While everyone else battled waves of golems, Ery was locked in a brutal soul-to-soul clash with the legendary Celestial Machinist.
Even in this weakened state, Randhall's ntal fortitude was terrifying. He was a grand-master craftsman whose will had been tempered by thousands of masterpieces, each one sharpening his discipline and resolve. His soul was a fortress built on centuries of obsession.
Ery was fortunate that what he faced was only a fragnted remnant, an incomplete consciousness revived through Dravic's body. Even so, breaching such a mind required everything he possessed. After several brutal clashes- soul strikes, ntal binds-Ery finally pushed through the defenses and carved a path inside Randhall's soulscape.
What greeted him was a fractured world, a mosaic of drifting mories.
He saw the Machinist as a child, clutching his first hamr. His apprentice days, his rise to fa, and the founding of his faction. The early years were filled with warmth-his dream was simple: to create works that uplifted society, to forge engines and tools to better the world.
But then ca the mont his life changed.
Randhall was invited to the realm of the Celestials.
One mory showed him ascending to their radiant city-a place of impossible architecture and divine workshops. Months spent studying under the divine beings changed him forever. It was there he first laid eyes on the pinnacle of craftsmanship: tier-7 legendary artifacts, and beyond them, the mythical tier-8 godly artifacts, works so flawless they seed alive.
From that mont, sothing inside him shifted.
Obsession replaced balance. Passion turned into fixation. He neglected his family, ignored his faction, and shut himself away to chase a new dream.
Centuries passed. His fa grew-yet every recognized masterpiece was tier 7. The godly tier 8 remained forever distant, a horizon he couldn't reach.
His faction paid the price. Resources dwindled. Support crumbled.
Then ca the great catastrophe-the calamity that beca the end of the Celestial race and plunged the Magus Universe into chaos. During that era, the demand for Randhall's newly developed grand magus-class golems and artifacts rose astronomically.
But Randhall refused to supply any more of them. Each production demanded massive effort and ti-distractions that pulled him further away from his true goal.
Conflict soon erupted between him and his family. With his lifespan finally approaching its last years, Randhall withdrew from the world and went into seclusion. He committed himself to one final undertaking: a secret tomb, a workshop-mausoleum where he vowed to pursue perfection until the very mont death silenced him.
###
Ery finally reached the end of the shattered mory-scape-a burning workshop suspended in the void, its walls cracked like scorched porcelain, molten rivulets dripping into an endless abyss.
The air rang with the rhythmic clang... clang... clang of a hamr striking tal.
Randhall stood with his back turned, shoulders broad, movents precise despite the flickering flas around him. Even as a fractured soul, the Machinist worked with unwavering focus, every strike sending ripples across the collapsing realm.
Then Ery noticed soone else.
Chained to one of the warped tal walls-arms spread, body half-scorched- was Dravic.
The Volkov leader thrashed violently the mont he saw Ery."You insane ghost!! Let out!! Release !!" His voice cracked between rage and fear, echoing in the broken chamber.
Ery stepped further inside. The flas dimd as if acknowledging him. Randhall finally paused. The hamr stilled mid-air. Slowly, the ancient craftsman turned, his soot-covered face weathered, eyes burning like twin furnace cores.
"For soone your age, your soul is... remarkably strong"
He studied Ery for a long mont before lowering the hamr.
"Thanks to your intrusion... I have regained most of my mories." His gaze then shifted sharply toward Dravic. "And through his mories, I understand my situation."
Randhall pointed the glowing hamr at the chained man.
"This one carries my bloodline... but he is unworthy of my legacy"
Dravic's eyes widened. "It was my great-grandfather who ruined the faction, not !! I wasn't even born when-"
"I do not care about them," Randhall snapped, voice resounding like steel against steel. "What matters is the heart of a crafter. And you..." His face
twisted with contempt. "...you have none."
The words made Dravic shrink back against the chains, fury replaced by a flash
of sha.
Then Randhall turned back to Ery. His expression softened-not with kindness, but with curiosity.
"I can see it," he said slowly. "You are no blacksmith... but you are an artisan. A
creator. Like ."
Ery's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
Ranshall's expression twisted into regret; his form flickered.
"It's been too long..." he said, voice cracking. "My soul is breaking apart. Before I disappear entirely... I need soone who can continue my dream..."
Ery narrowed his eyes, reading between the lines. "And you think that person is ?"
"I don't know... but I sense the mark of the Celestials in you. Maybe you can..."Randhall's fragnted soul flickered once again, the burning workshop moaning and warping around them like a dying mory.
"But hear this," he continued, voice sharpening with cracked determination, "I would rather bury all of you with my life's work than let it leave this place without a successor."
Ery took a slow breath. "Alright. What do you need? Let try"
Randhall extended his hand. A dark ingot rested on his palm, glowing faintly
with deep-seated power.
The task seed simple: refine this piece of tal.
But the mont Ery touched it, his senses reeled. The ingot was unlike
anything he had handled before-unbelievably durable, yet terrifyingly sensitive. A single excess spark of heat, a slight imbalance of force, and it would crumble into useless fragnts.
"I see..." Ery whispered. "I'll give it a try!"
In the spirit world, imagination shaped materials as readily as willpower. Ery conjured no hamr-he treated the tal as if it were an alchemical cauldron. around the ingot. Threads of
Flas urged at his command,
soul-essence wrapped it like invisible tongs.
He refined it slowly, carefully, thodically. Then he realized caution alone wouldn't be enough.
The tal resisted, refusing to submit. Ery grimaced, forced to unleash the
full depth of his Heaven and Earth Dao. Dual opposites energies intertwined, eting at the exact balanced point-just enough to soften, but not destroy; strong enough to shape, but gentle enough to preserve.
The workshop trembled around him as he poured everything into the process. Finally-exhausted but triumphant-he completed the refinent.
A slender blade ford in his hands: elegant, balanced, faintly luminous.
Ery allowed himself a small breath of satisfaction... until he spotted it-a hairline flaw no wider than a strand of hair, running along the blade's spine.
Randhall's gaze hardened.
"You failed.""
His voice carried both disappointnt and finality. Then his expression shifted
-resigned, almost cruel-as he made his decision.
Across the spirit realm, distant echoes rumbled. Outside, Ery heard the chanical voice erupt:
[Self-destruct sequence initiated.] [Countdown: Five minutes.]
Panic erupted beyond the veil of the soul world.
"Wait!" Ery shouted. "Let try again!"
"It's no use... I have seen enough. You cannot do this."
Ery's mind raced. He knew Randhall was right. He was at a massive disadvantage-barely any foundation in refining, no real blacksmithing experience. Even with his talent and soul power, completing such a task in minutes was impossible.
Behind them, Dravic started screaming again, hurling curses at Randhall.
Annoyed, the legendary Machinist simply waved his hamr-Dravic's soul shattered like brittle glass, scattering into the burning air.
Ery flinched. Even that single act showed how little ti Randhall had left... and how ruthless he could be.
He briefly considered escaping the spirit realm altogether-returning to his body and using his spatial mastery to force an evacuation from the tomb. But there were too many unknown variables. Too many people. Too little ti. And the countdown had already begun.
He needed another solution. A different angle.
Ery steadied his breath, turned back to the ancient craftsman, and spoke.
"This isn't fair," he said firmly. "You spent hundreds of years reaching your
level... and you expect to match it in minutes."
For a mont, Randhall's expression shifted-agreent flickering in his fading eyes. But then he slowly shook his head.
"Like I said... I do not have much ti left."
Ery moved forward, voice steady with confidence.
"Then give one thing-it will not take much ti."
Randhall narrowed his eyes."And what is that?"
"An assistant. That's all I need."
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