Then it clicked. This was exactly why his teachers had shielded him so carefully. The special task channels, the low profile, the silence. It was all to protect him from envy.

The only real solution is strength, Ray thought. If I'm strong enough, jealousy won't matter.

The blacksmith's competition took place in a gymnasium near Skysea Stadium. The moment Ray stepped inside, his heart gave a small jolt.

Over a hundred forging tables stretched out before him, all from the latest generation. Each one far surpassed the equipment he normally used. His only experience with such tables came from the advanced setups within the association itself.

Though the Skysea Alliance lacked top-tier powerhouses, its economic strength was undeniable.

The stands were sparsely filled. To most people, blacksmithing was dull. Soul master battles, mechas, and battle armor were far more exciting.

Nigel hadn't come. For someone of his stature, this event was beneath notice. Still, Ray saw many unfamiliar faces on the judging platform, all of them fifth-rank blacksmiths or higher.

Kaelan had already explained the rules. The first round tested Hundred Refinement. As long as Ray forged normally, he would pass with ease.

Then the metal was brought out.

Ray's eyes narrowed.

Blue coppertite.

The same metal from his fourth-rank exam. Among uncommon metals, it was notoriously difficult to forge.

So that's how it is.

"Junior division contestants," the judge announced, "your task is to Hundred Refine this metal. Those who fail will be eliminated. Among those who succeed, the best will advance."

Simple. Direct. Ruthless.

Requiring Hundred Refinement of blue coppertite would immediately separate the truly skilled from the pretenders.

Ray glanced sideways. Rachel stood calm, brows slightly knit, her aura steady as flowing water. She had already tasted Thousand Refinement. This challenge posed no real threat to her.

"Begin!"

Hammers were drawn across the hall.

Pressed for time, Ray didn't use his tungsten hammers. He summoned his heavy silver hammers instead.

Three crisp notes rang out as his left hammer lightly tapped the blue coppertite.

Then came the second strike.

Bang!

The sound echoed thunderously through the gym.

Ray was the first to begin.

Rachel didn't even flinch. She expected nothing less from him. The judges, however, frowned.

"That child didn't even examine the metal," one white-haired elder muttered. "Who's teaching him?"

"So impatient," another scoffed. "He has strength, but no restraint. Typical youth."

Their criticism lasted only moments.

Because Ray had already entered his world.

Once he began forging, everything else vanished. His vision tunneled, his senses locking entirely onto the blue coppertite beneath his hammers. He didn't notice that no one else had started yet. All that existed was rhythm and force.

His hammers fell like a storm.

Each strike carried over six hundred kilograms of power. Each impact boomed through the gym, vibrations rippling across the air.

Rachel's mouth twitched. Of all the places, she had chosen the spot beside him.

Blacksmiths relied on rhythm. Disturbances were deadly. Packing so many contestants together was a test of focus, and Ray's forging was like a siege engine pounding the ground.

Rachel calmly sat down cross-legged and waited.

There was no rush. Ray would finish soon.

Once he was done, she would begin.

She could remain composed.

Others were not so fortunate.

Some forced themselves to forge through the noise, impatience clouding their judgment. The result was inevitable. Under Ray's relentless hammering, flaws crept into their work, unnoticed until it was too late.

The storm at one table had already begun to decide the fates of many others.

Blue Coppertite wasn't the hardest metal to forge, but it was infamous for one reason: it never stayed still.

Its internal structure shifted constantly, patterns rippling and twisting beneath the surface. For most blacksmiths, that instability was a nightmare. For Ray, it was merely inconvenient.

He relied on the special property of his heavy silver hammer—the Stacked Hammer effect. By synchronizing his strikes into a single, escalating rhythm, he reduced what should have been a lengthy process into just over a hundred precise blows.

The moment the final strike landed, Ray stopped.

He withdrew his hammer and raised his hand.

A staff member supervising the competition hurried over, nearly tripping in his haste.

"You're finished?" the man asked, instinctively reaching for Ray's number plate. When his eyes fell upon the Blue Coppertite—now significantly reduced in size—his expression stiffened with disbelief.

Ray nodded calmly. "Yes."

"You can leave if you're done," the staff member said after a pause, then added kindly, "but are you sure you've completed the Hundred Refinement? If you fail, you'll be eliminated."

"I'm sure," Ray replied without hesitation.

For someone of his level, Hundred Refinement was hardly worth second thought.

On the judging platform, a white-haired old man leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"Bring that child's work up here," he said. "If he isn't exaggerating, then this is no ordinary talent."

At first, he had thought Ray reckless—starting without even inspecting the metal. But as a Saint Blacksmith, he had heard something else beneath those hammer strikes.

Rhythm.

Not noise. Not brute force.

A true forging rhythm, steady and natural, as though the metal itself had been breathing in time with the hammer.

When a blacksmith aligned with their own innate tempo, efficiency didn't just improve—it doubled.

Blue Coppertite resisted refinement, yet that child had subdued it with ease.

The refined metal was quickly delivered to the platform.

The judges—each a heavyweight in the blacksmithing world—leaned in simultaneously, their gazes converging like rivers flowing into the sea.

"This…" someone murmured.

Blue Coppertite was beautiful by nature, but its quality lay in the details. Even distribution of patterns. Rings drawn tightly toward the core. A centered refinement ring was proof of success. Any further reduction in size only strengthened the verdict.

The white-haired elder picked it up, turning it slowly in his palm. His fingers brushed over the surface, sensing the internal grain. His eyes suddenly brightened.

"High-grade Hundred Refined," he declared. "Find out which association the child belongs to. Immediately."

By then, Ray was already gone.

He sprinted toward Skysea Stadium, feet barely touching the ground.

The blacksmith gym was closed, and he had memorized the route the night before. Every second mattered.

His forging had gone flawlessly, and he was the first to finish. According to his number plate, he was assigned to the third heat of the individual competition's first round.

That meant time.

At least an hour.

Skysea Stadium buzzed with activity. With so many competitors, events ran concurrently across multiple venues. Only with such efficiency could the tournament accommodate its massive scale.

Ray headed for the check-in area—only to be blocked.

"Hmph!"

A cold snort cut through the air.

Ray raised his head.

Scarlet stood before him, eyes blazing with unmistakable fury.

Beside her was Jacob. At first glance, he looked as innocent as ever, but beneath the plump cheeks and sheepish posture lurked unmistakable bitterness.

"I finally found you!" Scarlet snapped, hands planted on her hips. Her eyebrows arched sharply, rage practically radiating from her. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Ray blinked. "Say what? I don't even know you that well. Move aside. I need to prepare."

"You're competing?" Scarlet reached out and shoved his shoulder.

He didn't move.

Not even a tremor.

Her eyes widened slightly as she realized his body felt like solid steel.

Memories from the night before surged back, stoking her anger even further.

That humiliation.

The restaurant owner is demanding payment.

Neither she nor Jacob had a single coin.

Being forced to call for help.

Worse still, being accused of trying to dine and dash.

In the end, the two of them had been made to wash greasy, fish-smelling dishes until someone arrived to settle the bill. The only alternative was to keep scrubbing until the debt was paid off.

Scarlet, delicate hands raw and red, had silently endured it all.

Two students of Central Academy are washing dishes in a seafood restaurant.

The shame burned hotter than the soap.

And she blamed him.

"So you are competing," she said through clenched teeth. "Didn't you say you'd pay last night? Did you? Did you pay the bill?"

Ray answered evenly, "I paid my share. Why should I pay for yours? Jacob was the one who said he'd treat me. I left after paying for myself. What's wrong with that? Didn't you eat too?"

He stepped closer, gaze steady.

"You didn't want to be friends with me. You treated me like someone beneath you. So why should I pay for someone like you, full of attitude?"

Scarlet froze.

Logic struck harder than any insult.

She opened her mouth, then shut it again.

"But—you said it was an honor to eat with us!" she protested weakly.

Ray frowned. "Does 'honor' mean I have to pay? I never said I'd treat you. If we were friends, maybe. But you didn't want that. I didn't take advantage of you at all."

"But—you ate the most!" Scarlet blurted out, cheeks flushing red.

"Who stopped you from eating more?" Ray sidestepped her, walking forward without slowing. "I'm late."

"You! Stop right there!" she shouted.

He didn't.

"You bastard!" Scarlet yelled after him.

Jacob tugged on her sleeve timidly. "Big sister Scarlet… Ray's words make sense."

She whipped around. "Are you taking his side?"

"I—I'm on your side!" Jacob squeaked.

Scarlet narrowed her eyes at Ray's retreating back. "Just you wait."

She turned sharply and marched after him.

"Big sister Scarlet, what are you doing?"

"I'm signing up too," she said coldly. "He wants to talk sense? Fine. I'll beat sense into him on the stage."

Unaware of the storm he had just triggered, Ray completed his check-in without issue.

Now, all that remained was to wait.

Half an hour until his match began.

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