The Archmage’s Swordsmanship Is Too Strong - Chapter 77

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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77
The Ghost Sword Iron Forge and Black Iron
***
A crimson demon’s visage, lips parted around a blade-sharp sword gleaming between them.
Its eyes were hollow, drained of all light, while the flame-pattern wreathing them burned with startling vividness, as though it might leap down the forearm at any moment.
Beneath that grotesque motif lay four characters—carved with the crude weight of runes etched into bone.
The Ghost Sword Iron Forge.
The moment I confirmed that weighty name, a pleasant shiver ran through me.
The tremor traced my spine and descended into my fingertips as a fine vibration. A name that had sunk into the mire of oblivion had surfaced into the present, breaking through.
‘To meet the Ghost Sword Iron Forge here.’
A collective of mad blacksmiths who had made their life’s work the forging of possessed blades—weapons channeling spirits from beyond.
Established during that legendary era when Gates first opened and Other World ore poured in torrents into our realm, founded amid the turbulent chaos of early days, they were a legendary artisan guild.
Their purpose was singular and absolute—not profit, not fame, not expansion of guild power. Only the completion of a perfect weapon.
It was their reason for existence, their only law.
They clung to an apprenticeship system of ruthless rigor. They scorned modern factory methods and held to meticulous, bespoke handcraft.
Years would pass before a single weapon reached completion, consuming astronomical sums and rare materials that even major guilds found burdensome.
They did not stop at mere form. They poured years more into the forging work alone—the hammering and tempering.
Through countless hammer-strikes, they wrung from the metal every last impurity, tolerating not even microscopic flaws that might impede Mana flow.
At the end of this stubborn obsession and madness, only dozens of blades emerged into the world.
And among those, the Ilhwi series—blades that bore a master’s soul and carried the character ‘Ilhwi’ in their name—became legend among Hunters, revered as the greatest swords in history.
These were not mere weapons, but altars upon which the craftsman had sacrificed his very lifespan.
Yet paradoxically, the Ghost Sword Iron Forge walked the path to ruin precisely because of this extreme devotion.
Their method of small-volume production proved fatally archaic against the ever-mounting tides of monsters and the rapidly shifting Gate landscape.
Often, Hunters who had commissioned a blade fell in a Gate before they could even claim their weapon.
Unowned blades gathered dust in warehouses or flowed into auction houses to recover costs.
The magnificent swords these artisans had refined over years never found their wielders; rumors flourished that they lay preserved in the cold display cases of Middle Eastern magnates and black-market collectors.
A blade that draws breath from battle-fields and feeds on blood—they had severed these blades’ lifelines.
Even Kang Tae-yoon, the Sword Saint whose body I now inhabit, had yearned in his former world to hold one of those Ilhwi blades.
For one who walked the path of the sword, Ilhwi was like a destination—the summit one could never reach.
Yet fate never granted him that connection.
Instead, rumors spread of an ominous curse: the Ilhwi, denied a master, grew vengeful and cut down those who coveted it.
The craftsman’s obsession had transformed into killing intent.
In the end, the Ghost Sword Iron Forge was buried in history’s shadow, overwhelmed by massive workshops backed by capital, churning out high-quality mass-produced weapons via 3D printer.
The age demanded efficient consumables, not a craftsman’s soul.
‘In this world too, the Ghost Sword Iron Forge’s fate was extinction.’
Watching the shop owner’s rueful smile, I quietly arranged the flow of causality in my mind.
I could almost hear the sound of past fragments interlocking with present necessity.
Apart from the guild’s destruction, before my eyes lay another vast door of possibility—one I had never reached in the previous world.
***
“It is an honor.”
I gathered my emotions and offered a genuine handshake to the man standing with his rough, work-worn hands braced against his apron.
The calluses on his palms alone told how many years he had swung a hammer.
Yet the shop owner’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of my hands, and he quickly shook his head, waving me off.
His pupils wavered as though he had glimpsed something he should never have seen.
“Ha—no, put your hand away. Honor? That name is nothing but a vicious nightmare to me. The kind that wakes me in cold sweat even in sleep.”
He turned awkwardly toward an old coffee pot in the corner of the counter.
With a clattering mechanical whir, hot water poured out, and soon two cups of instant coffee were made.
Sweet, cheap-smelling steam rose up, gradually pushing back the dust-laden, stale air of the cramped shop.
“Will you drink? I’m not sure if this cheap stuff suits your palate.”
“Thank you.”
The owner handed me a paper cup, then sagged into a creaking chair.
He sipped his coffee like burning incense, then carefully drew out memories layered with dust from years past.
“I spent years learning the hammer under a master of the Ghost Sword Iron Forge, breathing in charcoal dust. While others went to university and fell in love, I sweated before a furnace glowing red-hot. I had enough talent to reach Journeyman rank, and it wouldn’t be long before I inherited my own workshop and earned the title of Master.”
His pupils sank deep as his gaze fixed on a single point in empty space.
The focus faded because he was no longer here—he stood instead in that sweltering workshop decades ago.
“The condition for Master rank was completing the Ilhwi project. My life’s greatest work, refined over years of devotion. I would not exaggerate to say I poured half my soul into it.”
According to his account, an exclusive showcase was held to unveil the Ilhwi series to the world for the first time.
It was a grand event, inviting the world’s foremost sword masters and capitalists to witness the weapon demonstrated.
VIP seats were packed with Masters of major guilds and S-Rank Hunters, all waiting in hushed anticipation to see the blade I had crafted shine with light.
The moment the demonstration ended, an astronomical auction was set to begin, and he stood ready to become legend.
“Everything was perfect. The sword’s balance, its destructive power, its Mana Conduction rate—everything matched my calculations without even the slightest margin of error. It was the moment my entire life was about to transform completely.”
The owner took a bitter sip of his mixed coffee. The paper cup crumpled precariously between his thick fingers.
“But then, right there on the demonstration platform, the Ilhwi shattered into a thousand pieces.”
“Destroyed? The Ilhwi?”
At my question, the owner ground his teeth and nodded. His jaw muscles tensed, and the fury from that day seemed to rise again.
“Yeah. The swordmaster who was handling the demonstration was the problem. The old bastard got so excited about the exceptional feel of the blade in his hands that he lost all control and started raving like a madman. Instead of just testing it on the demonstration target, he started pouring out his Aura like he was in real combat.”
“Who would do such a thing.”
“He didn’t hold back at all. With one of my Ilhwi in each hand, he started clashing them together with full force, dancing with the swords like some wild beast. And those two blades were fundamentally incompatible with each other.”
Thick veins bulged across his forearms. The contents of the paper cup trembled.
“That insane English bastard—I think he’d even had a drink. He should have shown some restraint! ”
……
“When two legendary blades that couldn’t withstand his strength shattered in midair, the whole showcase turned into a complete disaster. The VIPs laughed mockingly and left, looking at those precious metal shards scattered across the floor. ‘So the greatest sword in all the land,’ they sneered, ‘shatters when its own blades clash? What a fraud—a glass sword that breaks against itself.’ The Ghost Sword Iron Forge’s name became nothing but air that day, and buried in debt, we closed the doors for good.”
A madman intoxicated by the pleasure of swordsmanship, capable of destroying two legendary blades on someone else’s showcase stage.
A man with overwhelming martial power but no concept of restraint. And to top it off, an old British swordmaster.
There was only one person in this world who fit all those conditions.
“That damned old geezer. If he ever crosses my sight again, I’ll smash his legs with a red-hot sledgehammer and break them clean off. No—I’ll throw him straight into the forge itself.”
I let the warmth drain from the paper cup in my hands while maintaining a perfect, cold silence.
If word got out that I was meeting that British old man every dawn in Wild Mountain, crossing swords and receiving his teachings, my skull would be the first thing caved in by the hammer flying from those thick forearms.
Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.
“Have you considered crafting a sword again?”
I finished the last of my coffee in one gulp and broke the silence, cutting straight to the heart of the matter in a dry tone. My voice was low and decisive.
This was an enormous opportunity.
The legendary Ilhwi—a blade that even Kang Tae-yoon had never managed to wield in the previous world.
If Kang Tae-yoon had held that Ilhwi in his hand and aimed it at the throat of the Demon God Dragon Zephyros, the final war of mankind might have unfolded in a completely different way.
That single moment when the blade’s hardness wasn’t sufficient to pierce his heart—that might have altered history itself.
To twist the probability of the destruction to come, I couldn’t possibly let slip this chance to raise my full strength one step higher.
Even if the craftsman’s hands had grown cold, his technique would not have vanished entirely.
“No, not happening. I don’t even want to go near a forge anymore.”
The owner crushed the paper cup and tossed it into the trash bin with precision, cutting off any further discussion.
But beneath his firm voice, his hand unconsciously stroking the tattooed forearm and the faint tremor in his eyelids told a completely different truth.
A craftsman who had spent his whole life before a hot forge could never truly accept his own soul withering away at the counter of some shabby corner shop.
I could see the scars and burn marks embedded in his skin crying out, demanding fire once more.
“You have to remake the Ilhwi. For your own honor as a master.”
I stepped closer, applying more pressure. My gaze bored relentlessly into his wavering pupils.
“Master? Don’t joke with me. You clearly don’t understand how we sharpen weapons at the Ghost Sword Iron Forge. It’s not something that can be done with passion alone.”
The owner laughed hollowly and turned away. But he didn’t leave his seat.
I pulled out my wallet and withdrew a business card embossed with the precise logo of the City Government Ability Management Team.
I slid it quietly into his apron pocket—quietly, but with a force that couldn’t be refused.
“My number. If there are any conditions you need to craft the sword—materials, funds, a workshop, legal support, anything at all—name it. I’ll prepare whatever you need. You need only focus on your hammer work.”
The owner’s eyes widened as he pulled out the business card.
As he felt the card’s texture between his fingertips, he finally began to scrutinize the face revealed beneath my hat.
“Ah. You’re… from the city government……”
Perhaps because the Club Arabian incident had dominated the media for days. He seemed to recognize me only now.
Though I hadn’t intended to invoke my position, it was the most effective way to dissolve the craftsman’s doubts and establish unwavering trust.
Sometimes one proof speaks louder than a hundred words.
“……I must be getting blind. I didn’t recognize you. Two months ago, wasn’t it you at the Donggureung Gate right out front? Didn’t you burn through that entire outer Goblin Gate?”
“Yes.”
The owner stared directly into my eyes beyond my sunglasses, the crumpled business card clenched in his fist.
In his eyes, which had been dull and lifeless, a spark that had long been extinguished began to glow once more. It wasn’t desire so much as the return instinct of a true craftsman.
“Reforging the Ilhwi isn’t just about money. The core issue is finding materials—materials you simply can’t buy with cash. The bones or hearts of apex predators from the Other World, or shards of stars. Without such things, I can’t make an Ilhwi, only a common iron blade.”
“If materials are the issue.”
I answered without hesitation, my voice cool and steady. Not a trace of doubt colored my words.
“I’ll gather them from the very ends of the Other World. Write me a list of what you need. I’ll bring everything.”
“Ha! Damn! That’s an easy thing to say.”
At my arrogant, absolute certainty, the owner planted his hands on his hips and began pacing the cramped workshop in circles.
Dust from the floor scattered beneath his rough footsteps.
His heavy breathing raised the temperature in the narrow space. Like a bellows breathing air into a forge, I could feel his heartbeat quickening.
After circling several times to steady his breath, he stepped forward to face me again.
“It’ll take considerable time. I’ll need to track down scattered old colleagues, and I’ll have to set up new equipment.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait as long as it takes. One year, ten years—whatever is needed.”
“This is madness. Absolute madness. And here I am, taking it up again after all these years…… How on earth am I supposed to explain this to my wife?”
Explosive vitality surged through the blacksmith’s thick frame. His hunched spine straightened, and his shoulders rolled back with sudden force.
He extended the thick right hand that had been waving dismissively moments before, and a fierce grin spread across his face. It was the smile of a predator moments before the hunt.
“All right. I’ll take it. I’m Ko Gwang-sik. Good to meet you, Kim Do-jin. Let me wager what’s left of my life on this one last time.”
***
Ko Gwang-sik had told me that after the Ghost Sword Iron Forge fell, he’d grown disillusioned with the world and retreated here, to the outskirts of Donggureung, running a small Hunter shop out of this modest corner.
To hide his past, he’d deliberately hung up the most common name imaginable for a sign, and dealt only in the most ordinary weapons.
Most of what he handled was Normal-grade equipment, but the craftsman’s pride in him meant he’d never poured a single careless casting or struck a sloppy hammer blow.
The weapons on display lacked flashy magical enchantments, but each one radiated honest, solid strength.
“Still, what brought you here in the first place? When you first opened that door and walked in, it didn’t seem like you already knew I was part of the Ghost Sword Iron Forge.
There’s no reason a Hunter of your caliber would have any business in a shabby shop like this.”
Only then did the original reason for my visit to this rundown shop surface in my mind. The ruined equipment from my bout with Arthur flickered through my thoughts.
“I came looking for a sword fit for actual combat. My blade snapped and bent during training.”
I added dryly, recalling the devastated state of Wild Mountain.
“I don’t need flashy Mana enhancement options. Just something brutishly durable and solid. Anything that can withstand the pressure of my Mana will do.”
“Why didn’t you say so from the start! That’s my specialty.”
Ko Gwang-sik snapped his fingers as if something had just occurred to him, then pushed open the worn rear door behind the counter and disappeared inside.
It was no display room for sale—it was a cramped warehouse and secret forge scattered with his personal research and practice pieces.
Dull metallic clangs echoed from within for some time, and then Ko Gwang-sik emerged again, his forehead beaded with sweat.
Cradled in his arms was something wrapped in cloth.
“There it was, gathering dust. I hammered this out just before I left the Ghost Sword Iron Forge, for amusement.”
In his hands lay a heavy broadsword, its surface dusted with a fine layer of grime.
As he blew the dust away with a soft huff, the cool, weighty blade revealed itself beneath the pale fluorescent light, sharp and austere.
“The blade…… it’s black. It hardly reflects any light at all.”
“That’s right. It’s made by blending obsidian powder with high-carbon steel from the Other World, then compressing the density to the absolute limit. All the stats are dumped purely into hardness and weight.”
Ko Gwang-sik offered me the weighty blade.
The moment my hand grasped the hilt, a dull ache of weight coursed through my wrist. It was heavier than three standard longswords combined.
My muscles tensed minutely, absorbing the blade’s mass.
A rough, coarse leather wrap wound tightly around the grip, a plain, round tsuba with no ornamentation. It was less a work of art than a tool optimized for killing.
What caught the eye most was the long, heavy blade, stripped of its silver sheen and bearing a deep Black Iron hue.
The reach extended roughly a hand’s span longer than a typical greatsword, making it difficult to wield, but it offered a dominant advantage in reach.
The weight bore no comparison to the Dragon-Head Sword I’d wielded before—it was brutally, brutally heavy.
But when I gently twisted my wrist to gauge the balance, despite that absurd mass, the weight distribution was perfectly, exquisitely calibrated to my hand.
It felt as though the blade were an extension of my own arm.
I let Mana trickle through, probing the blade’s internal structure. Mana conductivity and enhancement options were, as expected, near zero.
It would be the worst possible club in a mage’s hands, and swordsmen obsessed with Mana efficiency would have turned their noses up at it.
But that brute density was more than sufficient to endure the physical shockwaves and Mana recoil generated when I layered five instances of Haste to forcibly warp space itself.
Against Arthur’s blade, this wouldn’t chip or shatter easily.
“What’s its name? What do you call this one?”
I was satisfied with the blade’s cool touch and weighty feel, and I flicked my fingertip lightly against the flat.
Not a clear metallic ring, but a deep, resonant hum echoed through the forge.
“Black Iron. That’s what I call it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My original work! Black as a crow, so Black Iron! Simple and good, don’t you think?”
Watching the blacksmith’s face light up with innocent pride in his crude naming sense, I reached a cold conclusion.
Before this blade ever drew blood in my hands, there was one thing I had to do first.

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