The Runesmith

Chapter 642: Soul Battleground.

“Now this is something to look at…”

Bernir turned his gaze from the walls as large ballistae launched volleys of projectiles into the advancing undead army. It was not made up of specters alone. Zombies, ghouls, vampires, and even flesh golems marched forward in a relentless tide.

“Divine magic would probably do the trick here…”

He chuckled to himself as he watched, but the sound faded when the first volley struck. Iron-tipped bolts tore through rotting flesh and shattered brittle bone. Against the specters, however, the results were inconsistent. Some dispersed with shrill cries into pale mist, while others only recoiled before reforming moments later.

“Not as effective on the higher-tier wraiths, but the others are going down.”

While not all of these weapons were his own creations, each carried some measure of soul power within it. The tier three trial continued to grow larger in scale, drawing in more smiths like him. Some were even capable of producing similar works. Still, he was their leader, the one who decided what was made. The others could only produce imitations, creations that were at best eighty percent as powerful as what he himself could forge.

Bernir tightened his grip on the rough stone as the battlefield unfolded below. Smoke and mana erupted as the mages stationed on the battlements received the signal to fire. Balls of fire the size of a dragon’s egg tore through the air, supercharged with soul energy and a special array he had created himself.

“That one took a while to make, but I barely finished it in time.”

The longer the trial continued, the more he learned about his class. He could even fashion areas where others could stand to empower their skills. A group of war mages occupied one of the towers, standing within a formation he had created. Their abilities were enhanced and infused with the soul attribute, allowing their magic to burn through even higher-tier wraiths.

It was a true siege scenario, one he never thought he would take part in as one of its key figures. The true leader was still the lord clad in armor of his own making, but Bernir was the engine that drove the battle forward. He had limits to what he could personally accomplish, yet the success of the battle rested largely on his shoulders. He was responsible for the soul-infused weapons and for ensuring they were properly redistributed.

“It was quite a pain… how long have I been here for…”

The trial had lasted half a year, and this was the final battle, or so he hoped. There was little more he could prepare for. His days were filled not only with crafting but with constant research. He had to learn the strengths and habits of the guards, knights, and even the other craftsmen before deciding who received each item. It was a troublesome task, one his boss handled almost every day.

The battle raged on, and when the lich king revealed itself at the edge of the battlefield, the air itself seemed to recoil. The sky dimmed as color drained away, and a towering figure in tattered regalia emerged. Its crown floated above a skull wreathed in violet fire. The lesser undead surged forward in a frenzy, drawn by its presence.

“Soul Craftsman…”

“Aye, I’ll get to it.”

The lord, who resembled both of Bernir’s superiors, called out as the battle intensified. Even after crafting so much, his work was far from finished. The mage formations crackled as they deteriorated under strain, and the supply of ballista bolts was beginning to run low.

“A craftsman’s work is never done!”

He rushed off to repair the defensive machines, shouting instructions to the residents of the trial space.

“You there, head to the northern tower. Take care of the soul-infused arrows and do not let them run out.”

“Yes, Chief!”

He barked orders at his assistants, and they immediately scattered to carry out their tasks. Bernir wiped sweat and soot from his brow as another tremor rolled through the walls. Somewhere below, stone cracked not from a direct impact but from the sheer presence of the evil skeletal creature.

“Activate the barrier, do it now!”

Evil energies seeped from the front as the undead army advanced. Violet mist rolled forward, stopping only when it met a pale white shield. The battlefield was smothered in this mist, a strange phenomenon in which the undead thrived. It was one of the greatest problems facing the humans, as most people exposed to it would begin to turn into monsters upon contact. Only special equipment could grant resistance. Even so, there were far too many people to outfit, leaving Bernir to agonize over who should be chosen.

“They are breaking through. Ready the cannons!”

The monsters assaulted the walls from multiple sides, shattering the gates and flooding inside. Yet the battle was far from over. The fortress consisted of multiple outer walls and was divided into distinct districts. As the monsters surged inward, they were met with attacks from every direction. Arrows, ballista bolts, cannon fire, and even magic spells rained down upon them.

“This is truly a wondrous tactic, craftsman.”

“Hehe.”

Bernir chuckled as their lord praised him. Even the evolution of their stronghold had been left in his hands. He was responsible for designing the outer walls and the traps hidden within. In truth, Roland had helped him with the work. It was apparently an old fortress design that turned even a successful breach into a deadly snare for invading forces.

“Abandon the battlements. Move toward the inner stronghold!”

Their leader shouted the order as cascading demolition charges were set within the ground. As they withdrew, more and more monsters screamed in agony while their bodies were torn apart by the blasts. Slowly, the mist began to thin, and soon the battle pressed toward the inner sanctum where all remaining forces were stationed.

“Knights, follow me into battle!”

“To battle! For the stronghold!”

The knights went out to defend them, and the battle in the streets began. Bernir watched from the main castle as his workshop was engulfed in fire while the monsters attacked. He had stayed there for half a year, so even he felt a touch of sentimentality. It seemed this was the decisive moment, and there was nothing left for him to do, but he was not planning on simply resting.

“Chief, what are you doing? Just stay here and let the knights handle it!”

“Hah. Get out of my way.”

Bernir knew better than to listen to one of his assistants. They were not very trustworthy when it came to this trial and had many times attempted to stop him whenever he did something unforeseen. This was a trial for craftsmen, not for people possessing battle classes. Normally, that would mean waiting for the conclusion of the battle and hoping for the best, but he was not about to leave everything to fate.

With armor covering his body, he kicked open the door and stormed out into the mist-covered city. Instantly, he coughed a few times, but the armor he wore shone faintly, protecting him from the curse carried by the air.

Bernir moved low and slow, keeping to the edges of collapsed buildings and half-burned market stalls. The mist clung to the streets like a living thing, swallowing sound and dulling sight. Here, away from the roar of the walls, the city felt dead already as if all life had been sucked away from it.

“Aye… this is worse than I thought.”

He tightened his grip on something resembling a long knife, not a weapon meant for open combat. The dagger’s hilt was wrapped in dark leather, unremarkable to the eye. Only Bernir could see the faint pulse of color buried within it. There wasn’t one but three pulses at once, the most that he could push into a soul weapon and his last creation.

He had made it late into the trial, almost as an afterthought, a contingency. He slipped through an alley just as a pair of ghouls staggered past the street. He pressed himself against the wall, slowing his breathing to not get spotted. The monsters passed without noticing him, drawn toward the noise and blood deeper in the city.

“Good… just go elsewhere while I…”

He moved forward and slipped into one of the buildings through an open window. He crashed into a stack of boxes, the noise causing something inside the building to groan.

“Shit…”

Bernir held his dagger close but did not wish to use it. He knew that once it was used, the soul power would instantly fade away. Instead, he spotted a nearby closet and quickly slipped inside. Just as he closed the door, the door on the other side of the room flew open.

“GROAR!”

A lone zombie appeared, its teeth yellow and half of its face torn away. It slowly shambled toward the broken boxes Bernir had fallen into moments earlier. It stood there, unmoving, scanning the room as Bernir peeked through a small hole in the wood.

The zombie lingered, head cocked at an unnatural angle. Its hollow eye sockets glimmered faintly as it sniffed the air, then shuffled forward, boots scraping against the floor. Bernir held his breath, every muscle locked in place. The closet was cramped, the wood thin, and he knew that if the thing pressed too close, the faint soul glow leaking from his armor might betray him.

After a long, agonizing moment, the creature lost interest. A distant explosion echoed through the city, drawing its attention. With a low groan, it turned and staggered back toward the street. Bernir waited until the sound of its footsteps faded before easing the closet door open.

“Aye… that was too close.”

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he moved toward the door through which the zombie had entered. Beyond it, he found an empty room and an exit path, and he bolted through, diving out the next window to reach the street outside. The ground rumbled as a thunderous noise echoed from afar.

“It must be the lord and the lich fighting. The tremors are immense.”

Bernir could tell where the main battle was taking place. With each clash, the buildings rattled, and the mist was pushed aside. This was a fight between two high-level tier three class holders, something he was all too familiar with.

Shapes moved everywhere. Undead clambered over rubble, wraiths drifted through walls, and things that should not have fit within their own skins lurked in the haze. Bernir avoided them all, relying not on speed but on patience. He paused when they passed, advanced only when the way was clear, and never stayed in the open for more than a few heartbeats.

He spotted knights and guards engaging the undead with weapons he had created. He slipped past while the monsters’ attention was drawn to them. Slowly, he made his way toward the center of the besieged city, where the battle between the lord and the lich raged in the main square.

Once a place of joy, laughter, and commerce, the square had become a cratered wasteland of broken stone and shattered statues, drowned in violet mist.

The square lay open before him. Bernir crouched behind the remains of a fountain, its marble basin split clean in half. From here, he could finally see them.

The lich towered above the ruined plaza, its skeletal form wreathed in strange violet fire. Symbols resembling runes rotated slowly within its ribcage, as though they were the creature’s heart. The ground cracked beneath its floating feet, stone rising and falling as if under the influence of gravity magic. The lich’s soul burned with a fractured blend of colors, as though it were forged from hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of souls.

Opposite it stood the city lord. His armor gleamed beneath layers of ash and blood, soul etched plates flashing blue and red with every exchanged blow. He moved like a veteran of countless wars, each step practiced and precise. Even so, he was being pushed back, and Bernir could see it clearly.

Every exchange drained the lord further as the violet flames leeched his very essence. With each hit, his movements slowed, and his strikes grew weaker. The lich suffered as well, but it was clear that if the battle continued like this, it would emerge victorious.

“Damn it…”

Bernir muttered under his breath, knowing something had to be done. There were no other knights left with the lord. Their bodies lay scattered elsewhere among the ghouls they had fallen fighting. He had planned to give the dagger to one of them and hoped they would deliver the final blow, but now it seemed he would have to move to plan B.

“Hah. Boss was right. Plan A almost never works…”

A weak smile crossed his face as he crept closer, keeping to the shadows behind a broken statue. He was lucky. The lich did not seem to notice him, perhaps too focused on the lord, or perhaps his lack of a battle class made his presence too insignificant to matter. Either way, it gave Bernir the opening he needed.

The final moment had come, and the Lich’s bony fingers reached for the lord’s neck. It lifted him from the ground, draining his very soul as he struggled to raise his sword hand in defense. It was now or never. His fingers tightened around the dagger, and he bolted forward.

His feet shuffled at first, then he ran as fast as his body would allow. The monster sensed something and turned its head sharply toward the figure appearing behind it. A strange laugh escaped its lips, sending terror through Bernir’s legs and causing him to stumble and tumble forward uncontrollably. Even so, though all seemed lost, he somehow reached the monster’s feet and plunged the dagger into its heel.

Three brilliant lights erupted from the dagger as its magic took hold. The monster released an ear-splitting wail as its power began to drain, and that was the opportunity the lord needed. Strength returned to his sword hand, and he did not hesitate.

The blade struck in a precise thrust, pushing through the monster’s violent flame and piercing the strange, magical heart within its ribcage. The runes inside it flickered, then burst apart as blinding light filled the area and everything turned white. A shockwave rippled outward, hurling Bernir across the shattered stone.

He struck the ground hard, the breath ripped from his lungs. Pain surged through his body as his vision blurred. The whole city shook as the monster shrieked in agony. The lord did not relent, driving his weapon deeper. In addition, he tore Bernir’s dagger from the creature’s foot and plunged it into the monster’s face, sealing its fate.

“Haha.”

Within moments, radiant light spread in every direction, sweeping across the entire city. Wherever it passed, specters dissolved, and the fleshy zombies collapsed into piles of ash. The Lich was slain, and the battle was seemingly over.

“Is it over?”

Bernir pushed himself up from the ground and looked toward the fused form of Roland and Arthur standing before him. The man removed his helmet and smiled.

“Indeed, it is, Soul Craftsman. No, I should call you a Soulsmith now.”

It was not a title he was familiar with, but he liked how it sounded. Bernir looked to the sides, and where violet mist had gathered, sunlight began to push through, revealing the faces of countless knights and guardsmen. All of them wore equipment he had created and weapons he had overseen, something that filled a craftsman like him with pride. Yet before he could enjoy his victory, something strange happened.

“Oh? Don’t tell me…”

For a moment, he expected the trial to continue, but instead the world began to shift and change. Everything flickered, and the people he had lived among for half a year vanished one by one, along with the scenery around them.

His head began to spin as he suddenly found himself in a place nearly devoid of light, with only one part of him illuminating the darkness, his right hand. There, he saw the white hammer he had used throughout the trial, the tool that had allowed him to accomplish everything. In a flash, it burst into countless tiny lights that scattered around him and illuminated the vast darkness.

“What’s all of this now…”

Bernir asked himself, unsure of what was happening. The lights soon condensed, flying toward a single point, his heart. A gentle sensation washed over him, a warmth that was both soothing and pleasant. The lights merged into something within his chest, forming something new, something that had not existed there before…