(The Soulspace Forge, Supreme Master Argo's POV)

*CLANG*

*BOOOOM*

The sound of the second strike still reverberated through the hollow expanse of the Soulspace as the Origin Metal shuddered again, its impossible surface rippling like disturbed water, even though no physical heat touched it.

Argo felt the reaction not only through his eyes, but through his very bones, as a strange vibration crawled up the handle of his hammer and burrowed straight into his chest, tugging at something deep inside him that had nothing to do with flesh.

'What powerful resistance...'

He thought, as his lips curled into a faint, grim smile.

*Raise*

*SLAM*

Another blow followed, then another, each impact landing in a perfect rhythm, as the apprentices took turns playing their own part in this forging, as they turned the metal block and sprinkled oil on it as necessary.

At first, only the Origin Metal seemed to change, its edges softening in the Soulspace projection, as the perfect cube slowly began to warp into an elongated shape, the faint outline of twin blades emerging like ghostly sketches from within the block.

However, as the forging continued, it became clear that the sacrifices were not one-sided.

One apprentice, a young man who had arrived on Ixtal with smooth skin and bright, hungry eyes, wiped his forehead out of habit, only to

freeze when he caught sight of his hand.

The skin along his knuckles had begun to wrinkle, as his fingers looked slightly more bony.

"Master..." he whispered, as fear crept into his voice. "My hand..."

"Do not look away from the metal," Argo replied, his tone firm yet oddly gentle, as he brought the hammer down again.

*CLANG*

"You knew the price when you stepped into the Soul Forge. We all did. So don't chicken out now.

The more you look at yourself, the faster you will break."

He said, as the apprentices swallowed their fear and steadied their breathing once more, channelling their focus and emotions into the flaming anvil at the center of this empty world.

Time became difficult to measure in that place.

Each strike felt like an eternity, yet they had no sunrise, no sunset to count the passing hours by, as the pale-white soul flame flickered and twisted around the Origin Metal, reshaping it gently in response to every sacrifice they willingly poured into it.

*SLAM*

*SLAM*

*SLAM*

The block finally split along an invisible seam as two mirrored shapes unfolded from within, like twin fangs peeling away from a single jaw, as the beginnings of the double-edged blades finally began to take form.

Their curvature was still rough, their spines thick and unfinished, but the length and outline followed the design Soron had requested, as Argo felt the slightest hint of pride stirring in his chest.

Yet with that pride came weight.

He heard one of the apprentices cough, a wet, strained sound that did not belong to a young man, as he glanced briefly to check on him.

*Cough*

The boy's hair, once jet-black, now had streaks of gray running through it.

While another apprentice's jawline had grown sharper, more hollow, as his faint stubble deepened into a rough beard.

Wrinkles had begun to frame their eyes, and all of them breathed a little heavier than before.

"They are aging... as expected, Argo thought, as his grip tightened around the hammer.

Then he caught sight of his own reflection in the surface of the half-formed blades and nearly faltered.

His face, which had already carried the marks of age with dignity, now looked like it belonged to a man standing far too close to the end.

The lines on his forehead had deepened, his cheeks had hollowed

out, and there was a strange, translucent quality to his features, as if his very presence was becoming thin.

'Good...'

He thought, as a strange, peaceful acceptance washed through him.

'If someone must trade years for this project to be a success, then let it be mine first!

"Master, allow us to shoulder more of the burden," one apprentice requested, as he stepped closer, his eyes burning with desperate

loyalty. "You have already given enough."

However, Argo shook his head in rejection.

"None of you are worthy! You don't have the experience, nor the

strength I have.

This projection is the culmination of my lifetime as a blacksmith.

It will go down as my greatest masterpiece!"

He said as he drew in a long breath, before exhaling straight into the flame, as he fed it with his own determination.

*SLAM*

The blow echoed through the world in between, and this time, the

twin blades warped more visibly.

Their spines thinned, curving into a gentle arc that carried both elegance and lethality, while their edges sharpened along invisible lines, as though the concept of a perfect cut was being etched into them stroke by stroke.

With each stage, Argo adjusted the angle of his strikes, sometimes forcing the weight toward the midsection as Soron had described, sometimes compressing the imaginary lattice of the Origin Metal so that the eventual edges would be thin enough to cut not just flesh but

dimensions.

His mind replayed every instruction Soron had given him.

Thirty-three centimeters of blade.

Eleven for the handle.

Balance locked one-third from the hilt.

Weight concentrated towards the belly of the blade for brutal, decisive strikes, yet light enough at the hilt for rapid changes in

direction.

He molded those principles into the very identity of the metal.

With every swing, he whispered silently inside his own heart.

"This is for Ixtal.'

'This is for my fallen brethren'

'This is for the Cult!

'This is for Lord Soron who carries all of our burdens!

"This is for Commander Charles, who died valiantly protecting us!

"This is for the hopes and dreams of our people...'

As the Soul Forge drank those feelings, pulling them into the Origin

Metal, which no longer felt cold and indifferent, but began to thrum

faintly with a presence of its own.

*CLANG*

Cracks crawled along Argo's arms-not physical fractures, but

crooked lines of faint light beneath his skin, as if his soul was splintering at the seams in real time.

His vision blurred at the edges. His breath came shorter. Yet his

stance never wavered.

Around him, his apprentices had all become men who could have

passed for veterans-hair streaked with gray, faces carved with hardship-yet none of them complained, as their eyes remained locked on the shaping blades before them.

"Master... the forms of the blades are almost stable," one of them said hoarsely, as Argo nodded.

"Good. Then we begin the final sequence."

He guided, as he shifted his grip and hammered at the spine of both

blades in alternating rhythm, thinning it exactly as needed, while the soul flame wrapped around the edges, compressing them to an

impossibly fine line.

Every impact now felt like something was being torn from his chest.

His knees trembled.

His shoulders shook.

The world flickered.

Yet he did not stop. Not when his hands began to tremble.

Not when blood traced a thin line from the corner of his mouth.

Not even when he felt his heartbeat falter, as his body desperately

clanged on to life just a little longer.

*SLAM*

*SLAM*

*SLAM*

"Master, that is enough! You'll die..." one apprentice cried, reaching for him instinctively.

However, Argo did not answer.

He merely smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the blades. The twin weapons now floated above the Soul Forge, fully formed in

outline, their curves elegant, their presence terrifying, as if they were two sleeping beasts waiting to bare their fangs.

Only one step remained. The final tempering.

And for that, Argo stepped forward himself, as he raised his hammer

high, one last time.

"In the name of every soul that fell on this planet... and in the hope of every one that yet lives," he whispered, as the words left his lips with the weight of a vow, "I temper you... as the fangs of our revenge....

Arise, Grudgekeeper" *SLAM*

The hammer fell.

As light exploded from the blades in a blinding wave, surging outward

in a silent scream that tore through the Soulspace. The apprentices staggered back, shielding their eyes as the world

around them fractured, the mist shattering into shards of light, which

then rained back down into their bodies.

*THUMP*

Argo's knees finally buckled.

His trusted hammer, now cracked and broken, slipping from his hand,

as the white flame receded, withdrawing back into the black anvil as

the Soul Forge slowly quieted, having taken its toll.

"Master!"

The apprentices said, as they rushed toward him.

As in the physical world, back in Soron's backyard, their bodies

collapsed in near perfect sync.

The apprentices hit the ground, panting, aged but alive, while Argo

fell to one knee beside the anvil, his chest rising and falling shallowly.

His hair had turned completely white.

His skin had thinned like old parchment.

Yet his eyes were clear as he gazed at the two blades now resting

upon the physical forge, gleaming with a strange, muted radiance that

felt heavier than any aura they had ever witnessed.

They were not ornamented with jewels. They bore no needless engravings.

Just two slightly curved, double-edged blades, their surfaces a dull,

matte gray, yet somehow more threatening than the brightest divine weapon.

Soron stood at the edge of the circle, silent, his gaze fixed on the weapons. "Master Argo..." one apprentice whispered, choking on his words. "We... we did it..."

Argo exhaled a trembling breath, a faint smile touching his lips as he forced himself to look between Soron and the finished blades. "My Lord..." he said weakly, his voice barely audible. "These blades...

they are the sum of everything I could provide-"

He lifted a shaking hand, pointing at them.

"I have named them... Grudgekeeper. May they reclaim what our people lost... and carve a path of vengeance for the Cult."

He said, as his arm fell back to his side. The apprentices sobbed quietly, as they realized his body had finally gone still.

Argo died standing at the edge of his forge, eyes half-open, face peaceful, as if he had simply stepped a little further into the Soulspace and forgotten to return.

As even Soron bowed his head deeply, more deeply than a God should

ever bow before a mortal.

"Rest well, Supreme Master Argo," he said, his voice low and reverent.

"I vow to not let your sacrifice go to waste."

He resolved, as he promised to slay at least a few enemy Gods with

this blade.