Chapter 207: A new weapon, and a new problem.

Damon took a deep breath, letting the silence of the forge settle before speaking.

“So…” he said, observing the space attentively, “what exactly did I come looking for?”

The old man snorted, walking to a workbench and starting to fiddle with tools unnecessarily, just to have something to do while he complained.

“Exactly what I imagined,” he grumbled. “She didn’t explain anything to you, did she?”

“She just told you to come,” Damon replied. “And that you would have something prepared.”

The blacksmith let out a short, dry laugh, devoid of any humor.

“A month ago,” he began, without looking at Damon, “Elizabeth showed up here. In the middle of the afternoon. Without warning. Without manners. Without the slightest consideration for my peace of mind.”

He picked up an old rag and began to clean a blade that was already clean.

“She sat there,” he pointed with his chin to a bench, “crossed her legs and started talking like she was asking for bread at a bakery. Said she needed a spear. Not just any spear. One that could withstand Icy IQ.”

Damon frowned.

“Icy… IQ?”

“That’s exactly the face I made,” the old man growled. “I told her that metal doesn’t like pretty tricks. That spiritual ice, condensed energy, that kind of thing… tends to crack, corrode, weaken the structure over time.”

He dropped the cloth in irritation.

“She smiled. That smile. The same one that says, ’I already know this and you’re going to do it anyway.’”

Damon couldn’t help but smile slightly. He sounded exactly like Elizabeth.

“And then?” he asked.

“Then she annoyed me,” the blacksmith replied promptly. “A whole week. He came back every day. He brought diagrams. Samples. Absurd theories. He talked about reverse heat flow, spiritual conduction, elemental resonance as if he were talking about the weather.”

He crossed his arms.

“On the eighth day, I accepted. Not because she convinced me…” he paused dramatically, “…but because I wanted to prove it was impossible.”

Damon raised an eyebrow.

“And did you succeed?”

The old man turned slowly to him.

“No.”

There was a brief, heavy silence.

“Against all my instincts,” the blacksmith continued, “it worked. Partially, at least. I had to forge the core differently. Layers. Heat treatment at temperatures that would make other blacksmiths call me crazy. I used a bluish ore I’d been saving for years, waiting for a client who never showed up.”

He walked to a smaller door at the back of the forge.

“She paid in advance,” he added. “Very well paid. He said that even if it didn’t work, the failure would still have value.”

“Value how?” Damon asked.

The old man opened the door and disappeared for a moment.

“As a warning,” he replied from inside. “Elizabeth never wastes anything.”

There was a sound of something being dragged, then heavy footsteps returning. The blacksmith emerged holding a long package, wrapped in several layers of thick paper, tied with simple string.

Without ceremony, he threw the package toward Damon.

Damon caught it reflexively. It was heavier than he expected. The weight was balanced, solid, comfortable to hold nonetheless.

“It’s already paid for,” said the old man. “Every damn coin. And before you ask, yes, it’s a work of art.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“But I have no idea how it will behave in your hand.”

Damon didn’t answer. Carefully, he began to untangle the string, pulling the paper layer by layer. As the wrapping unwound, a cold surface reflected the dim light of the forge.

Blue.

Not a painted or superficial blue, but a deep tone, incorporated into the metal itself, as if the color had been born there.

The spear revealed itself whole.

The wrought iron had elegant, almost organic lines, without excessive decoration. The handle was lightly textured, designed for firmness even with gloves or wet hands. The tip blade was elongated, sharp, with a discreet central groove that seemed to conduct something beyond simple air.

Damon felt a subtle shiver run through his fingers.

“…It’s cold,” he murmured.

“It always will be,” replied the blacksmith. “Even when still. Even when unused. It doesn’t freeze the environment, but it draws heat from whoever touches it. Slowly. Constantly.”

Damon clenched his hand more firmly.

For an instant, almost imperceptible, the spear reacted.

The blue seemed to intensify, as if recognizing something.

The old man watched intently, saying nothing.

“Can it withstand direct channeling?” Damon asked quietly.

“I tested it as far as I could,” the blacksmith replied. “Concentrated icy energy. Continuous flow. Short peaks. It didn’t crack. It didn’t deform. It didn’t sing,” he grimaced, “which is always a good sign.”

Damon slowly spun the spear, feeling the perfect balance.

“But…?” he asked.

The old man snorted.

“But that was me. You’re not a weary blacksmith using borrowed tools.” He pointed to the spear. “This was made for someone who pushes limits. And limits… come at a price.”

Damon nodded.

“Does it have a name?” he asked, almost impulsively.

The blacksmith seemed surprised by the question.

“I didn’t give it one,” he replied after a second. “Weapons gain names through use. Or blood.”

Damon stared at the spear once more.

“Then I’ll find out,” he said.

The old man gave a crooked half-smile.

“You’d better find out soon.” He crossed his arms. “Because if Elizabeth was right…” he paused, looking at Damon more seriously than before, “…this spear wasn’t made just for training.”

Damon felt that distant pressure again. The sensation of invisible eyes. Of something waiting.

He gripped the spear more firmly.

“Nothing she asks for is usually simple,” he replied.

The blacksmith chuckled softly.

“Clever boy.”

Damon turned toward the door.

“Thank you,” he said, before leaving.

“Don’t thank me yet,” the old man grumbled. “Come back in one piece. I hate rework.”

The door slammed shut behind Damon with a heavy creak.

Damon stepped out of the forge and took a few steps down the narrow street, the spear resting against his shoulder, its solid weight serving as a constant reminder that, this time, he wasn’t defenseless.

Still… The feeling didn’t go away.

On the contrary.

It grew.

It was no longer just that diffuse, distant pressure, like an occasional glance lost in the crowd. Now it was concentrated. Direct. Almost intimate. As if something had finally decided to stop watching from afar.

The streetlights ahead seemed dimmer. They didn’t go out—they just flickered, casting longer, thicker shadows. The street was too empty. No footsteps. No voices. No window creaks.

Damon slowed his pace, then stopped completely.

He took a deep breath.

“Great…” he murmured, without turning his face. “At least now I have a spear.”

There was no answer.

The silence stretched, too elastic to be natural.

He stood there, motionless, counting his own pulse. One second. Two. Three. His whole body was alert, every muscle ready to react, but without unnecessary tension. Whoever was there… wanted something. And hadn’t yet decided how to get it.

Then it came.

Not a sound. Not a step.

An intention.

Something ripped through the air behind him—not fast enough to be a lethal attack, but precise enough to test. Damon felt it before he thought. His body reacted on its own.

He spun on his axis, the movement fluid, practiced, while his left hand already pulled the dagger from his waist. The metal gleamed in the lamplight the exact instant he locked the blade against something invisible, solid only for a fraction of a second.

Clang.

The impact echoed short, dry.

Damon took a step back, lowering his center of gravity, the spear already descending from his shoulder to the correct position. His eyes swept the street.

Nothing.

But now… now he knew.

“What a bad joke,” he said, his voice firm, without raising his tone.

The air in front of him rippled.

Not like explicit magic, nor like a common illusion. It was more subtle. As if space were being pushed aside by something that didn’t want to be seen… but also no longer cared about being perceived.

A figure began to take shape.

Tall. Too thin to be comfortable. Enveloped in a dark cloak that didn’t reflect the light correctly, as if it absorbed it. The face remained hidden, not by shadows, but by a deliberate absence of detail—something there simply refused to be remembered.

“Good reflexes,” said the voice.

It didn’t come from a specific point. It seemed to spring directly from within Damon’s head.

He didn’t respond immediately. He adjusted his grip on the spear, feeling the familiar chill run down his arm.

“If that’s a compliment,” it finally said, “you chose an odd moment to give it.”

The figure tilted its head slightly, a curious, almost… evaluative gesture.

“It wasn’t an attack,” the voice replied. “If it were, you’d be on the ground.”

“How reassuring,” Damon retorted. “Then I imagine you came to talk.”

“Perhaps,” the thing said. “Perhaps I just wanted to confirm something.”

Damon narrowed his eyes.

“Confirm what?”

There was a pause. Too short to be indecision.

“That you are exactly what they said you were.”

The pressure in the air increased for an instant, as if the world held its breath.

“And what did they say?” Damon asked, without flinching.

The figure began to dissolve, its edges becoming indistinct, like smoke carried by the wind.

“You still don’t know how much it bothers you.”

And then… she was no longer there.

No sound of escape. No visible trace. Just the normal emptiness of the street, as if nothing had happened.

Damon remained motionless for a few seconds, the dagger still raised, the spear firm in his other hand.

His heart pounded fast, but calmly.

“Great…” he murmured again, this time with a darker tone. “Now I have fans.”

He slowly sheathed the dagger, without lowering his guard, and rested the spear on the ground for a moment, feeling the cold spread beneath his palm.

Wherever that thing had come from, one truth was clear:

The observation was over.

Now… the game had begun.

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