Timeless Assassin Chapter 809 The Blade Design

(Planet Ixtal, Supre Master Argo's POV)

The shuttle pierced through the gray clouds with a low hum, its descent steady as the vast, scarred surface of Ixtal finally ca into view beneath them.

What once stood as a thriving Cult planet of ancient cities, rivers, and magnificent architecture had now been reduced to a graveyard of blackened stone and cold ash, stretching endlessly in every direction except one.

Only the Lost Forest remained untouched, its canopy shimring faintly with primal green light, and beyond it, rising like a silent monunt that refused to bow to tragedy, stood the Lord's lone castle.

Argo felt his chest tighten as the craft banked toward the

encampnt stationed near the castle gates, his expression darkening as he realized just how bad the devastation must have been for the Cult's people who were left behind during their retreat.

"Supre Master, we will be landing in a minute," the pilot announced.

However, Argo gave no answer.

He rely stood there, hand gripping the overhead rail, eyes narrowed at the sight of the holy land he had once adored in its pri, as even though he had expected devastation, seeing it firsthand still hit him harder than he had anticipated.

*Land*

*Scrrch*

The craft touched down with a soft hiss, and as the doors slid open, the cold wind rushed in carrying with it the sll of burnt soil and old grief.

Argo stepped out first, followed closely by his six apprentices, their boots crunching against the brittle ground.

The nearest cluster of survivors paused mid-task as they spotted him, taking in the sight of an elderly man with iron-grey hair tied back, his forge apron fastened tightly around his waist, and his long beard braided neatly with tal cuffs.

For a mont, silence gripped them all.

Then one of the commoners, an older woman with soot-stained hands, pressed a trembling palm to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.

"It's him... it's really him... Supre Master Argo..."

Her voice cracked, and suddenly several others gathered, their expressions overflowing with relief and reverence.

"The Cult's greatest blacksmith has returned!"

"Master Argo... praise the heavens..."

Argo stood frozen, taken aback by how quickly they recognized him, and because they did, the weight on his heart grew even heavier.

"Their suffering... I must do my part to avenge them as best as I can!' He resolved quietly, nodding once toward the commoners before turning toward the castle.

"Is the Lord inside?"

He asked, as the survivors nodded imdiately.

"Aye," they answered, gently motioning for him to proceed toward the entrance, toward which he strode with confident, asured steps.

'It should be alright to knock on the Lord's gate, since he is the one who summoned us... right?'

He wondered, before raising his hand and knocking firmly as his apprentices stood behind him in silence.

*Knock* *Knock*

He tapped on the huge doors, and to his surprise, there was no delay whatsoever.

The doors parted almost instantly, as though the castle had been awaiting his arrival, and standing there, regal and composed as ever, was Soron.

The god's posture was relaxed, his expression calm, but his eyes carried an exhaustion only a few would dare notice.

"My Lord..." Argo breathed, and before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees at the threshold, his apprentices doing the

sa.

But Soron's eyes widened in genuine alarm as he stepped forward and grasped Argo's arms, lifting him with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the divine power he possessed.

"Please, Master Argo. Do not kneel to . You embarrass by doing so," Soron said, his tone soft yet unwavering. "You are an Elder. Your respect is equal to mine."

He praised warmly, and Argo bowed his head once more, though this ti he remained standing, as the god placed a hand briefly on his

shoulder.

"Co inside," Soron said, stepping back and gesturing toward the illuminated hall. "We have much to discuss."

Argo inhaled deeply, steeling his resolve as he crossed the threshold, as for the first ti in many years, he felt the weight of destiny settle upon his forge-scarred hands.

"This is the tal you need to work with..."

Soron presented once they were inside, as he placed a dull gray, unassuming block onto Argo's open palms.

At first glance, it looked utterly ordinary, almost disappointingly so, as had it been lying beside a pile of scrap steel, no blacksmith would have even given it a second look.

But Argo felt the truth the mont its weight settled in his hands, as his brows twitched in disbelief.

"...Heavier than steel," he murmured, feeling surprised.

"Far heavier. But this size and density should not weigh this much."

He lifted it gently, testing its balance, and nearly cursed aloud.

No tal, no alloy, no divine-forged mineral weighed this heavily without turning radioactive or unstable.

However, this block was sohow completely inert.

"Interesting... very interesting."

He mused, as he placed both hands around the block, inhaled, and

slowly pushed mana through his fingertips and into the tal.

Every tal in existence reacted to mana.

Even inert materials trembled, resonated, or emitted faint vibrations

when mana passed through them.

So tals humd.

So glowed.

So expanded or contracted microscopically.

So even sang softly, notes heard only by experienced smiths.

It was the law of tallurgy in a world where mana flowed

everywhere.

But this tal...

It showed no reaction.

No hum.

No vibration.

No shimr.

No song.

It was like forcing mana into a void that swallowed everything without

so much as a quiver.

As feeling it, Argo's eyes widened in disbelief.

"By the heavens..." he whispered, his voice cracking at the edges,

"Such a unique elent. It rejects all external mana entirely. It does

not resonate. It does not tremble. It does not even acknowledge that mana exists."

He said in shock, as he ran a thumb over its smooth surface.

"It looks tallic... but it is not exactly a tal.

It carries a weight much heavier than lead, but is still not radioactive.

It is cold to the touch... yet absorbs no heat.

It should be impossible... yet here it is."

Argo shook his head slowly, awe and fear mixing in equal asure.

"My Lord... what is this thing truly made of?"

He asked curiously, as Soron folded his arms, his expression solemn.

"It is called 'Origin tal'. It's the remnant of a ti before the universe as we know was created. So in a way, it predates even mana." He said, as Argo's breath got caught in his throat.

"No wonder... mana does nothing to it. It existed before mana ever

did."

He said in disbelief, as Soron nodded in acknowledgent. "That is why I need you, Supre Master, to shape it into a

formidable weapon that fits my fighting style."

He reached forward, tapping the surface of the block.

"Sothing like this..."

He said as he held up a parchnt and unrolled it across the nearest

table.

"Two double-edged blades. Both lightly curved.

Thirty-three centiters in blade length.

Eleven centiters for the handle, with the balance point centered

exactly one-third from the hilt."

Argo leaned in, eyes narrowing with intense focus.

"I need the weight concentrated toward the midsection of the blade," Soron continued. "Not the edge, not the hilt, but the center. Enough to allow rapid directional shifts while ensuring each strike carries crushing force."

Argo nodded slowly, absorbing every detail as Soron pointed toward the cross-section sketch.

"I also need the spine hollowed by precisely one milliter, and the

edges compressed until they are atom-thin. Not sharpened, compressed. Origin tal does not grind, so you must fold the edges into shape."

He instructed as Argo swallowed hard.

"That will be... absurdly difficult, My Lord."

He admitted, as Soron offered him a faint, tired smile.

"That is why I asked you, Master Argo. I know it is hard, but it is what

I need."

He said, as silence settled between them.

"This is it... the project of a lifeti!

Argo thought, as his fingers traced the hidden potential within the

Origin tal, while his mind raced through techniques, temperatures, enchantnt possibilities, and other such details necessary to process it.

"This tal will most likely not obey conventional rules...'

He realized even before starting the forging process, as he knew this

was going to prove to be an absurdly difficult challenge.