From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 42: Steel That Bends

The academy didn’t announce his new rank.

But everyone knew.

By the fourth day, instructors changed how they spoke to him. His peers shifted formations to account for him. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside—like someone whose next step might decide theirs.

Leon noticed. He said nothing.

The next trial came without warning.

During drills, Roth called a halt. "You. With me."

No reason. No explanation. Just those three words.

Leon followed.

They crossed the training yard, past the duelling rings, through a gate most cadets never touched. Beyond it, a hall marked by time—old pillars, cracked stone, ivy that hadn’t been cut back in years.

At the end, a door opened on its own.

Inside: a single forge. Cold. Untouched. In the centre, an anvil. Beside it, a sword. Long, two-handed, unsharpened. Raw steel.

Roth didn’t follow him in.

Instead, a voice came from the far end.

"You carry a blade. But you haven’t made one."

An old man stood in shadow. His robes bore no insignia.

Leon stepped closer, but the man raised a hand.

"You want your own rank? Then make your own mark."

A hammer clanged behind him. It was not there a moment ago.

Leon reached for it.

It was heavier than it looked. Worn, but balanced.

The old man gestured to the unshaped sword.

"No one carries a blade they haven’t bled into. You’ll shape it. Here. Now. And alone."

Leon looked to the forge.

Still cold.

The man’s voice echoed one last time.

"Forge your will. Or walk away."

Then silence.

The forge roared to life.

—

Heat hit him like a wall. Orange flames curled inside the belly of the forge, and the steel resting beside the anvil shimmered as if it recognized the fire.

Leon moved without waiting. He pulled on the leather gloves set nearby. Lifted the billet of raw metal. It burned already, even before the fire touched it. He laid it into the heart of the forge.

Then he waited.

Minutes passed.

The glow deepened.

He pulled it free with tongs. Set it on the anvil. The first strike rang out.

Sparks flew.

The hammer jolted through his arm, but he didn’t stop. Again. Again. Each blow reshaped the steel slightly, narrowing the edges, stretching the spine. He had no blueprint. Only instinct.

And will.

His forearms burned. His breath shortened. The heat swallowed sound, made everything feel distant. But the rhythm steadied. Blow. Turn. Strike. Heat again.

He lost track of time.

The blade began to take form.

—

Blisters formed beneath the gloves. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He didn’t wipe it.

When the blade curved slightly, he let it.

When it flattened unevenly, he struck harder.

He quenched it not in oil, but in a trough filled with blackened water. Steam hissed like a whisper from another world.

Then came the polishing.

Then the edge.

Then the hilt, carved from the darkwood left beside the forge. He didn’t need guidance—his hands moved like they’d done this before in another life.

Hours later, maybe longer, he stood before the completed blade.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was his.

The old man stepped forward from the shadows. Took the sword. Held it up to the light.

He ran a thumb along the fuller. Noted the weight. The balance.

Then handed it back.

"Name it."

Leon looked at the blade. Its edge gleamed in the forge-light. He saw no reflection. Only fire.

"Ashveil."

The man nodded. "Then carry it. Not as a prize. As a partner."

Leon slid the sword into the scabbard he’d crafted from spare leather bindings.

He turned.

Roth was waiting by the gate.

And in his eyes, something new.

Respect.

Without a word, Leon stepped into the fading light.

Ashveil at his back.

And the weight of a blade no one could take from him.

—

They didn’t give him time to rest. Before the sweat could dry on his arms, another summons arrived—this time a black slip pressed into his hand by a runner who didn’t wait for acknowledgment.

Report to the Eastern Terrace by sunset.

The terrace overlooked the entire grounds, a place reserved for scholars, duel judges, and crest watchers. Most cadets never climbed it. Leon did so in silence, his new sword heavy but ready at his back.

When he arrived, only one figure stood there.

Fena.

She was dressed in full sparring gear, hair tied back, no smile.

"You forged it," she said, eyes flicking to Ashveil.

Leon gave a single nod.

Fena drew her own blade, stepped into stance. "Then show me it wasn’t for ceremony."

No fanfare. No circle drawn. Just the two of them, under a reddening sky.

She struck first.

Leon met her edge with his.

Ashveil rang like it knew her name.

They moved fast. Fast enough the wind bent around them. Sparks lit their feet. Their blades clashed again and again, neither yielding.

But Fena smiled now.

She hadn’t come to test him.

She’d come to meet him.

Strike by strike, they danced until the sky went dark.

And Ashveil never faltered.

—

When the final blow landed—barely grazing her shoulder—Fena stepped back with a short laugh and lowered her blade.

"That edge," she said, rolling her wrist, "isn’t just steel, is it?."

Leon’s breathing slowed. "No. It isn’t."

Fena looked at him for a long moment. "Then let’s see how far you’ll carry it."

She turned without another word and left the terrace.

Leon stood still, feeling the thrum of Ashveil against his back. The blade had weight—but it also had voice now. Memory. Fire of its own.

The terrace stayed empty as he walked to the ledge and looked down at the academy grounds below. Dots of light glimmered from lanterns far off. Some cadets still trained. Some watched.

He wasn’t part of the rhythm anymore.

He was setting it.

And the steel he’d forged would be the beat they followed next.

A breeze tugged at his coat. Quiet. Unhurried.

He let the wind pass, then turned from the terrace.

Back to the stairwell. Back to the hall. Back to the weight he now carried.

One step at a time.