Is it wrong to try to meet someone in a dungeon?

"Hey, 'Useless Crozo'"

That's why I hate nighttime gatherings.

Welf turned his head impatiently to look, thinking to himself.

Complementing the blindingly bright walls and pillars were lavish decorations made of gold and silver, radiating light. To the accompaniment of flowing string music, opulently dressed nobles danced gracefully in the central ballroom.

Above them shone enormous magic stone lamps, chandelier-shaped like those from that labyrinthine city.

A magnificent and splendid hall. A corner of the city with a huge balcony, courtyard, and fountain.

This is a night party held at the royal palace.

"Showing your face in a place like this. A useless piece of trash clinging to past glories. Are you here to scavenge for scraps?"

The one with the cold smile and upturned lips was a child from a powerful noble family. Leading two seemingly foolish followers, were these ten-year-old boys really his age? He sneered at them with a condescending gaze.

Welf felt particularly disgusted by the atmosphere of the party.

Adorned with shimmering gowns and flowing music, the attending nobles and courtiers, like cunning old foxes, probed each other. Behind the elaborate rhetoric, everyone was licking their lips—even a child like Welf perceived this atmosphere at the night party.

It's all a facade. Nothing is real. Everyone flatters and fawns, and one day they'll kick everyone else out and take their place. And those who lose in the political struggles will become the objects of ridicule and scorn, just as Welf is suffering now.

Although they were forcibly brought here by a clan that fawns over those in power, honestly, if that's the case, they might as well have stayed in the filthy workshop sharpening hammers.

Welf thought bitterly as he faced those who mocked him, a descendant of a blacksmithing noble family that had fallen on hard times long ago.

"To gang up on someone, you sons of the Fron family. That's quite inappropriate for this occasion."

"Marios-sama...!?"

Just as they made a disapproving expression, unbecoming of nobles, a young man approached. Seeing the appearance of the "First Prince" of the country known as Marios, the young nobles and Welf couldn't help but be surprised.

He had honey-colored blond hair and a back ramrod straight like a knight. As if to illustrate his abilities, it was said that although he was only 12 years old, he had already shown his talent in military affairs and in dealing with unreasonable demands from the king and the gods. Nobles wanted to curry favor with him, and sycophants flocked to him.

Rather than saying he sheltered himself, it was more accurate to say he was simply in a foul mood. Seeing the First Prince, who seemed utterly annoyed by everything surrounding his royal status, Wilf found it somewhat unbelievable.

Perhaps he also felt very unhappy about the party that night, sharing this strange feeling.

"No, no. It's... yes, that's right. It's all this man's fault."

Forgetting the etiquette of serving royalty, the panicked young men, as if suddenly remembering something, revealed ugly, obsequious smiles despite still being children.

"He's clearly a blacksmith from a family that's long since fallen on hard times, yet he dares to talk back to us without any sense of propriety. He should just go back to working with iron and behave himself—"

The rest of that sentence was abruptly cut off by a powerful punch.

With eyes bulging as if they were about to burst, Welf struck out.

"Say that again, you bastard!?"

The boy, clutching his cheek as he was punched, screamed "Ah!?" and his nose bled, then roared in anger.

Loud cries of agony came from the surrounding noblewomen. Marios, standing to the side, was startled, but made no move to stop Welf. He covered his mouth, desperately trying to hide the smile that seemed about to burst forth.

The other young men also got involved, and a brawl instantly broke out. However, the red-haired boy's frenzied fighting didn't stop. He used both feet and elbows, causing the three men to scream in pain.

The Kingdom of Lachia, ruled by the war god Ares, is a nation-state with a special clan.

The night party held in the capital city of Balua quickly descended into chaos.

☆

"—Haha ...

Beneath the gloomy sky, the vulgar laughter of the gods echoed.

With abrasions still on his face, Welf stood sternly before the goddess who was rolling around in pain, clutching her stomach.

The Crozzo family mansion, now desolate due to its decline, in its backyard.

This was the day after the commotion that had occurred at the nighttime gathering.

"Beating up a noble's brat at a night party and causing a brawl, that's the first time I've ever heard of such a thing—!! Hehehehehe!?"

From inside the building came the mother's shrill voice: "Welf, Welf! Where are you?!" Welf, who hated hysteria—no, hated lecturing—had fled into the backyard, and as if his thoughts had been anticipated, the goddess before him chuckled, having been waiting there for a long time.

When asked what trouble he had gotten himself into this time, he reluctantly told her, and this is how he ended up.

"Hey, Forbus. Mom'll hear if you're too noisy. Stop it."

"My bad, my bad. But you're so funny, Welf. You're so different from the rest of the clan!"

She possessed the unmistakable beauty of a goddess, with waist-length, lustrous black hair. The slender body before her, though female, was a staggering 170 centimeters tall.

Young and beautiful—though it's unclear if this description is accurate, she's definitely a goddess among beauties.

As a prime example, the vulgar tone and laughter ruined everything.

"If there were a group of guys like you, I wouldn't be so bored being forced into taking care of impoverished nobles!"

Her name is Phoebus. She is undeniably a goddess, the chief deity who cares for the blacksmithing community.

She was a free puppet who was swallowed up by the Kingdom's army along with her own faction.

Ultimately, she was a goddess who was defeated in a war instigated by the kingdom's army. Then, like the losers in a war game, she accepted all the victor's demands and became a subordinate god to Ares, the god of war.

In the Kingdom of Lachia, which has a large population, the distinction between non-combatants and combatants lies in the presence or absence of "divine grace." While the former, as commoners, make up the majority, the latter, including soldiers and knights, number nearly 100,000. The processes from bestowing grace to updating [ability stats] are far beyond the scope of the chief god Ares alone.

Therefore, as a countermeasure, the "subordinate gods" like Phoebus appeared at this time.

Under Ares's rule, they became his brothers and sisters, turning those at the bottom into a familia. The now withered and decaying Clozo family were all [Phoebus Familia] who were inscribed with her grace.

This is a system that can be frequently seen in the national system of [families].

"...If you're bored, just start a coup or something. Aren't those gods the ones who love that kind of thing the most?"

"Yeah—who's going to do it for me—I prefer to watch from the sidelines—but isn't it too much trouble to boss the kids around and teach them how to do things right under Ares's nose?"

Although they are considered the losers in war games, the fickle gods might still stir up trouble.

Therefore, to prevent any potential problems, the kingdom's proudest forces—Lv.2 and Lv.3 knights and generals, including the royal guard—are all under Ares's command. Although this is done through other gods, over ten thousand of Ares's followers still obey his orders. In contrast, subordinate gods are relegated to caring for those of low status.

Furthermore, if it is learned that someone has emerged from the divine retinue who is capable in any aspect, whether intellectually or militarily, they will immediately convert to the same religion and place him at the bottom of the [Ares Familia].

In short, to prosper in the kingdom, one must be granted the divine blood of the God of War—the Father of the Nation.

Thus, the once-declining blacksmithing clan still dreams of making a comeback under the banner of that supreme god.

"However, to be able to so bluntly talk about a coup, you really are a strange person—hehehe."

"I want to become a blacksmith. Whether it's gods or kings, whatever happens above them has nothing to do with me. Hey, stop it! Don't scratch my head like that!?"

The days when they proudly presented the "Clozzo's Demon Sword," renowned for its immense firepower, to the royal family, and enjoyed unparalleled wealth and luxury, are now gone. Cursed, they are no longer capable of forging the "Demon Sword." Just as the young masters mocked at last night's party, they live lives clinging desperately to their past glories.

Welf, however, found such fanaticism utterly repulsive. He cared nothing for it, for he had his own goals.

Phoebus wrapped her arms around the still-growing boy's body, uttering "Oh my, oh my" as she stroked his hair. Her long, delicate eyes, while possessing a captivating allure, didn't quite match her childish demeanor. She teased and mocked Welf, who was different from the rest of the clan, showing concern for him. To the boy, she wasn't a goddess to worship, but rather a close friend or a troublesome elder.

"So, when you think about it, Welf and Galen said they were going to do some forging!"

"What...you should have said so earlier!?"

After playing with Welf like a toy for a while, Forbus told him this as if he had suddenly remembered something.

Although not particularly voluptuous, Welf blushed and cried out as the goddess pressed her soft breasts and limbs against him through her black clothes. He then shook her off and ran out of the backyard.

"Go for it, Welf!"

"Shut up, you idiot goddess!"

Despite saying that, a smile appeared on Welf's face. The way he ran with his arms outstretched was far from the manners and expressions taught to him as a nobleman; rather, it was something that could be described as childlike innocence befitting his age.

While being watched with snickers from behind as the goddess gradually receded into the distance, he turned a corner in the pavilion.

Welf ran straight toward the small, dilapidated building located far away.

The 'workshop' left behind by the clan is as dilapidated as the abandoned main building.

However, Welf didn't dislike the cramped forge. The pungent smell of iron, the grimy walls covered in soot, the furnaces burning brightly—all of it. Here, one could even forget the shackles of nobility.

After changing out of his elaborate clothes and into his work clothes, Welf stepped into the "workshop".

"Grandpa, Dad!"

There were only two people in the dimly lit workshop. They were Welf's grandfather, Galen Crozzo, and his father, Will Crozzo, both wearing work clothes.

"Welf, I've told you not to address people that way. When will you ever develop any sense of your noble birth? And I heard that while I was away, you caused quite a stir at night, didn't you?"

"That's because they said what we do involves handling metal or something..."

"Shut up! Making a scene in front of the King is unacceptable, even if it's just children arguing! It's only thanks to Lord Marios's intervention that things didn't escalate..."

Will, the father with long, brown hair, is a very strict person as a member of the aristocracy.

Despite being the current head of the family and vowing to revive the clan, he ultimately forced Welf, like his mother and other party members, to maintain the dignity of a nobleman. Welf found this incredibly rigid.

Incidentally, the night rendezvous was perhaps a whim of the prince, who protected the boy and did not punish him.

"Will, that's enough. Welf is here too, let's begin."

"……I see"

Although Will glared fiercely at his son, whose head was hanging low and face contorted, he still reluctantly obeyed Galen's words.

Welf's grandfather, who had relinquished his position as head of the family, was in excellent health and showed no signs of aging. His back was as straight as if it were made of steel, and his white hair and beard gave him a stern appearance.

Galen was not a nobleman, but a "blacksmith".

That's what Welf was thinking. That's why he's helping him now.

Young Welf, with a smile on his face, followed his grandfather and father, who were moving silently toward the fireplace, and stood beside them.

"--call!"

Clang, crash.

Sparks flew and the sound of hammering filled the air; the forging process had begun.

The furnace, glowing red-hot, illuminated the dimly lit workshop. His face was scorched by the murderous heat, and though countless drops of sweat streamed down his face, Welf continued to serve as his father and grandfather's assistant.

The clanging of the blacksmith's hammer, imbued with the "blessing" of the goddess, was powerful. Despite using that "power" to create weapons without alternating hammer blows, the two men stubbornly forged the same piece of metal. Will and Galen—no, including Welf—intended to combine the efforts of three generations of their family to create a single weapon.

"Do you understand, Welf? Listen to the sound of iron, listen to the clang of the iron, and put your emotions into the hammer! Otherwise, you can't forge a true sword. We must create weapons that can replace 'Krozo's Demon Sword'."

With an imposing expression, Will swung the hammer down and told Welf this.

My father always said that.

Will risked his life to rebuild his clan with a weapon that could replace "Krozo's Demon Sword".

Although he considered being a nobleman his lifelong ambition, Welf nodded frankly because his father's will and passion were genuine at this moment.

Welff respected and loved his father, who was forging him.

"...Welf, bring me the scissors."

The taciturn grandfather, through his departing figure, taught Welf what it meant to be a blacksmith.

Welf, watching the figure intently training the iron block, had already learned a great deal. Will did the same. For a long time, with their race unable to forge a "magic sword," Galen aimed to create the ultimate weapon, burying himself in the work of a "blacksmith."

—Listen to the sound of iron, listen to the clanging of iron, and entrust your emotions to the hammer.

These were originally Galen's words. Welf had only heard them once from Galen, who was swinging his hammer as if possessed. This teaching was inherited from Galen.

Before he even became aware of the world, Welf knew of the existence of blacksmiths like Galen long before he knew about weapons. Only then did he become fascinated by the weapons created through their will and passion. The forged blades gleamed with a powerful light. When he saw a knight of the kingdom wielding his grandfather's creation, Welf felt a surge of heat throughout his body. He wondered, could the user and his other half, man and weapon, truly complement each other to such an extent?

He wanted to become a blacksmith himself, to create the ultimate weapon. And then he wanted to see that weapon charge into battle alongside the best wielder. He was overwhelmed by this intense impulse.

Aspirations and desires, passion. Welf's fervent emotions had been hidden deep within his heart since childhood.

"...Welf, you try it."

"Eh... Is it... okay, Grandpa!?"

Until now, Welf had only been allowed to do assistant-like work, but for the first time, he was permitted to pick up a hammer. His strict grandfather simply urged him on with a look that said, "Go ahead." His sweaty father also laughed.

Welf smiled. His lips curled up as if he were about to cry.

Grip the heavy hammer that seems disproportionate to the child's slender arms.

Heat the metal until it is red-hot, then place it on the front of the anvil.

I'm sure I'll never forget this day.

With that certainty in mind, Welf swung the hammer.

It produced a dull, inadequate sound, far inferior to that of his father and grandfather, and sparks flew everywhere. Welf poured everything he had into the hammer he swung down.