The Lifespan Smith: Forging My Own End

Chapter 4: Royal Recognition and Retribution

The trumpets didn't stop. They grew louder, a brassy, rhythmic herald that bounced off the cramped walls of the East District. Aerovan slumped in the chair, his lungs feeling like they were filled with wet sand. He tried to ignore the way his own hands looked—spotted with age, the skin translucent and fragile—but Lysenne’s grip on his arm wouldn't let him.

"The Guard is here," Drovic whispered, peering through a hole in the door. "And that’s not just a patrol. That’s the Gold-Crest. The King is coming himself."

"Of course he is," Aerovan wheezed, a dry cough racking his chest. "Probably wants to sue me for noise complaints."

"Aerovan, listen to me," Lysenne said, her voice urgent and low. She was still staring at his aged face, her eyes shimmering with a mix of horror and fascination. "You can’t let him see you like this. He’ll think you’re a spent resource. He’ll treat you like a battery that’s run dry."

"I am run dry, Princess. I just did the math. I’ve got more wrinkles than your father has gold coins."

"Hide the weapon, Drovic!" Lysenne commanded, ignoring Aerovan’s sarcasm.

"I’m trying!" Drovic scrambled to toss a heavy, oil-stained tarp over the Ignis-Edge. "But the smell of ozone is thick enough to chew on. Unless the King’s lost his sense of smell, he’s going to know something happened here."

The door didn't just open; it was shoved off its remaining hinge by two armored guards. They stepped in, spears leveled, followed by the heavy, measured clack of polished boots. King Roder stepped into the filth of the forge, his nose wrinkling in immediate distaste. Behind him stood Kael, looking bored, and a new figure—a man in violet silk robes with a rapier at his hip and eyes that moved with the twitchy precision of a bird of prey.

"Princess," the King said, his voice a low rumble. "I was told you were seen heading toward the slums. I didn't realize you had a fondness for soot and failure."

"I have a fondness for results, Father," Lysenne said, standing tall and stepping in front of Aerovan. "And I think you’ll find that 'failure' isn't the right word for what happened here tonight."

"Is that so?" Roder turned his gaze to Aerovan. He paused, his eyebrows shooting up. "Good gods, boy. What happened to you? You look like you’ve been through a decade of hard labor since breakfast."

Aerovan forced himself to stand. His knees popped, and a sharp pain shot up his spine, but he kept his face neutral. "Just the atmosphere, Your Majesty. The East District hasn't been kind to my complexion."

"The boy’s a mess," Kael snickered, leaning against the doorframe. "Looks like the 'Divine Architect' spent his night crying into the furnace."

"Enough, Kael," the man in violet robes said. His voice was smooth, like oil on water. He walked toward the workbench, his eyes fixed on the tarp-covered lump. "The mana signature we felt from the palace didn't come from 'crying.' It was a kinetic spike. Raw, unrefined, and massive."

"Veydan Marris," Lysenne whispered to Aerovan. "The Fourth Hero. The 'Aether Blade.' He’s the one who actually knows how to read mana."

Veydan reached for the tarp. Drovic stepped forward to block him, but a sharp look from the King made the old smith freeze. Veydan pulled the cloth back, revealing the Ignis-Edge.

The room went silent. The black blade seemed to pulse in the dim light, the brass cylinder still faintly warm.

"What is this?" the King asked, stepping closer. "A sword with a revolving drum? It looks... primitive."

"It’s not primitive, Father," Lysenne said. "I saw him use it. He took down a High-Rank Shadow Stalker with one strike. From twenty feet away."

The King’s eyes snapped to Aerovan. "One strike? Those beasts have been terrorizing the border for months. My best knights need a full squad to put one down safely."

"It’s a prototype," Aerovan said, his voice gaining a bit of its old edge. "It’s what happens when you let a 'repairman' do his job."

Roder reached out, his gloved hand hovering over the grip. "If this thing is as powerful as she says... Aerovan, I may have been hasty. A weapon like this could change the tide of the war."

"It could," Aerovan agreed. "But it's not cheap."

"Resources are no object," the King said, his tone suddenly expansive. He turned to his guards. "Listen well. I am appointing Aerovan as the Master of the Royal Arsenal. He is to be moved to the palace immediately. I want a shipment of a hundred—no, a thousand—of these 'gun-blades' for my elite guard by the end of the month."

Aerovan felt his heart skip a beat. Not out of excitement, but out of pure, unadulterated terror. He looked at the blue screen flickering in the corner of his eye.

[Project Analysis: Mass Production of Ignis-Edge (Prototype)]

[Quantity: 1,000 Units]

[Estimated Cost: 450 Years of Lifespan.]

"I can't do that," Aerovan said.

The King’s smile vanished. "Excuse me?"

"A thousand?" Aerovan laughed, a dry, hacking sound. "Your Majesty, I’m good, but I’m not a god. I can't just wish these things into existence. Each one requires... a specific sacrifice."

"He's making excuses, Sire," Kael piped up. "He’s probably just lazy. Or he wants more money. These 'crafter' types are all the same."

"It’s not about money, you blonde idiot," Aerovan snapped. "It’s about cost. I don't have enough to give."

Veydan Marris stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. He circled the anvil, looking at Aerovan with deep suspicion. "I see what’s happening here. The boy has found a way to bypass mana-channels using life-force. That’s why he looks like a walking corpse. He’s not a hero; he’s a blood-smith. A dark-crafter."

"I'm a blacksmith!" Aerovan shouted. "The system gave me the name, not me!"

"It doesn't matter what the system calls you," Veydan said, his hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. "If you can't provide for the kingdom, you’re useless. And if you’re using forbidden methods to make toys, you’re a danger. My magic has served this crown for years. I’ve slain dragons with a flick of my wrist. I won't have the King’s favor diverted to a man who trades his own hair for a loud noise."

"Veydan has a point," the King said, his voice cooling. "Aerovan, if you cannot mass-produce these, then your 'Gift' is nothing more than a curiosity. A single sword won't win a war."

"It won't," Aerovan said, gripping the edge of the workbench to keep from collapsing. "But it’s a start. Give me time. I can find other ways to power them. I just need—"

"We don't have time!" Roder roared. "The Abyss is at the gates! I need legions of steel, not a sickly boy with a dream!"

Veydan stepped into the center of the forge, the violet mana around him beginning to hum. "Sire, allow me to prove the futility of this 'tech.' If this boy’s invention is truly worth the 'Divine' title, it should be able to withstand the pressure of a real Hero’s power."

He turned to Aerovan, a mocking smile on his lips. "A duel, smith. Right here, right now. Your best work against my Aether-Soul. If you win, the King listens to your 'limitations.' If I win, we melt that scrap down and you spend the rest of your short life sharpening my boots."

"Are you serious?" Lysenne cried. "He can barely stand!"

"He seemed strong enough to kill a wolf a few minutes ago," Veydan countered. "Or was that just a lucky shot?"

Aerovan looked at Veydan. He looked at the King, who was waiting for a reason to either use him or discard him again. Then he looked at his own hands. Twelve years. That was the number burning in the back of his mind. If he did nothing, he’d die in a slum within a decade anyway.

"Fine," Aerovan said. "But the sword isn't enough. If I'm going to fight a 'Hero,' I need to be dressed for the occasion."

"You want armor?" Kael laughed. "You want a shiny suit to hide in?"

"I want to build something," Aerovan said, his eyes glowing with a sudden, fierce blue light.

He turned to the forge. He didn't look at the King. He didn't look at Lysenne. He looked at the pile of scraps Drovic had mentioned earlier—the Abyssal-iron, the brass, the shattered remains of a clockwork golem's chest plate.

[Synthesis Initialized: Aegis-Vestment (High-Tier)]

[Warning: Current Lifespan: 12 Years remaining.]

[Forging high-tier armor will deduct 5 Years.]

[Proceed?]

"Aerovan, don't," Drovic whispered, reaching out to stop him. "You’re going to kill yourself before the fight even starts."

"Drovic," Aerovan said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Go to the bellows. And don't stop pumping until I tell you."

"But—"

"Do it!"

The old smith moved, his heavy arms working the leather with a frantic desperation. Aerovan grabbed the hammer. He felt the weight of it—the 'Will of the Exile.' He didn't have five years to spare. He didn't even have five minutes. But as he looked at Veydan’s smug, arrogant face, he realized that being a 'Hero' wasn't about how much time you had left. It was about what you did with the seconds you could still breathe.

"You want a show, Your Majesty?" Aerovan asked, raising the hammer high. The violet fire erupted from the hearth, more violent than before, casting long, monstrous shadows against the walls. "I’ll give you a show."

CLANG.

The sound echoed through the East District like a funeral bell.

[Cost Confirmed: 5 Years Deducted.]

[Current Lifespan: 7 Years.]

[Awakening 'Divine Architect' Hidden Trait: Overclock...]

Aerovan’s vision turned blood-red. His skin tightened, his bones creaked, and his hair turned as white as mountain snow. But as he struck the metal, he didn't feel weak. He felt like a star collapsing in on itself.

"Come on then, Veydan," Aerovan growled, the new armor beginning to take shape on the anvil, glowing with a terrifying, sickly heat. "Let’s see whose soul is worth more."