The Archmage’s Swordsmanship Is Too Strong - Chapter 102

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

102
Chapter 102. The Blueprints of Eseureom
***
The air, thick with grime and machine oil, weighed heavy on the lungs. An ancient incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering with an irregular stutter that testified to the shop’s unstable power supply.
That erratic pulse of light cast long shadows across the cold teacup on the table and the craftsmen’s deeply etched wrinkles.
The silence cut through the air like a keen blade.
“It doesn’t seem impossible.”
The silence fractured. From the corner of the table, where shadow lay thick, a young man named Ji-woong spoke.
His voice was low, yet the certainty it carried was enough to freeze the humid air in an instant.
“What are you saying—!”
Seok-gwang reacted first. His stumpy hands—blunt where joints had been severed—thrashed through empty space as he lurched to his feet.
The chair’s legs scraped across the floor with a sharp, piercing screech that tore into the workshop’s stillness. Seok-gwang’s face twisted in shock.
Go Gwang-sik, sitting beside him, furrowed his brow deeply and clicked his tongue.
His sigh carried the stale reek of old tobacco and the harsh rasp of metal dust.
“Where in this world would such a metal alloy even exist?”
Go Gwang-sik’s declaration held authority, but beneath it lay the helplessness of a blacksmith confronting the limits of his craft. Hardness and Mana conductivity.
The holy grail of metal engineering—and its curse.
To achieve hardness, one must increase density, sealing off the pathways for Mana to flow. To increase conductivity, one must loosen the metal’s lattice structure, sacrificing strength.
To house these opposing laws of physics in a single form was, even at the pinnacle of magical engineering as I knew it, nothing more than a hypothesis already discarded.
Yet Ji-woong’s eyes did not waver.
Instead, he bit his lip until blood came, then drew an old smartphone from his grease-stained work apron.
The device’s screen was fractured like spiderwebbing. With trembling hands, he slid it to the center of the table.
Tap.
A soft scraping sound—yet it was enough to draw every eye in the workshop.
“When I was sorting through my grandfather’s belongings, I scanned the important documents and kept copies.”
As Ji-woong’s fingers touched the screen, a bluish glow illuminated the craftsmen’s faces. Beyond the display, dozens of faded paper documents lined up as image files.
Yellowed pages with intricate metal blueprints, drawn with the precision of a fountain pen pressed firmly against paper. These were not mere design sketches.
One could almost feel the obsession embedded in every line, even beyond the screen’s glass.
“Ji-woong. This is… your master’s work.”
Go Gwang-sik’s eyes widened as though they might split.
He reached out with trembling hands to touch the screen, then hesitated in midair, afraid his rough fingertips might taint a sacred inheritance.
“May I look?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I reached out. The cold phone slipped into my palm.
With each swipe, the prototype designs of the “Ichikki” series emerged one by one.
Carbon content marked with meticulous precision, optimal hardening temperatures, and even the frequency of Mana waves to be infused with each hammer strike.
For an ordinary Hunter, the notation would be indecipherable. But my eyes read clearly what those numbers pointed toward—a single, unmistakable conclusion.
It was a work of genius born from ruthless perfectionism.
My finger, swiping through the images, came to rest on one particular photograph.
“This is it.”
“Hunter. If you look at the top of that blueprint, you’ll see a rough red line drawn across it.”
Ji-woong leaned in closer to the table as he spoke. His scent carried the decaying smell of the abandoned workshop. He was right.
Unlike the other neat blueprints, this one bore a thick, blood-red diagonal line slashed across it with violent force. The designer’s self-negation.
Or perhaps the mark of despair.
In the center of the blueprint, two blades of a strange form were drawn.
They were complex and bizarre, as if someone had rendered the nervous system of a living creature.
“A discarded blueprint.”
I stated the situation flatly. Ji-woong nodded heavily. A small cracking sound came from his neck vertebrae.
“Yes. It couldn’t be anything else. If you read the notes your grandfather left on this blueprint, you’ll understand. Look at this.”
Ji-woong touched the screen again, enlarging it. At the bottom of the blueprint, a few lines appeared in cramped, forceful handwriting.
[Eseureom is both dawn and dusk. The blade I seek to forge is precisely such a blade.]
[Eseureom can be twilight, and it can be dawn itself.]
My gaze, reading those words, halted—ever so slightly—in empty air. “Eseureom.” That seemed to be the name of this deformed blade.
Yet for a blueprint concerned with metal alloy and physical strength, the text was far too abstract, far too obscure.
“Is this poetry? It seems entirely unrelated to metallurgy.”
I set the smartphone down on the table as I asked. Go Gwang-sik scratched the back of his head with thick fingers. Dark grime, indelible, was wedged beneath his nails.
“That’s right. All of the master’s designs had these cryptic passages attached. Before putting a weapon in the forge, he’d establish the weapon’s direction this way. And… the biggest reason was security.”
“Security?”
“Yes. When blacksmith shops were popping up everywhere, plenty of thieves tried to steal our Gwi Geom Cheol Bang’s blueprints. Our products being what they were, even crude counterfeits made by eye would vanish from the market. The master hid the core formulas and material ratios in poetic passages like these. Even we apprentices couldn’t figure them out if we weren’t careful.”
Go Gwang-sik’s voice mingled pride with melancholy.
The world of magic I practice is no different at its core.
Archmages who reach the pinnacle of their craft rarely pass on the original formulas they’ve spent lifetimes constructing in their entirety to future generations. Instead, they encrypt them thoroughly to prevent enemies from stealing them.
They hide the essence by appending their own geometric hand seals or obscure archaic incantations.
This memo too was a master craftsman’s cipher, twisted double and triple over to conceal the core principles of smelting.
“How in the world could anyone decipher this? And with that red line slashed right across it, it’s as good as declaring the thing abandoned!”
Seok-gwang raised his voice again. His neck muscles swelled crimson with frustration.
“No, sir. Before he passed, my grandfather told me about this Twilight. He said it was a blade that could definitely be forged.”
“Your master told you that?”
“Yes, and I’ve deciphered the cipher myself.”
The moment those words left his mouth, Go Gwang-sik’s head snapped around as if struck by lightning, fixing Ji-woong with an intense stare. The thick muscles of his neck twitched convulsively.
“You haven’t shown this to anyone else or discussed it anywhere, have you?”
Go Gwang-sik’s voice dropped to a murmur. The temperature in the workshop seemed to plummet another degree.
“No, sir. Today was the first time I’ve shown it—to the Hunter and you two masters. I never even showed my father.”
At Ji-woong’s firm answer, Go Gwang-sik finally pressed a hand to his chest and exhaled a long, heavy breath that scattered the workshop dust. That exhalation carried both relief—that the family’s secret hadn’t leaked—and a primal unease that this dangerous thing might someday see the light of day.
It was a sigh born of contradictory emotions: relief that the family secret hadn’t escaped, and a deep-rooted dread that this dangerous object might indeed see the world.
“Then.”
I interlaced my hands on the table and leaned forward. My knuckles showed white. I fixed Ji-woong’s unwavering gaze directly with my own.
The image of myself reflected in his retina was perfectly, almost eerily serene.
“I’d appreciate an explanation.”
***
Ji-woong swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
“My grandfather’s memo meant cramming two contradictory concepts into a single blade.”
Ji-woong began his explanation, gesturing toward the smartphone screen.
“Dawn and dusk. Twilight and first light. They’re skies from completely different times of day, but in that single moment when the boundary between the light collapses, they take on precisely the same color.”
His fingertip traced the intricate lines of the diagram.
“That fleeting instant when light and darkness intermingle without repelling each other—that is Twilight.”
His explanation bordered on philosophy rather than metallurgy.
I fell silent. Something vast and inexorable was clicking into place in my mind, piece by piece.
Hardness and conductivity. Density and gaps. Until now, I’d thought of these two extremes only as a tug-of-war along a single line.
But what this diagram pointed to was not a line.
It was an intersection.
“So this blade in the diagram doesn’t mean two separate swords. It means two metals with completely different properties fused without boundary into a single, unified blade within one edge.”
As Ji-woong finished speaking, the knowledge in my mind rapidly reorganized itself.
To increase durability, you must compress the metal’s density and eliminate voids. But to increase conductivity, you must maintain molecular gaps through which Mana can flow.
Making these two contradictory physical laws coexist within a single blade—an alchemical notion that defied impossibility itself.
“Only I could decode this encrypted material list. My grandfather had substituted all the necessary catalysts and ores with names from Chinese idioms or creatures from Korean folklore. For example, ‘the tears of the Imoogi’ refers to coolant water refined at a specific temperature.”
Ji-woong swiped through several more screens. They were densely packed with indecipherable characters and mysterious symbols.
It was a secret code transmitted only through bloodline.
“But the reason my grandfather drew that red line and abandoned the forging wasn’t due to a design flaw.”
Ji-woong’s voice began to tremble slightly. A web of burst capillaries bloomed red around his eyes.
“It was because acquiring the single essential material needed for it was essentially impossible. Without it, this diagram is merely scribbles.”
“A Gate mineral, then.”
I cut him off with a slight nod. Ji-woong’s head dipped deeply in acknowledgment. A grim determination crossed his face.
“Yes. Imagine a metal of extreme hardness subjected to overwhelming external physical and magical force beyond its threshold. An ordinary blade would simply shatter. But what if, in the cracks of that fracture, Mana could seep in perfectly, fuse together, and then—in that instant—the broken edge restored itself to its original density in a flash?”
To accept Mana by destroying itself, then recreated and reforged within that fleeting frame of breaking, maintaining its strength.
This was no longer the realm of physical law. It bordered on the collapse of Causality itself.
“Destruction and restoration. A single catalyst—the only medium capable of enduring that terrible paradox eternally within a blade’s body.”
The moment Ji-woong was about to name that material, a word struck me like lightning—achingly, terrifyingly familiar.
It was the name of a cursed legacy I had witnessed in that dying world’s final days.
“The Collapse Stone.”
***
Three syllables from my lips compressed the very air of the workshop. The color drained from the faces of Go Gwang-sik and Seok-gwang like a retreating tide.
They stared at me with their mouths hanging open, as if they’d seen a ghost.
“Yes, sir.”
Ji-woong swallowed dryly and answered. A strange hunger kindled in his pupils.
“The other byproducts, for all their worth in the black market—billions of won—we could acquire them somehow. But the Collapse Stone alone—”
“No, you fool!”
Seok-gwang, who had been rigid, whipped his ashen face forward and slashed his hands downward in a harsh gesture. His fingertips were trembling.
“There’s a reason your master drew that red line across the diagram and abandoned it! That is no object a human being should ever hold!”
Seok-gwang’s cry was nearly a scream. Go Gwang-sik, too, had lost all the bravado he’d shown earlier about reforging Twilight.
He hung his head heavily, not even bothering to wipe away the cold sweat beading on his brow.
“You.”
Go Gwang-sik looked up at me, his eyes clouded.
“The way that name just spilled out of you—it’s clear you know exactly what a Collapse Stone is. Or perhaps you’ve seen one?”
“I haven’t seen one.”
I gazed at the cold teacup sitting on the desk. My cool gaze reflected back at me across its surface.
I couldn’t have not known. The Collapse Stone—a shard of the cosmos bearing absolute entropy, shattered infinitely and eternally mending itself.
It was no mere ore.
The Collapse Stone was a relic of the mythic age, classified as a so-called World Item, bearing miracles equal to the Regression Mastone.
By the time humanity grasped the stone’s true value, it was far too late.
Before anyone could reach the deepest level of the Gate where the Collapse Stone lay buried, the breath of the demonic dragon Zephyros had reduced the world to ash.
“But if we can only obtain it somehow—I can forge the ultimate blade you’ve always wanted!”
Ji-woong’s desperate cry shattered the silence.
I studied the boy’s face slowly. Bloodshot eyes, jaw clenched tight, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding steady.
This was what had caught my attention from the moment I first stepped into the Blacksmith Workshop.
While the other craftsmen shook their heads, dismissing it as impossible, Ji-woong was different. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t refute it. He simply held his smartphone in his fingertips, gripping it from within his pocket.
The expression of someone who already knew the answer.
“Ji-woong.”
My voice dropped low. Every gaze in the room snapped toward me.
“Do you understand what it would mean if this blade were completed?”
Ji-woong’s pupils trembled. But then they hardened again.
“My father couldn’t come back because of the Collapse Stone. After that, my grandfather barely picked up a hammer again. He spent his whole life blaming himself.”
There was no dramatic resonance in his voice. That’s what made it heavier.
“I’m not trying to complete this blade to exact vengeance on someone. I just… want to erase the reason my grandfather had to stand before that red line his entire life.”
The Blacksmith Workshop fell silent.
Go Gwang-sik turned away, cursing softly. Seok-gwang wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.
I rose slowly from my chair. The sound of fabric brushing as my knee joints straightened seemed unnaturally loud.
I acknowledged there was something noble in it. But my reason for wanting this blade was far simpler and far colder than that.
A weapon that could accept the boundless mana of the 9th Circle without resistance, while simultaneously outputting the full physical destructive force of Kang Tae-yoon the Sword Master.
An absolute instrument that twisted causality itself through cycles of collapse and restoration.
If only I could grip that hilt in my hand.
“I will retrieve it.”
It took a moment for the meaning of my words to register. Go Gwang-sik’s mouth fell open, his breath catching.
Seok-gwang staggered, gripping the table as his legs nearly gave out beneath him.
“W-wait, Hunter… what did you just—?”
Ji-woong’s pupils dilated grotesquely, as if unable to believe what he’d heard.
I swept my gaze across the craftsmen’s shock-frozen faces one by one. My expression held not a trace of hesitation. The corner of my mouth curved upward, barely perceptible, slanting slightly.
It was less a smile than the certainty of a predator.
“Where it is,”
I spoke, my eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the dust-covered window frame, beyond Ji-woong’s shoulder.
“I already know.”

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————