The Divine Hand: Isekai Blacksmith

Chapter 4: Chancellor's Gambit

The emissary’s lip curled, his gaze sweeping over the damp, soot-stained walls of the forge with an expression of pure unadulterated loathing. He adjusted his silver monocle, the glass glinting like a cold eye. "Busy? That’s cute, kid. Really. But the Chancellor isn't the type of guy who takes 'no' for an answer. Especially not from a summoned hero who’s supposed to be useful to the Crown."

Rhaevan slowly withdrew his hand from the hidden hilt of the Morning Star, letting it rest casually on the workbench beside the gold. "You guys have a weird way of showing gratitude. One minute I'm trash being tossed into a basement, the next I'm a VIP? Make up your mind."

"The market value of 'trash' has gone up," the emissary replied, waving a hand toward the guards. "Now, do we walk out of here together like civilized people, or do my friends here have to carry you out? I'm sure your back is already sore from all this... work."

"Fine, fine. Don't get your tights in a twist," Rhaevan said, grabbing a clean-ish rag to wipe the lavender oil and sweat from his palms. "Just let me grab my coat. It's drafty up there, right?"

"It’s warmer than this pit," the guard to his left grunted, his voice muffled by his visor. "Move it, Artisan."

They led him through the winding corridors, passing the spiral stairs that led back toward the main Cathedral. Instead of ascending into the light of the seers, they veered right, into a wing of the palace that smelled of incense and old parchment. The floors here weren't just marble; they were inlaid with intricate patterns of lapis and gold.

When they reached the double doors of the Chancellor’s private workshop, the guards pulled them open with a heavy thud.

The room was massive, filled with rows of empty anvils and racks of uninspired, mass-produced longswords. At the far end, behind a massive desk carved from black oak, sat Jarev Dhal. Beside him stood a thin, skeletal man in deep blue robes that seemed to swallow the light around him—Othvan Kess, the Royal Mage.

"There he is," Dhal said, not looking up from a ledger. "The miracle man from the scrap heap. Come closer, boy. I want to see if the rumors are true."

"Depends on what you've heard," Rhaevan said, stopping a good ten feet from the desk. "I've heard plenty about you, too. Mostly that you like to outsource your problems."

Othvan Kess sneered, his eyes narrowing behind thin, rectangular glasses. "Watch your tone. You’re speaking to the Chancellor. And your Rank F status hasn't changed just because you polished a few old bits of tin."

"It's not about the rank, Othvan," Dhal interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes were small, dark, and calculate. "It's about results. Tazrik tells me you turned common scrap into masterwork gear in a single night. Is that true?"

"Maybe Tazrik talks too much," Rhaevan shrugged. "Or maybe I'm just good at my job. What do you want, Jarev? I'm assuming you didn't bring me up here to talk about my feelings."

"Direct. I like that," Dhal leaned forward. "Look around this room. My forges are understaffed. The war in the North is eating through our inventory faster than we can hammer it out. I need volume. I have fifty blades here—ceremonial, mostly, but they need to be sharp and they need to look intimidating."

"And let me guess," Rhaevan said, looking at the rack of dull, grey blades. "You want them done yesterday?"

"I want them done in an hour," Dhal said flatly.

Rhaevan let out a dry, short laugh. "Fifty blades? In an hour? Even with high-level magic, you'd need a dozen master smiths to temper them correctly. You're out of your mind."

"That’s where you’re wrong, boy," Othvan Kess stepped forward, his robes swirling. "If you are truly a 'True Rebuilder,' as the local gossip suggests, the speed should be irrelevant. Your mana logic functions on intent, doesn't it? Just touch them and... fix them."

Rhaevan looked at the swords, then back at Othvan. He could feel a strange, prickly sensation in the back of his mind. Something about the ambient mana in the room felt off. It wasn't the clean, sharp energy of Lady Elara's armor. It was something heavy. Greasy.

"Why the rush?" Rhaevan asked, stepping toward the rack. "You’ve got a whole city of smiths. Why call the guy from the basement?"

"Because the city smiths say these blades can't be sharpened," Dhal said, his voice dropping an octave. "They claim the metal is 'resistant' to standard magical smithing. They say it's stubborn. I say they’re incompetent."

"Maybe you're just using bad steel," Rhaevan countered. He reached out and touched the pommel of the nearest sword.

Instantly, his system flared.

[Item Analysis: Inferior Iron Longsword]

[Status: Subverted. Dormant Corruption Detected.]

[Note: These blades are not broken. They are carrying a hidden frequency.]

Rhaevan’s heart did a slow, heavy flip in his chest. "Wait a minute. You want me to 'fix' these?"

"Fifty swords," Othvan repeated. "Start working. Or we can discuss your alternative housing options. I hear the dungeon levels beneath the scrap pits are particularly... educational."

"Fine," Rhaevan muttered, his jaw set. "But I work better alone. And I need it quiet. If I'm doing fifty, I have to enter a deep sync."

"Go ahead," Dhal waved a dismissive hand. "We’ll be at the desk. We won't disturb your... process."

Rhaevan moved to the center of the forge area. He felt the eyes of the two men on his back—predatory, greedy. He felt the heat rising in his core again, that familiar, pulsing thrum that had been building ever since he’d worked on Elara’s breastplate. His skin felt sensitive, his muscles coiled with an energy that felt like liquid lightning.

He stripped off his outer shirt, leaving him in a simple, sleeveless tunic. He didn't care about their gaze. He needed to sweat. He needed the heat to escape his skin.

"Look at him," Othvan whispered from the desk. "The physical change is... unnatural for an Artisan. His mana-vascular system is expanding."

"Who cares about his veins?" Dhal replied quietly. "Just make sure he fixes the blades. If he successfully integrates the repair, the corruption will bind permanently."

Rhaevan heard them, though they didn't realize it. His hearing had sharpened along with everything else. Bind permanently? he thought, his palms hovering over the first ten swords. So they aren't just broken. They're being used as batteries for something ugly.

"Okay," Rhaevan whispered to himself, his vision clouding with a faint violet haze. "You guys want these fixed? Let's see how you handle the truth."

[Skill Override Initiated: Deep Purification through Logic Calibration]

He didn't just "Repair" the edges. He reached deep into the metal, finding the greasy, black strands of mana that didn't belong there. As he began, the familiar heat surged. It wasn't just in his arms anymore; it was a total body flush, a heavy, electric ache that centered in his gut and radiated outward. Every sword he touched didn't just gleam; it shrieked.

"Rhaevan!" Dhal called out, standing up. "What are you doing? Why is the light blue?"

"It’s just... the residue!" Rhaevan groaned, his muscles bulging as he gripped the center of the metal rack. He felt like he was holding a live wire. "Don't... don't look away now! This is the good part!"

The black corruption inside the iron fought back. It was like trying to hold onto a snake made of tar. But Rhaevan’s 'Repair' logic was absolute. If the original state of the steel was pure, he would make it pure. He pushed his mana harder, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. He could feel the eyes of the Mage on his bare shoulders, tracking the glow of his skin.

"Wait, the frequency!" Othvan shouted. "He’s shattering the containment!"

"Shut it down!" Dhal ordered.

"I can't!" Rhaevan shouted back, his voice thick with the strain of the mana-dump. "It's a one-way trip, Chancellor!"

With a roar, Rhaevan slammed his fists into the center of the rack.

A shockwave of pure, blinding white-blue light tore through the forge. It wasn't a destructive explosion of fire, but a pressure-wave of pure logical static. The windows rattled in their frames. The ceremonial swords didn't break—they exploded in a shower of black, oily mist that evaporated before it could hit the floor.

When the light died down, Rhaevan was on one knee, his head bowed, sweat dripping from his chin onto the polished floor. The swords were beautiful—impeccable, gleaming with a silver brilliance that made the eyes ache.

"You... you fool," Dhal hissed, stumbling around his desk. He looked at the empty space where the "corruption" had been. "Do you have any idea what you've destroyed?"

"I fixed them," Rhaevan panted, looking up. His eyes were still glowing violet, his pupils wide and dark. "You said you wanted fifty sharp, intimidating blades. There they are. Most pure steel in the kingdom."

"They were supposed to carry the Chancellor's seal!" Othvan Kess was livid, his hands shaking. "The mana-link was essential!"

"Funny," Rhaevan said, standing up slowly, his body still humming with the afterglow of the massive energy discharge. "I didn't see a seal. I saw a curse. I did you a favor. Unless... you wanted cursed blades in your army?"

Dhal’s expression shifted instantly. He composed himself, though his face was still pale. "Don't be absurd, boy. It was... an experimental hardening technique. You've simply reset the metal. It's a waste of time, but no matter."

Rhaevan didn't believe him for a second. He walked over to the nearest blade and picked it up. He felt something shift inside the handle. A slight rattle.

"What is that?" Othvan asked, his eyes darting to Rhaevan’s hand.

"Balance is off," Rhaevan lied easily, his fingers already identifying a hidden compartment in the pommel—one that had been sealed by the corruption and was now loose. "I told you, quantity over quality leads to errors."

"We're done here," Dhal snapped. "Othvan, see him out. Back to the pits. Since he’s so fond of his 'trash,' he can stay there until I decide how to handle this... setback."

"My pleasure," Othvan sneered, grabbing Rhaevan roughly by the elbow.

Rhaevan didn't fight him. As he was led out, he felt the heavy shape of the handle in his mind. He’d already palmed a small, thin strip of vellum that had fallen out of the pommel during the flash.

Back in his forge, the door slamming shut behind him once again, Rhaevan sat at his workbench. He pulled out the strip. It wasn't a seal. It was a fragment of a map, marked with high-mana signatures located right underneath the palace.

"Well, Chancellor," Rhaevan whispered, a grin spreading across his face as he felt the Morning Star vibrating under the table in recognition. "I think I know why you're in such a hurry. And I think I just found a reason to stick around."

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