An Unwritten Story [LitRPG, Evil MCs]

“Why am I here?” Elina's voice was filled with exhaustion, her slit pupils tracking Noa and Marnok.

She had been brought to the workshop by force, barely having had time to let the palace medics finish wrapping the wounds on her chest and in the eye Noa had stabbed.

“Well, you see, Elina-chan—” Noa raised a finger and closed his eyes, offering a radiant smile “—we want your help with making my sword.”

“Elina... chan? What are you getting at?” She narrowed one eye and leaned forward suspiciously, her nose inches from Noa's. “And what about this sword? I don't know anything about sword crafting.”

“Well, you see, Elina, sword forging is not only about how much you know.” Behind her, near the entrance, Vionette spoke up.

She had followed them here because she knew Noa's character far too well. The moment she saw him dragging a confused Elina toward the industrial district, she knew the forging was about to become a spectacle.

Elina looked at Noa, then at Vionette, and finally let out a long, defeated sigh. “Two big cakes.”

“Done!” Vionette said, clapping her hands.

“Okay… what is it that you want?” Elina looked back at Noa.

“We want you to heat up these dragon parts I got from one of my friends.” Noa pointed at the pile of draconic materials sitting on the workbench.

Elina looked at the pile, and then her eyelids began to twitch. “You don't have any more dragon friends! Those are the scales you snatched from me! And my horn!” she shouted childishly, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “You meanie! You're literally asking me to cook myself!”

“Heheheh… heh…”

“Tch! Whatever! Let's just get started.”

“Okay then.” The room's atmosphere shifted, growing serious as Marnok stood up, his leather apron creaking. “Direct your dragon breath directly into this.”

He pointed at the forge's intake—a funnel-shaped iron opening at the base, lined with glowing Heat-Sink Runes designed to keep the entire stone structure from exploding under the solar pressure of a dragon's lungs.

Elina walked toward the spot Marnok indicated. She didn't know the first thing about smithing, but she knew power. “Here I go then.”

She pointed both palms at the opening—index fingers and thumbs touching to form a perfect triangle—and slowly, inside that triangle, Aether gathered and glowed a bruised crimson, feeding the force dwelling within her lungs.

“Dragon Blast!”

She absorbed as much Aether as she could, but instead of a wide explosion like before in Cerma, she condensed it into a needle-thin, hyper-pressurized stream.

WROOOM!

The forge turned a blinding white-blue. The air in the shop began to vibrate, the sound so low it pressed against everyone's ribs. The exhaust coming out of the chimney turned into a pillar of pure heat that could be seen across the city—a golden spear piercing the sky.

Any other forge would have been reduced to molten slag, but Marnok's was ready. He had been dreaming of a dragon igniting the heat of his forge for years.

The dragon horn was placed inside a Crucible—a bell-shaped pot of high-density graphite—tucked into a recessed nest at the very back of the forge. The dragon scales were laid out on a Fire-Brick Platen in the middle, sitting directly in the path where Elina's breath screamed through the intake.

“Keep it going smoothly.” Marnok looked at Elina, then back at the shifting colors of the metal. “Now! Raise it a bit!”

“Okay. Here goes!” Elina pushed harder, her hair whipping around her face from the sheer pressure of her own Aether.

The dark scales began to bleed a deep crimson light as the horn inside the pot turned into a glowing, translucent marrow. Marnok watched, barely even blinking, waiting for the perfect moment of malleability.

“Lower the intensity!” He suddenly shouted at Elina.

“On it!” she gasped, cutting back her Aether output until the white-crimson roar faded back to a steady, pulsing orange.

Marnok stepped up and clamped onto the glowing dragon scales with his Tungsten Tongs, holding them with a grip that spoke of decades of experience.

“It's time to begin the real work,” he muttered before moving his hands.

THUD!

Marnok hauled the scales out and slammed them onto the anvil's face. While the scales were still screaming with unbearable heat, he reached back for the Crucible and tipped it. The molten dragon horn—now a thick, glowing liquid—was poured directly over the center of the scales.

In Marnok's eyes, a great weapon was made from the creator's skill, the weapon's will, and the wielder's intent. In this case, the dragon horn was the core, the unyielding marrow of the sword, while the scales were the skin.

The liquid marrow hissed and popped as it met the solid scales, creating a bonding layer that looked like lava flowing over volcanic rock.

“Hey!” He looked at Noa, his eyes burning with wild energy. “Get that sledgehammer and come here quickly! I can't hold this beast down by myself!”

To bend dragon parts like these, Marnok needed the raw power and the intent of the owner of the blade—the one who would bear the weight of its sins.

“Coming!”

Noa shed his jacket, leaving him in his short-sleeved, fitted black shirt, and stepped up to the anvil. His carefree tone was long gone—the playfulness had vanished, replaced by a cold focus as he seized the sledgehammer.

“Follow my rhythm and strike back immediately. If you miss a beat, the metal will reject you,” Marnok warned.

“Okay!”

Ting—CLANG!

Marnok struck a rhythm on the edge of the anvil to signal Noa. He hit the center of the marrow to spread it, and Noa followed immediately with the sledgehammer, using raw strength to flatten the scales and force the marrow into the crystalline structure of the materials.

Over and over, they repeated it. The rhythm was hypnotic, a pulse of creation that filled the workshop.

Noa didn't know the specifics of the craft; he simply followed the beat Marnok provided. He struck with full force because he had to—the materials possessed the stubborn, prideful spirit of a dragon, after all. They actively tried to push the hammers back, resisting the transformation.

Noa channeled his full power to prevent the hammer from rebounding, while Marnok utilized his [Force Redirection (Rare)] to ensure the shockwaves didn't shatter the anvil's foundation.

“Ease up on the force a bit! You're crushing the grain!” Marnok yelled.

“Okay.”

“Too low, a little bit higher! Hit it like it owes you money!”

“What the hell?! Whatever! Okay!”

“Too far left! Keep it centered!”

The two were drenched in sweat, their clothes clinging to them. Even Noa hadn't thought it would be this physically taxing.

Slowly, the glowing bar started to take its first shape—a long, wicked sliver of crimson and black. They weren't just hitting metal; they were breaking the beast's stubborn memory of being alive. Sweat dripped from their brows onto the glowing metal below, evaporating into raw emotion as it bonded with the material.

“Hey… look at his face,” Elina whispered, leaning against the forge intake for support. “He wasn’t even serious when fighting me, but now…”

“He has to be,” Vionette replied, letting out soft laughter. “He was very excited for this weapon.”

“Now, get it to the edge!” Marnok shouted, grabbing the hardy block. They moved the long, glowing bar to the brink of the anvil.

CLANG! CLING!

“I'll taper the point, you help thin out the cutting side,” Marnok spoke, looking at Noa for a split second with his sweat-filled face.

Instead of smoothing the edge into a traditional curve, Marnok placed the glowing blade over the hardy block and struck. This notched the dragon scales, creating jagged, razor-sharp thorns that pointed back toward the hilt.

Every strike released a fountain of sparks, the friction of the dragon-metal against the iron tools creating a miniature firework display that rained over Marnok's hands, blistering his skin.

This wasn’t his idea; he was merely following the design Noa had drawn on a scrap of paper. It was a child's request for something ‘cool’ and ‘spiked’, but to Marnok, it was a holy commission. He wouldn't cut corners on a child's dream.

CLING!

The next phase started. The blade had become so sharp before it was even finished that the air itself seemed to bleed. Just the vibration of the hammer and metal clashing sent out invisible ghost slashes, mapping red lines across Marnok's skin and staining his arms. But his excited eyes didn't flinch. Noa didn't look back either; he was staring into the soul of the metal.

“Goddamn sword! Stop resisting!” Noa shouted at the core of the sword, his voice echoing the hammer strikes.

Marnok continued the forging without a care for the cuts appearing on his own arms. Instead of wincing, he smiled in amusement, a wild, manic look in his eyes.

As Elina watched Marnok from the forge intake, she was reminded of the human who had fought her—the man who laughed madly even when his legs were shaking, who found joy on the brink of destruction.

Are these two the same? she wondered as she saw the soot-covered Marnok smiling through the pain.

“Stop!” After a long hour of rhythmic hammering, Marnok finally held up a bleeding hand. “The metal is angry and too unstable. Let's let it cool down.”

He placed the blade on the cooling rack, allowing the Aetheric grains in the dragon scales to settle into their new, forced alignment. As it cooled from white to a deep, cherry red, the blade began to sing—a low, mournful draconic hum that made everyone's teeth ache and the glass bottles on the shelves rattle.

Marnok locked his eyes on the metal, calculating the right moment. “Now! Bring it back to the anvil!”

Noa quickly grabbed the heated blade with tongs and slammed it back onto the anvil.

“Continue making the cutting side!” Marnok snatched his hammer back, ready to resume the beat.

“On it—Wait…” Noa muttered to himself as an idea struck him.

He dropped the sledgehammer to the ground with a metallic thud that shook the workshop floor.

[Echo Reclamation]

His arms were suddenly swathed in a crawling mist of dark purple energy. Marnok saw the skill activate but had no time to ask questions—if the heat died now, the sword was scrap.

Noa ignored the tools and closed in on the anvil, his eyes glowing with the same violet hue as his skill.

THUUNG!

He didn't use a hammer. He slammed his bare hand directly onto the glowing flat of the blade.

“Noa! What the hell are you doing?!” Elina screamed, stepping forward, but Vionette held her back.

The dark purple energy of [Echo Reclamation] flowed from Noa's palm like an infection. The crimson-black surface of the sword began to bubble and ripple, the metal churning as if the sword were trying to scream in agony.

Noa struck the blade again, the force making his arms bleed.

As the two powers—Elina's stubborn draconic will and Noa's skill—clashed, the workshop began to tremble. Shockwaves rippled out from the anvil, leaving jagged marks on the stone walls and sweeping weapons off their racks. The pressure was so great Vionette had to duck behind Elina for protection.

Noa was smiling in excitement. With each pulse of the skill, his hands started to melt against the white-hot blade, but he didn't pull away. He wasn't strengthening the metal; he was trapping a moment of the dragon's fear inside the blade.

“Remember the feeling of being torn apart,” Noa shouted with a wicked smile, his voice barely audible over the roar of the energy, “and return it to your enemy without hesitation! Taste all the agony gathered from Crimvane and return that agony tenfold!”

He was infusing the blade with every negative emotion he had gathered from the people of Crimvane using [Echo Reclamation]. The anger of the betrayed, the sadness of the bereaved, the fear of the weak—all of it flowed into the steel, spreading across the thorned edge like a network of glowing violet veins.

In the corner of his eye, Marnok saw the unnatural energy. He felt the rush of a man witnessing a miracle of darkness. He saw the emotions being stitched into the metal lattice, turning a weapon into something alive and hungry—something he hadn’t seen happen in years.

“Hahahah! Keep going! Keep going at it!” the dwarf shouted, his own hammer joining Noa's hand in a final, frantic rhythm.

Bit by bit, the sword absorbed the emotions. That once-emotionless core was now being filled with a soul—a will made of nothing but distilled negative emotions.

A living record of pain was being born.

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