The Lifespan Smith: Forging My Own End

Chapter 5: The Price of Perfection

The hammer didn't fall from Aerovan’s hand so much as his hand simply ceased to be a part of his conscious reality. The heavy iron tool struck the floor with a dull thud, followed immediately by the sound of Aerovan’s knees hitting the soot-covered planks. He didn’t make a sound. He just tipped forward, his forehead resting against the cool, dark base of the anvil.

"Aerovan!" Lysenne’s voice was a sharp crack in the sudden silence. She was at his side in a second, her hands hovering over his shoulders as if afraid he might shatter if she touched him. "Drovic, help him!"

"I told him," Drovic groaned, though his voice was thick with a shaky sort of terror. He shoved past the King’s guards, ignoring the leveled spears. "I told the damn kid he was burning the candle at both ends and in the middle too."

King Roder stepped forward, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically until he stood over the collapsed smith. He looked down at the white hair, the trembling, skeletal hands, and the glowing pile of metal on the anvil. "Is he dead?"

"Does he look like he’s taking a nap, Your Majesty?" Drovic snapped, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. "The boy just poured his soul into your 'show.' Are you happy now?"

"Check the pulse, Veydan," the King commanded, ignoring the smith’s insolence.

Veydan Marris approached with a look of profound disgust, as if he were being asked to inspect a piece of rotting meat. He didn't touch Aerovan; he simply waved a gloved hand over the back of the boy’s neck. A faint violet light pulsed from his palm.

"He’s alive. Barely," Veydan said, straightening his silks. "His mana circuit is... well, it’s not even there. It’s like looking into a dry well. Whatever he did to forge that armor, it didn't use a drop of ambient mana. It was purely internal."

"And the duel?" Kael asked, leaning over the workbench to poke at the new armor with the tip of his golden sword. "I came here to see a fight, not a medical emergency."

"There is no duel tonight," Lysenne said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. She looked up at her father, her blue eyes blazing. "Look at him, Father. He’s twenty years old, and he looks older than Drovic. If you force this, you aren't a King; you're an executioner."

Roder stared at Aerovan for a long moment, then at the Aegis-Vestment—a chest piece of dark Abyssal-iron overlaid with brass filigree that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own.

"Fine," the King finally said, turning toward the door. "He has proven he can craft. But a hero who collapses after one piece of armor is a hero we cannot rely on. Veydan, Kael, we’re leaving. Princess, I expect you back at the palace within the hour. If the boy survives, Drovic, tell him the 'Master of the Royal Arsenal' title is on hold until he can actually stand up straight."

"Get out," Drovic muttered under his breath. "Just get out."

The guards filed out, their armor clanking, followed by the King and his entourage. Veydan paused at the door, glancing back at the unconscious Aerovan with a sneer. "Waste of a 'Divine' slot," he whispered before disappearing into the night.

Once the sound of the horses faded, the forge felt unnervingly large. Drovic and Lysenne managed to heave Aerovan onto the small, lumpy cot in the corner. His breathing was shallow, a whistling sound that made Lysenne’s chest ache.

"He’s freezing, Drovic," she said, pulling a moth-eaten blanket over him. "Why is he so cold?"

"Because there’s nothing left inside to keep the fire going," Drovic said, wiping his brow with a greasy rag. "He’s been trading himself for steel, Highness. I saw the fire he used. It wasn't wood fire. It wasn't coal. It was... him."

Lysenne sat on a three-legged stool beside the cot. Her eyes drifted to the air just above Aerovan’s head. There, faint and flickering like a dying candle, was the blue screen. It hadn't vanished when he lost consciousness.

"Drovic," she whispered. "Can you see the window?"

"The what?" Drovic looked over, squinting. "I see a lot of dust and a dying boy. What window?"

"The blue light. The system interface," Lysenne said, leaning closer.

"Must be a 'Hero' thing," Drovic grunted, turning back to the forge to bank the embers. "I don't see nothing but air. If it’s glowing, maybe it’s a good sign. Or a bad one. I’m going to go find some broth. If he wakes up, he’ll need something more than soot in his belly."

As Drovic disappeared into the back room, Lysenne reached out. Her fingers brushed the glowing blue text. To her surprise, it didn't pass through. The screen felt like cool glass.

[Status: Overclock Critical Success]

[User Condition: Comatose (Severe Vitality Depletion)]

[Open Soul-Forge Logs?]

"Soul-Forge logs?" Lysenne murmured. She tapped the prompt.

The screen expanded, a scroll of red and blue text detailing every action Aerovan had taken since his arrival. Lysenne’s breath hitched as she began to read.

Log Entry 01: Initial Synthesis. Cost: 1 Month Lifespan.

Log Entry 04: Ignis-Edge Prototype. Cost: 3 Months Lifespan.

Log Entry 05: Kinetic Discharge (Unbound). Cost: 2 Weeks Lifespan.

She scrolled down, her hand trembling. The numbers were getting bigger. The dates were all from today. Just today.

Log Entry 09: Aegis-Vestment (High-Tier). Warning: Insufficient Mana. Diverting to Vitality. Cost: 5 Years Lifespan.

"Five years," Lysenne gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "He gave five years for a piece of armor to impress a man who hates him."

She looked at Aerovan’s face. In the dim light, the wrinkles around his eyes seemed to tell the story of a lifetime he hadn't actually lived. He was a sacrifice being offered on an altar of black iron, and her father was the one holding the knife.

"You absolute idiot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why didn't you just run? Why did you have to be so stubborn?"

She kept scrolling, finding a hidden tab labeled [Projected Mass Production].

Calculation: 1,000 Ignis-Edge Units. Total Cost: 450 Years Lifespan.

Status: Impossible. User Lifespan Remaining: 7 Years.

"Seven years," she breathed, the words feeling like lead in her mouth. "He has seven years left. If he makes one more sword... if he tries to help us again..."

She slumped against the edge of the cot, the weight of the secret pressing down on her. The Kingdom of Valoria was dying, consumed by the Abyss, and the only man who could build the weapons to save it was literally paying for every blade with his pulse. If she told her father, he would turn Aerovan into a factory until he dropped dead. If she kept it a secret, she was letting a hero die in silence.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked the empty room. "How can I ask you for anything else?"

A soft groan came from the cot. Aerovan’s eyelids flickered, his eyes opening slowly. They weren't the vibrant blue she remembered from the Grand Hall. They were pale, like washed-out denim.

"Princess?" his voice was a ghost of a sound.

"I’m here," she said, quickly wiping her eyes. "Don't try to move. Drovic is getting you some food."

Aerovan’s eyes drifted to the floating screen, then to her hand, which was still resting near the logs. A faint, tired smile touched his lips. "You can see it, can't you?"

"I can," she whispered. "Aerovan, why didn't you tell me? Seven years? You’re... you’re practically a ghost already."

"It’s not so bad," he wheezed, trying to sit up. She immediately pushed him back down, her touch firm. "I was just a hardware store clerk back home, Lysenne. I wasn't anyone. Here... here I can actually make something that matters. Even if it costs a bit of time."

"A bit of time? You gave half a decade for a vest!" she cried, the tears finally spilling over. "Do you think a sword is worth more than a life? My father, Veydan... they don't deserve a single second of your breath."

"It’s not for them," Aerovan said, his hand shaking as he reached out to awkwardly pat her arm. "It’s for the people who don't have magic swords. The ones in the East District who are scared of the dark. If I can give them a 'loud noise' to keep the wolves away... then it's a good trade."

"It’s a terrible trade," she sobbed. "You’re supposed to be a hero, not a fuel source."

"I’m a blacksmith, Lysenne. We’ve always been both."

Aerovan looked toward the blueprints scattered on the floor—sketches of shields, of repeating crossbows, of things that looked like cannons. "Don't cry over the paper. It gets the ink all messy."

"I'm not crying over the paper, you moron," she snapped through her tears. "I'm crying because you're the only person in this city who actually gives a damn, and you're the one being punished for it."

Before Aerovan could respond, a low, wailing sound drifted through the shattered door of the forge. It wasn't the wind. It was a long, rising note that vibrated with an ancient, magical frequency.

WROOOOOOOOM.

Aerovan’s body stiffened. "Is that...?"

"The Northern Watch siren," Lysenne said, her face going pale. Her hand tightened on his. "The Abyss. They’ve broken the secondary line."

"How long do we have?" Aerovan asked, his eyes darting to his hammer on the floor.

"If the siren is that loud... they're already past the outer wall," Lysenne said, standing up and reaching for her dagger. "They're coming for the city."

Aerovan struggled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He grabbed the edge of the anvil to steady himself, his eyes fixed on the Aegis-Vestment.

"Seven years," he muttered to himself, a grim, determined light returning to his eyes. "I guess I’d better make them count."

"Aerovan, no!" Lysenne shouted, but the sound of distant screams and the clatter of approaching hooves drowned her out.

The Divine Architect reached for his hammer, his white hair whipping in the sudden, cold draft from the street. The forge was cold, the King was gone, and the monsters were at the door. It was exactly the kind of situation a repairman was built for.