Reincarnated as an Apocalyptic Catalyst-Chapter 56: Cutthroat Negotiations

The forge was suffocating. Heat rolled off the walls, thick with the scent of burning coal and molten metal. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel echoed through the space, each strike sharp and deliberate. It was nothing like the merchant’s shop—there, everything was neat, refined. Here, everything was rough, loud, and blisteringly hot.

I stepped inside, forcing myself to breathe through my nose. The blacksmith stood over an anvil, muscles taut as she swung her hammer. Sparks flew, dancing in the air before vanishing against the soot-covered stone. She didn’t look up, didn’t pause her work, but somehow, she still knew I was there.

"You ain’t the one I was expectin’." Her voice was flat, unimpressed.

I dipped my head slightly. "Master Lucian was called away on urgent business. He sent me in his place."

The hammer came down with a final, deafening clang before she set it aside. She turned, wiping her hands on a thick leather apron. Her freckled face, streaked with soot, twisted into a frown. "That so?" Her arms crossed, the thick apron creaking with the motion. "Funny. Lucian never mentioned havin’ an errand boy."

The way she looked at me, sharp and assessing, made my skin itch. She was searching for something—uncertainty, a lie, a reason to throw me out.

I kept my face neutral. "He wouldn’t. It was a last-minute arrangement."

She didn’t move, just stared. The forge was loud, but somehow, the silence between us was heavier.

I had to break it. "That merchant—uh, the one Lucian worked with. I just dropped off his snow-cat garb for enchantments. He gave me this." I dug through my pockets, cursing under my breath. Where the hell did I put the damn scroll?

The blacksmith’s expression didn’t change, but I could feel her patience wearing thin. Her grip on her hammer tightened, knuckles going white.

Shit. Shit.

Finally, my fingers brushed parchment, and I yanked the scroll out, holding it up like a damn peace offering. "Here."

She didn’t step forward. I had to close the distance, carefully, arm outstretched. The last thing I needed was for her to think I was pulling something.

The moment I got close enough, she snatched it from my hands. Fast. Faster than I could track.

I blinked. Was everyone in this city absurdly skilled? Did the Academy only exist so regular people had a chance at life?

She turned the scroll over, inspecting the seal. The merchant’s insignia. She cracked the wax with her thumb, eyes flicking across the contents. Her scowl deepened, then—strangely—eased, if only slightly.

"Hmph. That slick bastard always did have a way with words."

She rolled the parchment back up and tucked it under the counter.

For a second, I swore her cheeks darkened, but maybe it was the heat from the forge.

"Fine," she said. "But if you’re lyin’, I’ll carve you up myself."

I forced a polite smile. "Duly noted, ma’am."

She grunted and jerked her head toward the back. "Come on. Let’s get this over with."

I followed without another word, but I had a feeling she’d be watching my every step.

The deeper we went into the forge, the hotter it got. The air shimmered from the heat, twisting everything in waves. The smell of metal and oil was thick, clinging to my clothes, my skin, my lungs.

The blacksmith led me past stacks of half-finished weapons, racks of tools, and barrels of cooling ingots. She moved like someone who had spent a lifetime in this place, her steps measured, her posture steady.

We stopped in front of a heavy iron chest. She knelt, flipping open the latch, and lifted the lid.

Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, were the daggers.

I exhaled slowly.

They were sleek, midnight-black blades that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. No unnecessary flourishes, no decorative gems or engravings—just pure, deadly efficiency.

I reached out, but the burly dwarven woman plucked my hand out of the air in an instant.

The blacksmith jerked her chin toward the side of the workshop. "Pick that up."

I followed her gaze to the chunk of black metal resting atop a wooden crate. It wasn’t particularly large—maybe the size of a loaf of bread—but something in her tone made me wary.

Still, I stepped forward and grabbed hold of it.

The moment I lifted, my arms nearly wrenched from their sockets. The metal was absurdly heavy, far more than its size should allow. My fingers slipped almost instantly, and I had to scramble to keep from dropping it outright.

The blacksmith snorted. "Thought so."

I grit my teeth and adjusted my stance, this time lifting with my legs rather than my arms alone. It helped, but only slightly. The weight of the ingot pressed down like a solid lump of condensed suffering, and I was already second-guessing every decision that had led me to this moment.

"That," the blacksmith said, watching my struggle with undisguised amusement, "is Nyxium. Pure. Raw. Not the fancy enchanted kind, not reinforced with stabilizers. Just a big ol’ slab of death metal."

I managed to set it back down without breaking anything, then rolled my shoulders to shake out the tension. "If it’s this heavy, how the hell do you forge it into something usable?"

She chuckled, stepping past me to retrieve the daggers from heavy iron chest. "That’s the trick, ain’t it?" With a flick of her wrist, she tossed one toward me.

I caught it instinctively, but where I expected the same crushing weight, the dagger was... light. Not feather-light, but perfectly balanced—deadly in my grip without feeling like an anchor.

My brow furrowed. "This is Nyxium?"

"That’s forged Nyxium," she corrected, leaning against the table. "Once refined, it don’t just get lighter—it gets responsive. It don’t dull easy. It don’t break. And when enchanted proper, it starts ignoring things like ’armor’ and ’natural laws.’" She jerked a thumb toward the ingot. "That lump? That’s the potential. The blade in your hand? That’s the proof of mastery."

I turned the dagger over, watching how the dark metal drank the light rather than reflecting it. "So the weight’s only a problem before it’s forged?"

"Exactly." The blacksmith folded her arms, studying me. "You don’t shape Nyxium. You convince it."

I let the words sink in. Then, twirling the dagger in my fingers, I smirked. "Guess I’ll have to be very convincing."

The blacksmith let out a rough chuckle. "You’d better be, boy. Otherwise, you’re just a man holdin’ a blade too good for him."

I returned to the other blade presented before us and leaned forward, brushing a finger along one of the flats. It was cold. Not just cool from the forge’s contrast, but unnaturally cold, like the metal had never known warmth.

The blacksmith watched me closely. "Nyxium," she said. "Metal found deep in the underworld, rare as they come. Damn near impossible to work with unless you know what you’re doin’."

I lifted one dagger from its place, rolling it in my palm. It was light, but not too light. Dense. Balanced. The kind of weapon you forgot you were holding until it was already in someone’s ribs.

She leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "These ain’t your standard pigstickers. They’re imbued with a Phantom Edge—when wielded with intent, they’ll phase through non-magical armor like it ain’t even there. But hesitate, second-guess your strike, and you’ll be bouncin’ off armor left and right."

That was... interesting. Magic weapons were already rare, but ones that required pure intent? That changed the game.

I flipped the dagger in my grip, testing the motion. The balance was perfect.

She eyed me for a moment, then sighed. "You hold it like you know what you’re doin’. You trained?"

I shrugged. "Enough to know which end goes in the bad guy."

She snorted. "That so? Funny. Lucian always talked like he trained alone. You his shadow, then? Or somethin’ else?" fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

I kept my face neutral. "Something like that."

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Instead, she reached behind the counter and pulled out a thick leather sheath. "Here. Custom fit. Keep ’em oiled, and they’ll outlast you."

I took the sheath and secured the daggers inside. "Master Lucian will be pleased."

The blacksmith smirked, leaning back against the anvil. "He damn well better be. And tell him this—if he croaks before usin’ ’em proper, I’m takin’ ’em back."

I chuckled. "I’ll pass that along."

With that, I turned and made my way out.

Two stops down. One more to go.

The moment I was clear of the forge, I stepped into a shadowed alleyway, the weight of the daggers resting comfortably against my waist. The city was still alive around me, students and merchants moving through the streets, but here, in the dim sliver of space between buildings, I had enough privacy.

I drew one of the blades, feeling the subtle hum beneath my fingers. The balance was flawless. The weight barely registered a far cry from the overwhelming density of the raw ore.

I gave it a small spin in my hand, adjusting my grip. The motion was effortless.

A loose scrap of cloth dangled from a crate nearby. A simple test. I flicked the dagger forward, slashing clean through—or at least, I should have.

The blade passed through without resistance.

I frowned and ran my fingers along the cut. There was none. The fabric was untouched.

That was Phantom Edge at work. I hadn’t struck with enough intent. It wasn’t just about hitting something—it was about meaning it.

I exhaled slowly, stepping back. I needed something more substantial.

A discarded wooden plank leaned against the wall. This time, I focused. The thought wasn’t just to swing but to cut, to cleave, to destroy. I let that single desire guide me as I brought the blade down.

The dagger passed through the plank like water.

No sound. No resistance.

The wood stood for a moment before splitting apart, two halves slipping to the ground like they had never been connected at all.

I turned the blade over in my grip, considering the implications. Armor, barriers, even reinforced doors—if it wasn’t enchanted, it might as well have been paper. But the blacksmith had been right. Hesitate even slightly, and it was nothing more than a dull blade.

I drew the second dagger, stepping deeper into the shadows. The Void Veil enchantment activated instantly.

The air around me shifted. My presence thinned. My footsteps were muffled even against the loose gravel, and when I turned my wrist, the dagger’s blade seemed to melt into the darkness.

I moved forward, testing the effect, my own body blending in ways that felt both unnatural and perfect. My form was still there, still visible if someone looked directly at me, but the details—the edges of my silhouette, the sound of my movements—were hazy, distorted.

I stepped back into the light, and the effect faded.

I sheathed both daggers, the grin lingering on my lips. This was more than just an upgrade. This was like going from common gray tier bullshit in some video game, to finding a legendary set of end-game loot. I needed to try this out on a few more things. I had to figure out what the limits were.

The night air bit at my skin as I navigated through the back alleys, taking a little extra time to avoid the main roads so I could get back to the academy without much attention. I had to get a feel for the weapons, but that would have to wait till later. It’s not like test subjects were just going to fall out of the sky after all. But, if I didn’t know the daggers, then I didn’t deserve them.

I found an abandoned alley, the kind of place where even the rats knew better than to loiter. Scattered debris lined the cobblestone—discarded crates, shattered bottles, a rusted iron bar leaning against a pile of broken wood.

Drawing one of the daggers, I gave it a slow, lazy spin in my hand. The balance was flawless as ever, the blade weightless yet I could feel it like it was an extension of my hand.

I started small, heading to the old wooden crate. One flick of my wrist and the dagger sliced through it like parchment, the edges separating so cleanly that for a second, the pieces didn’t even shift. Then, with the slightest breeze, the crate collapsed into a neat pile of splinters.

This is fucking awesome. A cheat codes in my hands if ever there was one in this world.

Next was the rusted iron bar. I planted my feet, let my grip settle, and swung. The dagger met the iron with no resistance. No clang of metal. No impact recoil. Just a whisper of motion before the top half of the bar slid cleanly onto the ground, severed with terrifying ease. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Honestly I felt disturbed at the thought of putting these perfect tools anywhere near that bar of blade dulling metal, but it all worked.

I crouched, picking up the severed chunk. The cut was smooth, no jagged edges, no telltale signs of force—just pure, perfect separation.

Before I could test anything else, footsteps echoed from the alley’s entrance. Slow. Measured. The kind of stride that belonged to someone who thought they owned the space they walked in.

"That’s a real pretty knife you got there, friend," a voice drawled. A man, his tone smug, greasy. "Bet it’s worth more than you are."

I sighed and straightened. "Let me guess," I said, turning just enough to glance over my shoulder. "This is the part where you tell me you’d hate to hurt me, but if I just hand them over, we can avoid any trouble?"

The man grinned, teeth yellow in the dim light. There were two others behind him, both armed—one with a short sword, the other with a club.

"See? You get it."

I rolled my shoulders, shifting my grip on the dagger. "And if I don’t?"

The leader clicked his tongue, shaking his head like I was some tragic case. "Then you end up bleeding in the gutter, and we still walk away with your knives."

I hummed as if considering it. "I’ll tell you what," I said, stepping forward. "Since you seem so interested in my daggers, why don’t I let you take a closer look?"

Before he could react, I flicked my wrist.

The dagger sang through the air, slicing cleanly through the leader’s belt buckle. His pants slid straight down his legs before he even realized what happened, pooling around his ankles like some tragic accident in a brothel. For a beat, there was silence.

Then the man stumbled, nearly toppling over as he tried to step back and tripped over his own pants.

I grinned. "Looks like you’re a little... exposed."

His face turned red with rage. "Kill this bastard!"

The man with the club lunged first. I sidestepped easily, bringing my dagger up—not to stab, just to test.

The Nyxium edge touched the club and—Shhhhhhk—it split straight down the middle. No resistance, no force. Just an effortless, precise cut that left the man staring dumbfounded at the two halves of his weapon in his hands.

His brain hadn’t even caught up yet as I tilted my head. "Huh. That was your best swing, wasn’t it?"

He snapped out of it and threw a punch. I let him.

His fist met the flat of my dagger, and the iron studs in his gloves peeled apart like wet paper. His knuckles hit the metal bare and split instantly. He howled in agony, stumbling backward.

The second thug hesitated. Smart. He gripped his sword tighter, because rule number one of sword place was the tighter you held your weapon, the better it cut.

I smiled. "Your turn."

He came at me cautiously, his blade leading—an actual fighter, unlike the other idiot. His stance was decent. His grip firm. Too bad it didn’t matter.

He lunged. I barely had to move. I twisted, letting the edge of my dagger kiss his sword’s blade and the sword split.

It didn’t even snap. It shattered, metal disintegrating as the Nyxium’s edge devoured it whole. The top half of his blade fell in pieces.

The man stood there, staring at the sad, useless stump left in his hand.

I clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Happens to the best of us." In one swift and calculated retort, he bolted, as fast as his legs could take him.

I turned back to the leader, whose face had gone pale. His hands were trembling, still gripping the waistband of his half-fallen pants.

I twirled the dagger lazily. "You wanted these, right?"

He shook his head violently. "N-no, no, you—you keep ’em. I—I was just jokin’, friend—"

I stepped forward. He stepped back.

I took another step. He took another.

Then his foot caught on the very pants he had forgotten to pull back up, and he went crashing onto his ass.

I stood over him, crouched down, and flicked my blade forward—just enough to shave a single, thin strip of fabric from his shirt.

He whimpered.

I smiled. "I’d run now if I were you."

He scrambled to his feet and sprinted down the alley, nearly tripping three more times before disappearing into the night.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. My fingers ran along the perfect edge of my dagger, feeling its impossible sharpness.

A monster of a weapon, for a monster of a man.

I sheathed it and turned back toward the city.

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