The fingers of my left hand curled slowly.
For a moment, I simply watched them move.
The motion was no longer smooth, but at least it was possible.
Fresh, delicate skin stretched tightly across my palm, pale and almost translucent beneath the faint glow of Holy Power.
The wounds had closed.
The torn muscles had knitted together.
The shattered flesh had been restored.
Only the lingering numbness and dull ache reminded me that the hand had recently been close to useless.
Whenever I flexed my joints, a faint sting spread through my fingers.
It was not the sharp, overwhelming pain I had endured before.
This discomfort was quieter, deeper, and more persistent.
It felt like a warning buried beneath the skin.
The healing was not yet complete.
The newly formed nerves sizzled with tiny sparks, as though invisible threads of lightning were traveling beneath my flesh.
Each spark lasted for less than a heartbeat, but there were enough of them to keep me aware of every movement.
Still, the hand was functional once again.
That was all I needed.
I slowly opened and closed my fingers, testing their strength.
The joints responded.
The muscles obeyed.
The Holy Power flowing through my channels had done its work, even if the restoration had left my body feeling strange and unfamiliar.
I had grown used to pain.
What I had not yet grown used to was the sensation of being healed.
I lifted one of the thin purple blades and balanced it on the tip of my right index finger.
The dagger remained perfectly still for a brief moment, its point hovering above the stone floor.
Then I flicked my finger, sent the weapon spinning through the air, and caught it smoothly by the hilt.
The movement was effortless.
Too effortless.
The blade slipped through the air with unsettling ease.
It produced no hiss from displaced wind, no metallic hum, and not even the faint rustle of a passing breeze.
It moved as though the atmosphere itself had forgotten how to resist it.
I turned the dagger in my hand and studied its surface.
The metal possessed a deep indigo sheen.
It did not merely reflect the dim light inside the cavern.
The color seemed to glow from somewhere within its core, as if a dark violet flame had been trapped beneath the surface.
The longer I stared at it, the more difficult it became to determine whether the blade was truly motionless.
There was something inside the metal.
A slow, almost imperceptible movement.
Perhaps it was only the reflection of the surrounding magical energy.
Perhaps it was a trick caused by my exhaustion.
But my instincts told me otherwise.
This weapon was not dead.
I turned my head toward the dark, swirling mass drifting lazily beside me.
“Mammon, what is this material?” I asked.
I held the dagger closer to the faint light filtering through the cavern.
“It looks fragile, almost like quartz, yet it feels more resilient and sharper than refined steel.
Can the Golem out there sense this?” Mammon hovered closer.
His shadowy form expanded slightly, stretching like smoke caught in an unseen current.
His crimson eyes narrowed as they focused on the weapon in my hand.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
The silence felt deliberate.
Mammon had a habit of pausing whenever he wanted to make his next words sound more important than they actually were.
He enjoyed creating anticipation, even when the answer itself was already obvious to him.
Then he released a harsh, rasping sneer.
The sound seemed to carry the dry scent of ash and scorched earth.
It crawled through the cavern and settled in the air around me.
“Do not insult this metal by comparing it to those brittle quartz trinkets the soft-headed aristocrats of the Heavenly Realm hang around their necks,” Mammon spat.
His dark arm extended toward the dagger.
The limb lengthened unnaturally, transforming into a long, jagged claw.
One sharp talon lightly tapped the spine of my blade.
The sound that followed was crisp and pure.
It rang through the cavern with such a high, clear pitch that the vibration traveled straight through my teeth.
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the sound vanished into the surrounding silence.
Mammon’s eyes gleamed.
“What you hold is Violetium,” he said.
“An exceptionally rare variant of metal.
It is forged from ancient iron veins that have been soaked for tens of thousands of years in the deep purple magical ley lines of the Underworld.” I lowered my gaze to the dagger.
Violetium.
The name itself felt strange on my tongue, even though I had not spoken it aloud.
It sounded less like a material and more like the name of something alive.
Mammon drifted downward until his red eyes were level with mine.
As he moved closer, the temperature around us dropped several degrees.
The damp chill of the cavern sharpened into a bitter cold.
Frost began to gather along the edges of the basalt near his shadow.
“The primary characteristic of Violetium,” Mammon continued, “is its absolute antimagnetic property.” I frowned slightly.
“It completely neutralizes standard iron responses.
To the Platinum Golem out there—or to any entity that hunts by sensing metallic vibrations—these thirteen daggers are no different from dry, withered twigs lying on the cave floor.” My eyes shifted toward the distant battlefield.
Even through the layers of rock and dust, I could still sense the lingering presence of the Platinum Golem.
Its energy had weakened, but it remained powerful enough to threaten anything that drew too close.
If Mammon was telling the truth, the daggers would not trigger the Golem’s usual senses.
That alone made them valuable.
Most metal weapons carried vibrations through the air and stone.
A powerful creature could detect the movement of a sword before it ever struck.
The Platinum Golem, with its extraordinary sensitivity to metal and magical energy, would likely be able to identify ordinary weapons instantly.
But Violetium was different.
The daggers were invisible to one of the enemy’s most important senses.
That meant I could approach without announcing my presence.
Mammon raised one claw and pointed toward the set of blades.
“Furthermore, this metal possesses a stubborn, awakening spirit.
Once you truly master it and subdue its inner nature, the set will automatically grant its wielder three unique arts.” His tone grew heavier as he listed them.
“Afterimage.
Mirage Slash.
And the ultimate technique—Decaying Cloud.” The names seemed to settle into the cavern like distant thunder.
Afterimage.
Mirage Slash.
Decaying Cloud.
I repeated the words silently, trying to imagine what they meant.
The first sounded like an ability related to speed or illusion.
The second suggested an attack capable of confusing the senses.
The final name carried a darker implication.
It sounded less like a technique and more like a calamity.
The dagger in my hand suddenly felt heavier.
I let out a slow breath and slid the weapon back into its leather sheath at my waist.
A formidable arsenal.
There was no doubt about that.
Thirteen identical Violetium daggers, each one capable of eventually unlocking three unique arts.
If I could master them, the weapons might become powerful enough to change the way I fought entirely.
But the reality struck me almost immediately.
I had only just unearthed them.
I had never practiced channeling my internal energy into Violetium.
I did not understand how to communicate with the metal, how to awaken its spirit, or how to force it to obey me.
I did not even know whether the weapons accepted me as their wielder.
Which meant that, at this very moment, I was completely incapable of triggering any of those legendary techniques.
The knowledge was frustrating, but it did not surprise me.
Power had never been something I could simply pick up and use.
Even Holy Power required discipline.
Every technique I had mastered had demanded pain, repetition, failure, and a willingness to endure consequences.
There was no reason for Violetium to be any different.
“No matter,” I muttered, adjusting the strap across my chest.
Without magical arts, I still had physical momentum, leverage, and my mind.
That would have to be enough.
Watching me sheath the weapon with a quiet sigh, Mammon began circling above me like a vulture.
His thin lips curled into a mocking grin.
“What is with the gloomy face, boy?” he asked.
“You find a legendary relic, only to realize that you are far too weak to use its power.
Has that pathetic realization finally crushed your fragile little heroic dream?” His words were deliberately cruel.
Mammon always attacked the weakest part of a person’s thoughts.
He did not need to raise his voice.
He only needed to find the doubt already hiding in my mind and press a finger against it.
I leaned back against the jagged basalt wall.
The cold, damp stone bit through my tunic.
The underground air tasted metallic and stale.
It carried the bitter tang of sulfur, scorched ore, and wet moss.
I looked down at my restored left palm.
Faint pink lines marked the places where the flesh had regenerated.
They looked almost delicate, like thin cracks in porcelain.
I traced one of them with the thumb of my right hand.
“I never had a heroic dream, Mammon,” I said.
My voice was quiet, but it remained steady despite the fatigue lingering in my throat.
Mammon stopped circling.
“I am not wallowing in despair, either.
I simply want to live.” The words came more easily than I expected.
“I do not want to survive merely to nurse old grievances or carry endless hatred toward those who cast me down.
Hatred can keep a person moving for a while, but it cannot give them a place to go.” The cavern seemed to grow quieter around me.
“I want to live so that one day I can step out into the vast world above.
I want to touch real earth with my own hands.
I want to feel sunlight on my skin instead of magical light reflected from stone.” I looked toward the darkness beyond the cavern.
“I want to see the things I was never allowed to see.
Mountains beneath an open sky.
Rivers that do not flow through underground channels.
Forests untouched by old blood and ancient curses.” My fingers curled slightly.
“Somewhere beyond this suffocating darkness, there must be kindness.
There must be warmth.
There must be landscapes beautiful enough to take my breath away.” I paused.
“I believe that world exists.
And I want to reach it.” Mammon went completely still in midair.
His glowing eyes flickered.
The fiery red dimmed slightly, shifting into an unreadable and complex shade.
For a long moment, he did not speak.
The cavern fell silent.
Only the faint, rhythmic dripping of condensation broke the stillness.
Somewhere in the darkness, water fell from a stalactite and struck the stone floor with a soft, hollow sound.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
I had expected Mammon to laugh.
I expected him to mock the childishness of my words, or to tell me that the world above was no kinder than the darkness below.
Instead, he remained silent.
That silence told me more than any insult could have.
Then Mammon scoffed loudly.
He crossed his shadowy arms and turned his back toward me.
“Sweet words,” he sneered.
His voice had lost some of its former sharpness.
“Poetic, even.
But if you sit here waxing philosophical about the bright and beautiful world, those two beasts outside will finish tearing each other apart and consume every last drop of each other’s core energy.” He tilted his head slightly.
“By the time you finally decide to move your legs, there will not even be scrap metal left for you to lick.” His mocking words struck me like a bucket of ice water.
I immediately turned my attention toward the battlefield.
The distant, ground-shaking rumbles that had rattled the cavern floor for hours were fading.
The violent flashes of crimson and blinding white light bouncing off the ceiling had become dim and sporadic.
The air no longer trembled with the overwhelming pressure of two apex predators fighting at full strength.
The battle between the Ruby Boar and the Platinum Golem was reaching its absolute limit.
Both creatures were exhausted.
Both were bleeding.
Both were close to collapse.
I could sense it now.
The energy that had once surged through the valley like a storm had become fractured and unstable.
The Ruby Boar’s presence pulsed in uneven bursts.
The Platinum Golem’s radiance flickered, brightening for a moment before weakening again.
Their struggle had entered its final stage.
And the end of the battle would create an opportunity.
“Right…” My eyes narrowed.
“Their remains.” The realization struck with sudden force.
Pieces of the puzzle began sliding into place with frightening precision.
The battle had already weakened both creatures.
Their attention remained fixed on each other, leaving little room for them to notice a wounded human approaching from the outer edge.
Violetium would allow me to move without triggering the Platinum Golem’s metallic senses.
The dust cloud would obscure my position.
The narrow terrain would limit the creatures’ ability to pursue me.
And if either beast fell first, I could use the daggers’ physical properties to exploit the opening before the remaining survivor recovered.
I did not need the three techniques.
I did not need to awaken the spiritual nature of the weapons.
I only needed to use what I already possessed.
Speed.
Silence.
Precision.
And timing.
I pushed myself away from the stone wall.
My body protested immediately.
The muscles in my legs were stiff from remaining motionless for so long.
The wounds across my torso pulled painfully beneath my clothes.
My left hand still felt numb at the fingertips.
But none of that mattered.
I stepped toward Mammon and leaned close to his shadowy ear.
The temperature around him was cold enough to make my breath turn pale.
Lowering my voice until it was barely more than a breath, I explained the sequence of calculations forming in my mind.
I told him how I intended to use the terrain.
I described the route I would take through the collapsed rocks and narrow passages.
I explained how the dust and unstable ore veins could conceal my movements.
I pointed out that the Platinum Golem would be less likely to detect the Violetium daggers.
I explained that the Ruby Boar’s sense of danger would be focused entirely on its opponent while both creatures were on the verge of death.
Most importantly, I explained how I would not attack either monster directly at first.
I would wait.
I would observe.
Then, at the precise moment one creature fell and the other lowered its guard, I would strike.
The plan depended on patience.
It depended on the battlefield remaining unstable.
It depended on my ability to move through a place where a single wrong step could trigger another explosion.
It was dangerous.
But every other option was worse.
If I stayed hidden, the survivors might consume the energy of the fallen creature.
The opportunity would disappear.
If I attacked too early, I would be crushed between them.
If I approached carelessly, the Platinum Golem might detect the metal in my possession and eliminate me before I could even draw a blade.
The timing had to be perfect.
As the final word left my lips, Mammon slowly turned his head toward me.
His wide, sinister mouth stretched into a grotesque grin that split his face from ear to ear.
For once, his expression did not contain simple mockery.
There was genuine shock in his eyes.
Beneath it lay something darker.
Admiration.
Not warm admiration.
Not the kind offered by a friend or teacher.
Mammon’s approval was more dangerous than that.
It was the look of a predator recognizing that another creature had finally learned how to hunt.
He stared at me as though he were seeing someone entirely different.
Not a helpless child.
Not a naive boy clinging to impossible ideals.
A different creature altogether.
“Perhaps,” Mammon murmured, “you are not as useless as you appear.” It was the closest thing to praise I had ever received from him.
I did not answer.
Instead, I tightened the strap of the thirteen-dagger sheath at my hip.
The cool weight of the Violetium rested against my thigh.
The weapons were silent.
No magical aura flared around them.
No great power awakened.
They simply waited.
That was enough.
I stepped out from the shadow of the alcove.
The air of the battlefield struck me immediately.
It was sharp and heavy with ozone.
The scent of scorched stone filled my lungs, followed by the metallic odor of blood and the bitter smell of unstable ore.
Dust clouds continued to settle in the distance.
Through the thinning haze, I caught glimpses of crimson light and pale platinum radiance.
The two creatures were still moving, but their movements had lost the violent force they once possessed.
They were staggering now.
Their strength was draining away.
My gaze locked onto the battlefield.
My eyes were cold and focused.
Whatever remnants of naivety had remained within me were buried beneath calculation.
I was afraid.
Of course I was afraid.
Fear tightened my muscles and made every breath feel deliberate.
It reminded me that the creatures ahead could kill me in an instant.
But fear no longer controlled me.
It sharpened my awareness.
It made me pay attention to the shifting dust, the trembling stone, and the rhythm of the distant impacts.
I lowered my body and began to move.
My steps were quiet.
I placed each foot carefully, avoiding loose gravel and unstable mineral veins.
The Violetium daggers remained hidden against my thigh, invisible to the senses that would have betrayed an ordinary weapon.
The hunt had begun.
I did not know whether I would leave the battlefield alive.
I did not know whether the treasures of the two monsters would become mine or whether my body would simply join the bones scattered throughout the Holy Land of Illusionary Metal.
But I knew one thing.
I had survived the darkness beneath the earth for too long to throw away this opportunity.
With the thirteen Violetium daggers at my side and my mind fixed on the exact moment of weakness, I sprinted back into the fray.