The initial, chaotic roar of the crowd had gradually subsided, replaced by a tense, focused silence.

The venue was now dominated solely by the aggressive, loud, yet somewhat monotonous sounds of hammering, chiefly emanating from Rendo's counter.

Every spectator, judge, and competitor was concentrating on the difficult, sweaty task.

But just as the atmosphere settled, another hammer fell, and a sound unlike any other erupted.

It wasn't the heavy, dull thud of Rendo's massive blows, but a sharp, incredibly crisp tang of metal colliding with metal.

The sound carried a purity, a clean resonance that instantly sliced through the background noise.

The heads of the huge crowd instinctively snapped towards the source of the sound—Grey's counter.

Even Grand Elder Ignis, who had been observing Rendo with a critical eye, was startled. He immediately turned toward Grey, his fiery dwarven eyes wide with surprise.

Grey had started the forging. His light hammer lifted and then swung down in a perfect, controlled motion, falling with unerring precision onto the glowing ingot.

Each collision was separated by the exact same interval, resulting in a series of perfect tangs that built upon each other.

For the seasoned blacksmiths and students spectating, a mesmerizing melody was falling into their ears, rising above the surrounding chaos of the forge.

Ignis had his eyes opened wide, unable to believe what he was witnessing. The technique was flawless; the control, inhuman.

Grey was executing the drawing and folding process with a rhythm that suggested he had been born with a hammer in his hand.

Everyone's focus now completely shifted, moving from the expected excellence of Rendo to the baffling, unexpected genius of the C Class student.

As for Grey, he was utterly lost in his own rhythm. He was in a trance, completely oblivious to the surrounding spectacle, the crowd, and even the intense heat.

He couldn't hear a single sound except only his own hammer striking the metal.

His mind didn't entertain any complex thoughts about competition strategy, the necessary weapon design, or the pressure to win.

He knew only one, singular, profound objective: swing the hammer perfectly. He had to do justice to the metal, to patiently work out every single impurity from the ingot, and to fold the material with perfect consistency.

He just needed to keep hammering, letting the ancient, meditative rhythm of the forge guide his arms.

The relentless tang, tang, tang of Grey's hammer continued for what felt like an eternity.

The rhythmic strokes had drawn the soft metal into a formidable, narrow blade shape, and he was now meticulously folding and refining the edge, the focus in his eyes absolute.

The rhythmic striking was slower now, focused entirely on precision and minute detail.

Beside him, Rendo had also been working furiously, his mighty blows shaping a wickedly curved war axe head.

The other competitors had managed to produce various forms of rudimentary swords and spears.

Just as Grey lifted his hammer for what seemed like the hundredth final adjustment, a loud, sharp bell suddenly cut through the air, signaling the end of the allotted time.

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena: "TIME! CONTESTANTS, PLEASE CEASE FORGING IMMEDIATELY!"

Grey's arm froze mid-swing. The last piece of metal he had been working on was red-hot, resting perfectly on the anvil.

He finally let go of the hammer, which clattered gently onto the floor, and slumped forward, resting his hands on the stone counter.

He was drenched. He had sweated buckets, his tunic clinging to his skin, his arms aching with a deep, satisfying burn.

The deep trance, the absolute focus on the rhythm, lifted. He was suddenly awake, conscious of the roar of the crowd, the overwhelming heat of the furnaces, and the fact that he was surrounded by thousands of spectators.

He looked down at the dagger he had forged, genuinely surprised at the level of craftsmanship he had achieved.

He had made a weapon. He, who had never touched a hammer, had completed the task.

All the competitors, spent and breathing heavily, stepped back from their anvils. All four participants—S, A, B, and C Class—had seemingly managed to complete a weapon.

The announcer moved to the center of the arena, his voice crackling with excitement.

"And now, the moment we have all been waiting for! Please welcome the main judge, the Master of the Forge himself, Grand Elder Ignis, who will examine the four weapons and determine the victor!"

The crowd cheered loudly, acknowledging the gravity of the judge.

Ignis, his dwarven features stern and unsmiling, rose from the judges' stand and walked towards the counters, ready to inspect the handiwork.

Grand Elder Ignis approached the judging process with a serious, almost surgical intensity.

His presence alone was enough to silence the surrounding crowd; every eye was fixed on the veteran Dwarf.

He wore thick, reinforced gauntlets and carried a small, highly polished steel rod—a tool used to test the resonance and balance of finished metalwork.

Ignis stopped first at the S Class counter. Rendo stood beside his creation: a magnificent, wickedly curved war axe head, still mounted to its temporary handle.

It was undeniably powerful, clearly designed for tearing through armored targets.

Ignis did not compliment Rendo. He lifted the axe head with one hand, his fingers running across the edge. He then took his steel rod and tapped the thickest part of the axe.

TUNG... The sound was deep and strong, a hallmark of excellent forging and quenching.

"The fold lines are visible but secure," Ignis grunted, his voice carrying surprising clarity.

"Good balance for its mass. Strong edge geometry." He pressed the edge with his thumb, then gave a curt nod.

"A formidable weapon. High durability. Grade: Excellent."

The S Class crowd erupted in confident cheers.

Next, Ignis moved to the A Class counter. The competitor had produced a standard longsword. It looked elegant but lacked the brute power of Rendo's axe.

Ignis lifted the sword and sight-tested the blade, looking for ripples or imperfections. He then tested the balance point.

"Blade is slightly thin on the shoulder," Ignis commented, tapping the blade.

The sound was a sharp TING, higher-pitched than the axe. "The tempering is inconsistent; too brittle near the tip. Will chip easily under heavy magic attack." He handed the sword back dismissively.

"Grade: Competent."

The A Class cheering section quieted instantly.

Ignis proceeded to the B Class competitor, who had forged a simple, broad spearhead.

The Dwarf Elder gave it a brief, almost perfunctory inspection.

He noted the weld where the socket met the blade. "Weak weld. The point geometry is passable, but the material was worked too cold at the finish. It lacks structural integrity."

He didn't even tap it with the rod. "Grade: Passable."

The B Class competitor lowered his head in disappointment.

Finally, Ignis arrived at the counter of the C Class.

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