Extra's Sign In System: The Hero's an Idiot!

Chapter 180: Chapter 180: The Forge-King’s Test

Chapter 180: The Forge-King’s Test

The royal foundry of the Forge-King was entirely separate from the Great Forge.

It was a massive, circular cavern located at the very bottom of the Stoneheart City, suspended directly over a roaring lake of open magma.

Cole Rust left Bram standing guard outside the heavy iron doors. The young blacksmith, occupying the historical body of Master Torvin, stepped into the suffocating heat of the royal chamber.

It was a scene of absolute, heartbreaking madness.

The royal foundry was completely trashed. Priceless ingots of star-iron and enchanted bronze were scattered across the stone floor.

Beautiful, half-finished weapons had been violently smashed into unrecognizable scraps.

In the center of the chaos stood Forge-King Thorgar.

The ruler of the Dwarves was massive, wearing an ornate crown of jagged black iron. But he did not look like a king.

His royal beard was matted with sweat and soot. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and darting erratically around the empty cavern.

He was holding a massive, glowing forging hammer. He was whispering to it frantically.

"Do you see them?" Thorgar hissed, holding the hammer close to his face.

"They are hiding in the fire. I can hear them laughing. The Elves... they want to burn my city. They want to turn my mountain to ash."

Thorgar suddenly spun around, screaming at a completely empty corner of the foundry.

"I see you!" the Forge-King roared. He swung his heavy hammer, violently smashing an intricate suit of royal armor into flat, useless metal.

"You cannot hide from me! I will build a cage! An impenetrable iron cage around my throne! The arrows will not pierce it! The magic will not touch me!"

Cole watched the tragic display. The crimson-vine drug had completely rotted the King’s mind. Dark, oily shadows, invisible Treachery-Fiends, slithered across the walls of the foundry, constantly whispering lies and fueling his paranoia.

Cole did not bow. He did not speak with the polite reverence expected of a royal subject.

He walked right up to the raving king and kicked a piece of shattered, useless armor across the floor.

"This is garbage," Cole stated, projecting Master Torvin’s gruff, authoritative voice perfectly.

Thorgar froze. He slowly turned his bloodshot eyes toward the Master Blacksmith.

"What did you say to me, Torvin?" Thorgar growled, the paranoia instantly shifting into explosive, royal rage.

"I said your work is brittle, paranoid garbage," Cole replied coldly, crossing his thick, muscular arms.

"You are hammering cold iron like a frightened child. The metal is weeping under your strikes. You are insulting the ancestors with this trash."

The heavy silence in the foundry was terrifying. The Treachery-Fiends hissed from the shadows, urging the King to execute the insolent blacksmith.

"You dare insult my craft?!" Thorgar bellowed, raising his glowing hammer high into the air.

"I am the Forge-King! I shape the very bones of this mountain! I will have you thrown into the magma for treason!"

"Haha!" Cole challenged instantly.

"If you must tell the world you’re king, then no throne has accepted you. I challenge you to the God-Forge Trial."

Thorgar’s hammer stopped in mid-air.

The God-Forge Trial was the most ancient, sacred tradition in Dwarven history. It was an absolute duel of craftsmanship. To refuse the challenge was a stain on a Dwarf’s soul that could never be erased.

"A trial?" Thorgar sneered, a wicked, manic gleam returning to his eyes.

"Fine. When I crush your pathetic creation, I will execute you myself. What are your terms?"

"If I win," Cole said, reaching into his heavy leather apron to pull out a small glass vial filled with the glowing green antidote Lyra had brewed, "you must drink this purifying elixir. No questions asked."

"Done," Thorgar hissed.

"Let the fires judge us."

The duel began.

Thorgar moved to the massive royal anvil. He completely abandoned traditional technique. He channeled his raw, overwhelming royal magma magic, forcing the ambient heat of the cavern directly into his iron.

He hammered wildly, brute-forcing the metal with terrifying, explosive strength. It was a chaotic, ear-shattering display of raw power.

Cole moved to a smaller anvil near the back of the foundry. He did not use massive bursts of magic. He did not scream or rely on brute strength.

He utilized [Crucible Heart].

Cole merged his modern, scientific understanding of metallurgy with Master Torvin’s centuries of historical muscle memory. He fell into a calm, mechanical rhythm.

CLINK. CLINK. CLANG.

The sound of his hammer striking the metal was not deafening. It was melodic. It was a perfectly spaced, rhythmic heartbeat that echoed cleanly through the chaotic foundry.

Thorgar was sweating profusely, slamming his hammer down with manic desperation. But slowly, the King’s erratic strikes began to falter.

The paranoid voices of the Treachery-Fiends were suddenly drowned out by the steady, perfect rhythm echoing from Cole’s anvil.

Thorgar stopped hammering entirely. He stared at the small blacksmith, captivated by the sheer, unadulterated purity of the craftsmanship.

Cole finished first.

With a hiss of steam, he quenched his creation in a vat of purified water. He wiped the soot from the metal with a heavy leather cloth.

Cole walked over to the Forge-King. He did not present a weapon of war. He did not forge a shield or a blade.

He set his creation gently onto the royal anvil.

It was a pure silver crown.

It was utterly flawless. The silver was so highly refined, so entirely devoid of impurities, that it seemed to generate its own internal light. T

here were no jagged spikes.

There was no heavy, intimidating iron.

It was a sleek, elegant circlet representing the heavy, quiet burden of true leadership.

The moment the silver crown touched the anvil, a high-pitched, resonant frequency hummed through the foundry.

The sheer purity of the metal acted like a physical tuning fork. The resonant frequency violently clashed with the corrupted, oily magic of the crimson-vine drug.

The Treachery-Fiends clinging to the shadows let out a unified, agonizing shriek. The pure, ringing sound actively burned their dark forms away, dissolving the parasites into harmless gray smoke.

Thorgar gasped. He stumbled backward, dropping his heavy forging hammer.

The bloodshot madness in his eyes rapidly faded. The suffocating, paranoid whispers in his mind were suddenly gone.

He looked around his ruined foundry, his jaw dropping in horror as he realized the sheer scale of his own insanity.

Finally, the Forge-King looked down at the pure silver crown resting on the anvil.

He looked at Cole, the manic rage entirely replaced by profound, crushing shame.

"I... I was blind," Thorgar whispered, his voice trembling as he picked up the small glass vial of the elixir.

"The shadows... they were in my head."

Cole nodded gruffly.

"Drink the cure, King Thorgar. The Elves are not your enemy. But the true traitor is waiting for you at the summit."

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