While everyone else battled waves of golems, Emery was locked in a brutal soul-to-soul clash with the legendary Celestial Machinist.

Even in this weakened state, Randhall's mental fortitude was terrifying. He was a grand-master craftsman whose will had been tempered by thousands of masterpieces, each one sharpening his discipline and resolve. His soul was a fortress built on centuries of obsession.

Emery was fortunate that what he faced was only a fragmented remnant, an incomplete consciousness revived through Dravic's body. Even so, breaching such a mind required everything he possessed. After several brutal clashes—soul strikes, mental binds—Emery finally pushed through the defenses and carved a path inside Randhall's soulscape.

What greeted him was a fractured world, a mosaic of drifting memories.

He saw the Machinist as a child, clutching his first hammer. His apprentice days, his rise to fame, and the founding of his faction. The early years were filled with warmth—his dream was simple: to create works that uplifted society, to forge engines and tools to better the world.

But then came the moment his life changed.

Randhall was invited to the realm of the Celestials.

One memory showed him ascending to their radiant city—a place of impossible architecture and divine workshops. Months spent studying under the divine beings changed him forever. It was there he first laid eyes on the pinnacle of craftsmanship: tier-7 legendary artifacts, and beyond them, the mythical tier-8 godly artifacts, works so flawless they seemed alive.

From that moment, something inside him shifted.

Obsession replaced balance. Passion turned into fixation.He neglected his family, ignored his faction, and shut himself away to chase a new dream.

Centuries passed. His fame grew—yet every recognized masterpiece was tier 7. The godly tier 8 remained forever distant, a horizon he couldn't reach.

His faction paid the price. Resources dwindled. Support crumbled.

Then came the great catastrophe—the calamity that became the end of the Celestial race and plunged the Magus Universe into chaos. During that era, the demand for Randhall's newly developed grand magus-class golems and artifacts rose astronomically.

But Randhall refused to supply any more of them. Each production demanded massive effort and time—distractions that pulled him further away from his true goal.

Conflict soon erupted between him and his family. With his lifespan finally approaching its last years, Randhall withdrew from the world and went into seclusion. He committed himself to one final undertaking: a secret tomb, a workshop-mausoleum where he vowed to pursue perfection until the very moment death silenced him.

###

Emery finally reached the end of the shattered memory-scape—a burning workshop suspended in the void, its walls cracked like scorched porcelain, molten rivulets dripping into an endless abyss.

The air rang with the rhythmic clang… clang… clang of a hammer striking metal.

Randhall stood with his back turned, shoulders broad, movements precise despite the flickering flames around him. Even as a fractured soul, the Machinist worked with unwavering focus, every strike sending ripples across the collapsing realm.

Then Emery noticed someone else.

Chained to one of the warped metal walls—arms spread, body half-scorched—was Dravic.

The Volkov leader thrashed violently the moment he saw Emery."You insane ghost!! Let me out!! Release me!!" His voice cracked between rage and fear, echoing in the broken chamber.

Emery stepped further inside. The flames dimmed as if acknowledging him.

Randhall finally paused. The hammer stilled mid-air. Slowly, the ancient craftsman turned, his soot-covered face weathered, eyes burning like twin furnace cores.

"For someone your age, your soul is… remarkably strong."

He studied Emery for a long moment before lowering the hammer.

"Thanks to your intrusion… I have recovered most of my memories." His gaze then shifted sharply toward Dravic. "And through his memories, I understand my situation."

Randhall pointed the glowing hammer at the chained man.

"This one carries my bloodline… but he is unworthy of my legacy."

Dravic's eyes widened. "It was my great-grandfather who ruined the faction, not me!! I wasn't even born when—"

"I do not care about them," Randhall snapped, voice ringing like steel against steel. "What matters is the heart of a crafter. And you…" His face twisted with contempt. "…you have none."

The words made Dravic shrink back against the chains, fury replaced by a flash of shame.

Then Randhall turned back to Emery. His expression softened—not with kindness, but with curiosity.

"I can see it," he said slowly. "You are no blacksmith… but you are an artisan. A creator. Like me."

Emery's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

Ranshall's expression twisted into regret; his form flickered.

"It's been too long..." he said, voice cracking. "My soul is breaking apart. Before I disappear entirely… I need someone who can continue my dream…"

Emery narrowed his eyes, reading between the lines. "And you think that person is me?"

"I don't know… but I sense the mark of the Celestials in you. Maybe you can…"Randhall's fragmented soul flickered once again, the burning workshop groaning and warping around them like a dying memory.

"But hear this," he continued, voice sharpening with cracked determination, "I would rather bury all of you with my life's work than let it leave this place without a successor."

Emery took a slow breath. "Alright. What do you need? Let me try."

Randhall extended his hand. A dark ingot rested on his palm, glowing faintly with deep-seated power.

The task seemed simple: refine this piece of metal.

But the moment Emery touched it, his senses reeled. The ingot was unlike anything he had handled before—unbelievably durable, yet terrifyingly sensitive. A single excess spark of heat, a slight imbalance of force, and it would crumble into useless fragments.

"I see…" Emery whispered. "I'll give it a try."

In the spirit world, imagination shaped materials as readily as willpower. Emery conjured no hammer—he treated the metal as if it were an alchemical cauldron. Flames surged at his command, coiling around the ingot. Threads of soul-essence wrapped it like invisible tongs.

He refined it slowly, carefully, methodically.

Then he realized caution alone wouldn't be enough.

The metal resisted, refusing to submit. Emery grimaced, forced to unleash the full depth of his Heaven and Earth Dao. Dual opposites energies intertwined, meeting at the exact balanced point—just enough to soften, but not destroy; strong enough to shape, but gentle enough to preserve.

The workshop trembled around him as he poured everything into the process.

Finally—exhausted but triumphant—he completed the refinement.

A slender blade formed in his hands: elegant, balanced, faintly luminous.

Emery allowed himself a small breath of satisfaction… until he spotted it—a hairline flaw no wider than a strand of hair, running along the blade's spine.

Randhall's gaze hardened.

"You failed."

His voice carried both disappointment and finality. Then his expression shifted—resigned, almost cruel—as he made his decision.

Across the spirit realm, distant echoes rumbled.

Outside, Emery heard the mechanical voice erupt:

[Self-destruct sequence initiated.]

[Countdown: Five minutes.]

Panic erupted beyond the veil of the soul world.

"Wait!" Emery shouted. "Let me try again!"

"It's no use… I have seen enough. You cannot do this."

Emery's mind raced. He knew Randhall was right. He was at a massive disadvantage—barely any foundation in refining, no real blacksmithing experience. Even with his talent and soul power, completing such a task in minutes was impossible.

Behind them, Dravic started screaming again, hurling curses at Randhall.

Annoyed, the legendary Machinist simply waved his hammer—Dravic's soul shattered like brittle glass, scattering into the burning air.

Emery flinched. Even that single act showed how little time Randhall had left… and how ruthless he could be.

He briefly considered escaping the spirit realm altogether—returning to his body and using his spatial mastery to force an evacuation from the tomb. But there were too many unknown variables. Too many people. Too little time. And the countdown had already begun.

He needed another solution. A different angle.

Emery steadied his breath, turned back to the ancient craftsman, and spoke.

"This isn't fair," he said firmly. "You spent hundreds of years reaching your level… and you expect me to match it in minutes."

For a moment, Randhall's expression shifted—agreement flickering in his fading eyes. But then he slowly shook his head.

"Like I said… I do not have much time left."

Emery stepped forward, voice steady with confidence.

"Then give me one thing—it will not take much time."

Randhall narrowed his eyes."And what is that?"

"An assistant. That's all I need."

x x x

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