Flamme was not truly a genius and would prove incapable of finishing this grueling road of training.
Yet, he also feared she was too much of a genius—that he, a master of average ability, would lack the strength to guide her any farther.
The two thoughts spun in circles inside his mind, like two kids playing a game of musical chairs for a single seat.
Destiny was testing him, too.
And he was still searching for his answer.
Standing by the window of his study, Link looked out at the rear yard.
Flamme sat on the grass, head lowered, quietly tending to her newest cuts.
She didn’t cry a second time; she simply picked herself up and kept practicing.
He turned around to face his empty study and whispered softly into the quiet room, “Still… Flamme, I truly, genuinely hope you win every war you fight.”
The Northern Countries, the Village of the Sword.
While Link was still sincerely blessing Flamme, he had absolutely no idea that his own doom was fast approaching.
Starting from the Central Lands, Serie had spent two full years traveling on foot to reach the Northern Countries.
Reflecting on everything she had seen and experienced along the road, she realized quite a few of those moments were rather amusing.
Who should I share them with?
Guess I’ll let that brat get the privilege.
“I heard he took on an apprentice recently. I wonder what kind of kid she is,” she mused to herself.
Just as she was pondering, a round, chubby figure emerged from the snowstorm at the village entrance.
“I have been expecting you for a long time, Lady Serie.”
It was a tiny dwarf, not even reaching Serie’s waist.
Her hair was as stark white as freshly fallen snow, and her entire body was bundled inside a thick fur cloak.
Only a round little face peeked out, her skin so pale it almost blended right into the snow backdrop.
Serie looked down at her.
“Who on earth are you?”
The dwarf tilted her head way up to look at Serie, her big eyes blinking repeatedly as if she had never seen a living elf before.
“I am the current chief of the Village of the Sword, Schneefe.”
At the mention of her status, Schneefe stood on her tiptoes, barely reaching the height of Serie’s chest.
Under Schneefe’s guidance, Serie arrived smoothly at her house.
Inside, the hearth crackled merrily with a blazing wood fire, baking the entire room in a cozy, lazy warmth. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Schneefe stood on her tiptoes to hand Serie a cup of hot tea.
Serie accepted it, holding the cup in her hands as she sank into a chair by the hearth.
The sharpness on her face slowly melted away, relaxing completely.
The glow of the fire flickered across her features, making her look remarkably like a little animal being gently warmed through.
Her whole face practically radiated the word “comfy,” her features squished together in soft contentment.
Schneefe hopped onto her own chair, dangling her short legs and swinging them back and forth.
Then she abruptly froze, her posture straightening as her tone turned solemn.
“Lady Serie, you are truly terrible.”
Serie tilted her head, glancing over at her.
“You clearly promised you would return after a short while.”
Schneefe kept her face entirely rigid, looking as though she were reciting a deeply important passage.
“I am usually a mild-tempered person, but I am super angry about this!”
Finishing her speech, she took a quick breath and added, “The above is the final wish of the former-former chief—that is to say, my late grandmother.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she instantly slid off the chair, scuttling several steps backward with a series of quick tap-tap-taps to cower behind the chair back, revealing only half of her little face.
This was also part of her grandmother’s strict instructions: the instant she finished reciting it, she had to hide far away, because this great mage was known to have quite a temper.
“Huh?”
Serie took a sip of hot tea, sinking into thought.
“It’s only been less than half a century, though.”
Schneefe poked half her face out from behind the chair, her large eyes blinking in total bewilderment, clearly having not expected Serie to say such a thing.
“Your kind really does live ridiculously short lives,” Serie observed.
The hearth continued to crackle softly as the sharp popping of splitting firewood filled the room.
Having confirmed a safe distance was maintained, Schneefe wriggled back onto her chair and resumed swinging her legs.
Serie offered a generous wave of her hand.
“Consider it my apology—I won’t be accepting the reward for this commission.”
Schneefe blinked.
“Lady Serie, you are unexpectedly quite gentle.”
Ignoring the compliment, Serie pulled out the magical scroll that sealed the Sword of the Hero.
With a flash of light, the holy blade lay quietly in her hands.
Schneefe reached out with two stubby hands, taking the sword and clutching it against her chest.
The sword was half a head longer than she was tall, forcing her to lean to one side as she wobbled under its weight.
Serie said, “The commission is complete.”
Holding the sword with both hands, Schneefe used every ounce of her strength just to set it securely down on the table.
“Lady Serie, this blade… isn’t our original sword.”
“What?”
Schneefe turned the sword over and pointed at a microscopic, nearly invisible engraving on the inside of the crossguard.
“Look here.”
Serie leaned closer, following the direction of her finger.
A tiny line of text was carved right into the guard.
Squinting her eyes, she barely managed to read it out loud: “Handcrafted by Magni Bronzebeard. Free shipping on single orders.”
The entire room fell into instant silence.
“Who is Magni Bronzebeard?”
“A famous craftsman among the northern dwarves,” Schneefe explained.
“His forging skill is top-notch, but he takes literally any job. Swords, farming tools, house construction… he even seems to take custom non-standard work.”
Upon hearing the explanation, Serie let out a soft hmph.
She raised her hand, and mana surged from her fingertips, wrapping around the blade and turning the tip straight downward.
With a heavy thud, the Sword of the Hero (Fake) was wedged firmly into the wooden floor.
As if by reflex, Schneefe leaped right off her chair and dashed behind it in three quick steps.
Peeking half her tiny face over the rim of the backrest, her big eyes flickered with intense alertness.
“Just as I thought! Grandmother was right—Lady Serie is super scary!”
Serie shot her a side-glance.
Schneefe shrank her neck back.
“Though it doesn’t really matter. Grandmother also said that the Sword of the Hero has always been a fake anyway.”
Serie looked at her in confusion.
“It was left by a bored elf,” Schneefe said, her voice rising slightly without her realizing it, sounding like a child reciting a passage she knew by heart.
“She saw that our tribe had nothing to do, so she left this sword and the legend behind. She even said that if someone can’t even break a casual barrier she threw onto a sword, they shouldn’t even dream of challenging the Demon King.”
“How do you remember all of this?”
“We have a rule here—every chief must leave a final message for the next generation’s chief.”
Serie sat back down in her chair, picking up her now slightly lukewarm tea.
She issued her orders rather overbearingly: “Alright, for your generation’s final message, you are not allowed to pass that one down.”
“Yes, Lady Serie.”
“Furthermore,” Serie took another sip of tea, “the part about me having a terrible temper is forbidden as well.”
Schneefe blinked, nodding her head repeatedly.
Magic to Reinforce Objects
A brilliant glow flashed as Serie cast a spell upon the fake Sword of the Hero.
“Now it’s no different from the original.”
Looking at the young Schneefe, Serie couldn’t help but sigh mentally at how weak the dwarf was.
With the sword as the focal center, Serie released her mana once more.
An invisible barrier slowly expanded outward, like ripples spreading across a water surface when a stone is tossed in—one ring, two rings, expanding farther and farther until it enveloped the entire village.
“Any weapon holding great magical power will inevitably attract monster attacks,” Serie said, pulling her hand back.
“This barrier will protect your village.”
Schneefe stood beside her with her head tilted up, looking as though she hadn’t completely grasped what had just happened, but she didn’t ask any further.
Having released the barrier spell, Serie suddenly remembered something.
Around Dragon Castle, a powerful great mage had also erected a barrier.
Who could that person be?
Naturally, the first person to rule out was Link, the three-hundred-year-old rising star of the magic world.
Serie dusted off her hands, though there was no dust on them, and walked toward the door.
“Lady Serie!” Schneefe chased her all the way to the doorway.
“Won’t you stay for a meal before leaving?”
Serie didn’t turn back, her voice floating over her shoulder through the wind and snow.
“No, I have far more important business to attend to.”
And so, setting off once again from the Northern Countries, Serie prepared to make her way back toward the Central Lands.
Only this time, she chose not to walk, opting instead for a far faster method of travel.
Sights and experiences along the road were certainly interesting, but how could any of that possibly compare to beating Link to a bloody pulp?