Starting with the goblin extermination

Dalark slammed his foot down on the pedal at the bottom of the furnace.

The heat wave made his beard flutter backward.

The room was filled with the smell of burnt metal, which was the sweetest smell in the world to any dwarf.

At least that's what he thinks.

The longsword lay flat on the anvil, and Dalark rubbed the blade with his fingers.

A row of wild boar spikes, each as long as a forearm, lay to one side. The spikes were a pale grayish-brown, with a spiral pattern on their surface and a tough texture.

It's time to unleash the secret technique again.

Before receiving the Blessing, Darak never liked to use arcane arts.

Because the feeling after the procedure is like having a big hole in the middle of your body.

Dwarfs always prefer a down-to-earth feeling.

Dalark threw the spikes one by one into a large pot filled with a murky green liquid. Accompanied by pungent white smoke, the spikes began to soften, dissolve, and eventually turn into a pool of brownish-green bone paste.

The longsword was sent into the furnace and heated until it turned a translucent cherry red. He shouted and pulled it out, placing it on the anvil.

After receiving the Blessing, he developed a fondness for arcane arts.

"Apros".

Dalark uttered the name in a low voice. As soon as he finished speaking, several dark golden runes lit up on his thick arms, flowing beneath his skin and emitting tiny sparks.

Aplos, the God of Blacksmithing

A powerful force emanated from the inextinguishable furnace of God, filling his limbs.

"Wake up!"

He raised the iron hammer high in his right hand, and with his left hand, he scooped up the scalding bone paste with a large ladle, pouring it down his longsword like pouring blood.

when!

The first hammer blow fell.

Sparks exploded, leaving scorch marks on the apron. Bone paste seeped into the steel bit by bit.

when!when!when!

With each strike, the brownish-green bone paste was forced to fuse with the steel a little more, and the anvil emitted a sound similar to the dying hiss of a wild beast.

"Still trying to struggle? Get in here!"

With a flick of his wrist, Dalark's hammering suddenly became even more ferocious, and dark vein-like patterns gradually appeared on the spine of his longsword.

The wild beast is about to be tamed.

......

Logan listened to the noises coming from inside the room and sat down on the wooden stool.

He rested his arms on his knees, held that position for a moment, and then, somewhat bored, turned his gaze to the newspaper that Dallak had left behind.

He unfolded the newspaper.

The front page headline, printed in bold black font, read: "Northern Nordland is on the verge of unification: The Grand Duke of Uruk raised an army from Rift City and pacified six cities within half a month; the unification of the Northland may be a foregone conclusion—"

He continued reading.

The Grand Duke of Uruk was a completely unfamiliar name to Logan, a country boy. But what he had accomplished in just half a month was truly remarkable.

Six medium-sized cities fell one after another, each with its own independent defenses and army. The newspapers used the word "pacified," but to pacify the warlike northerners... perhaps slaughter would have been more convenient.

Could he be the next king of the North?

Logan's gaze shifted to the latter half of the newspaper. It stated that the Grand Duke's stated cause was support for the late King's illegitimate son, a young man who had yet to appear in any official documents.

Logan smiled.

It can't be myself, can it?

This Uruk might really be the next king of the north, even his methods are exactly the same as those of the former royal family.

Logan folded the newspaper and put it back in its place.

Dallak's laughter came from inside the room, and the door was kicked open.

The old dwarf placed the longsword on the counter, with the blade facing Logan.

Logan could tell at a glance what had changed in his old buddy.

The blade was a bit darker in color, with a grayish tinge, making it look heavier. The spine of the blade was covered with fine lines.

Logan gripped the hilt of his sword.

Lines of text appeared before my eyes once again:

......

Frostwolf Standard Longsword

Type: Weapon/Sword

Quality: Rare (Blue)

Blessing: [Apros, the God of Blacksmiths]

effect:

[The Howl of the Spiked Boar] - Durability +30%, Sharpness +10%

Item Description:

Originally the standard weapon of the Frostwolf Legion in North Nordland, it was later forged by the dwarven blacksmith Dalark of Riverwood, who used the fire of Aplos to melt the raging spikyback boar bone spikes into steel.

......

Protection?

It's not a magical weapon, but it still displays a panel.

Those 20 gold coins were totally worth it!

Logan glanced at Dalark in surprise; the dwarf was proudly admiring his masterpiece.

"What are you standing there for! Give it a try! See how good my skills are!"

Logan slowly twirled the sword halfway in his hand, feeling its new weight.

He then thrust forward with a sudden lunge.

[Thrust]

A flash of white light, and Logan sheathed his sword.

"Perfect."

Dalark shook his head, his nose practically pointing to the sky.

......

Arandor Calendar 3563, North Nordland Kingdom, Rift City, Cold Harbor

The mooring ropes on the wooden piles in the harbor were frozen stiff, and the entire gray-black sea was completely still.

White-clad warriors lined up along the coastline, the wind and snow reflecting off their armor, each face wearing a helmet, devoid of any emotion.

There were two people standing at the very front.

The man on the left has broad shoulders and a thick back, his crimson overcoat flapping in the wind. Beneath his blond hair is a angular, northern face.

Looking at him alone, you would have no doubt that he is the master of this frozen land. His posture and demeanor are those of someone accustomed to giving orders.

He is the Grand Duke of Uruk, now nominally the most powerful man in the North.

But a step to his right stood a gaunt old man.

The old man, with a full head of white hair, stood motionless in the gale, wrapped in a white robe, his eyes fixed on the gray sea.

"Every inch of the permafrost has been turned over, Your Excellency." The Grand Duke of Uruk lowered his voice, a hint of displeasure in his tone. "The old man's bloodline... remains missing."

The judge did not turn around, his lips moving slightly: "Your Grace, are you complaining about the incompetence of Lord Lockhart, God's most loyal servant?"

The Grand Duke of Uruk's eyes twitched slightly, and he swallowed his rebuttal.

"Just a weed that survives under a rotten tree," the judge's voice was colder than the sea breeze. "The tree has already been uprooted, that's enough. God doesn't care about a fleeing ant."

"But—" the Grand Duke wanted to say more.

boom!!!

A terrifying wind pressure descended from the sky.

The hard ice in the port cracked instantly, and the white-clad warriors at the front were violently shaken by the gale.

A colossal white shadow, obscuring the sky, tore through the heavens.

The dragon Lockhart descended upon the port.

The surrounding warhorses let out desperate neighs and knelt down. Fear filled the air.

Its enormous wings were folded, and its sapphire-like eyes stared down at the judge.

The man and the dragon gazed at each other in silence.

Then everyone saw it.

On the sea, a massive, despair-inducing silhouette gradually emerged from the thick fog.

At first it looked like an iceberg, but as you get closer, its shape becomes clearer.

That was a warship.

The ship's hull was covered with dense, dark red patterns, and it was so huge that it defied common sense.

It docked at the port amidst the silence of the crowd.

The medical workers in white involuntarily took a half step back.

Then light appeared.

They slowly gathered in mid-air, coalescing into a humanoid silhouette.

It drifted off the deck, its toes touching the wooden planks of the harbor.

It was a woman dressed in silver-white armor.

The presiding judge knelt down.

Even the proud dragon Lockhart lowered its arrogant head.

Everyone fell in rows, their hearts filled with holy light.

Above the cold harbor, hundreds and thousands of voices rang out simultaneously, uttering the same fervent shouts:

"Welcome the Eighth Apostle."