The Extra is a Hero?-Chapter 241: THE KING AND THE SMITH

Chapter 236: The King and the Smith

​While the rest of the Arcadia team was busy suffering through the "mandatory cultural integration seminar"—which was mostly a dwarf shouting about the history of bearded axes for three hours—I slipped out the back window of the Athlete’s Village.

​I had better things to do than listen to history. I had a war to prepare for.

​The Ironhold didn’t sleep. Even at night, the sky was a bruised purple, lit from below by the thousands of blast furnaces that made up the city’s heart. The air tasted like copper pennies and sulfur. To an ordinary person, it was suffocating. To an Artificer? It smelled like opportunity.

​I pulled my hood up, masking my face. My destination wasn’t the tourist shops selling dull axes to gullible elves. I was heading for the Deep District. The pulsing, molten heart of the city where the Master Smiths worked.

​I needed materials, and I needed to verify a suspicion.

​"No humans. No magic-users. Piss off."

​The dwarf blocking the entrance to the Molten Vein foundry was wide as a barrel and twice as hard. He had a beard singed at the edges and arms that looked like braided steel cables.

​"I’m not here to buy trinkets," I said, keeping my voice low. "I need access to a Hyper-Forge. And I need five ingots of Star-Metal."

​The dwarf snorted, a sound like a grinder hitting stone. "Star-Metal? You think you can just waltz in here and demand the King’s alloy, boy? Go back to your playground."

​He went to shove me.

​I didn’t dodge. I didn’t block. I simply shifted my weight and tapped the inventory ring on my finger.

​Clang.

​A heavy, black iron hammer hit the cobblestones between us. The ground cracked.

​The dwarf froze. His eyes went from the hammer to my face, then back to the hammer. It wasn’t a weapon of war. It was a tool of creation. Specifically, it was a Breaker’s Hammer—a legendary smithing tool I’d "acquired" from the inheritance of Master Thorne back in the Academy.

​"That’s... Thorne’s design," the dwarf grunted, his hostility replaced by a grudging confusion.

​"I know how to use it," I said. "Let me in, or I’ll set up shop right here in the street and show everyone how sloppy your apprentices are."

​The dwarf narrowed his eyes. "You got stones, human. I’ll give you that. Five minutes. If you ruin a single heat, I’ll feed you to the furnace."

​He stepped aside.

​Inside, the heat was physical. It pressed against my skin, heavy and oppressive. The sound was deafening—a rhythmic, chaotic symphony of metal striking metal.

​I walked past lines of sweating apprentices to an open anvil. I didn’t waste time. I pulled a raw chunk of adamantite from my inventory—leftovers from the Sky Island loot—and tossed it into the crucible.

​[Skill Activated: Artificer’s Eye]

[Material Grade: High]

[Temperature: 1400°C - Optimal]

​I grabbed the tongs, pulled the glowing white metal out, and raised the Breaker’s Hammer.

​Clang. Clang. WHOOSH. Clang.

​I fell into the rhythm. Master Thorne’s training wasn’t just about hitting hard; it was about hitting with intent. I wasn’t fighting the metal; I was persuading it. I used the Echo Strike technique—hitting the metal in a way that sent vibrations through the core, aligning the molecular structure without folding it a thousand times.

​The apprentices stopped working. One by one, the older smiths turned their heads. The rhythm of a Master Smith is distinct. It’s music.

​When I quenched the blade in the oil trough, steam exploded upward. I lifted the result: a dagger blank, perfectly tempered, humming with potential energy.

​The barrel-chested dwarf from the door picked it up. He inspected the grain. He flicked it with a thick fingernail. It rang like a bell.

​"Aye," he muttered. "You’re not a tourist." He looked at me with genuine respect. "I am Horgar. What do you need, Smith?"

​"I need to see your ore supply," I said, dropping the act. "Specifically, the shipment that came in yesterday from the Northern Mines."

​Horgar frowned. "The Royal shipment? Why?"

​"Because," I whispered, leaning in, "I think someone is poisoning the King’s steel."

​Horgar led me to the storage yard in the back. Huge crates stamped with the Royal Seal sat stacked against the wall.

​"These are for the Royal Guard’s new armor," Horgar explained. "Top quality. We’ve been using a new supplier recommended by the Grand Chamberlain."

​I placed my hand on a cold bar of dark iron.

​[Skill Activated: Quantum Analysis]

​The blue grid overlay appeared in my vision, dissecting the metal.

​Structure: Iron (98%), Carbon (1%), Unknown Isotope (1%).

​Mana Conductivity: High.

​Stability: Degrading.

​Anomaly Detected: Trace amounts of Nether Essence.

​My stomach dropped. It wasn’t just a bad batch.

​"Nether Iron," I murmured.

​"What?" Horgar asked.

​"This metal," I said, tapping the bar. "It’s stronger than normal iron. Lighter, too. But if you channel holy magic or high-purity mana through it... it shatters. And worse, it leaks corruption into the wearer over time."

​Horgar’s face went pale. "The King... his new armor was forged from the first batch of this."

​Just then, a trumpet blast echoed from the street outside.

​"The King!" someone shouted. "The King is inspecting the district!"

​I grabbed Horgar’s arm. "Don’t say a word about this yet. If you speak, you die. Trust me."

​I pulled my hood back up and melted into the crowd of workers rushing to the main street.

​The procession was grand, but tense. Steam-powered walkers—the pride of the "Innovator" faction—clanked alongside traditional runic shield-bearers. The political rift was visible right there in the formation. The traditionalists looked at the machines with disdain; the engineers looked at the runes with arrogance.

​And in the center, riding a massive armored boar, was King Thorgar Stoneforge III.

​He was a mountain of a dwarf, wearing plate armor that shone like a mirror. On his back was the legendary hammer, Mjölnir.

​The crowd cheered, but I didn’t. I was looking at the King’s face.

​Under the helmet, his eyes were heavy. His skin had a greyish, sickly pallor that makeup couldn’t quite hide. He waved, but the motion was stiff.

​[Target: King Thorgar Stoneforge III]

[Status: Level 88 (Suppressing Level 55)]

[Debuff: Heavy Metal Poisoning (Nether Variant) - Stage 2]

​He was dying.

​The "Nether Iron" wasn’t just in the economy. It was literally killing the King. The Demon Cult wasn’t planning an invasion; they were executing a coup from the inside out. They were poisoning the traditionalists to make way for a puppet regime.

​As the King passed, his eyes swept over the crowd. For a fleeting second, his gaze snagged on me. Maybe it was my hooded cloak, or maybe he sensed my intent. He frowned, a flash of confusion crossing his face, before the procession carried him away.

​I stepped back into the shadows of the alley.

​The Tournament wasn’t just a game. It was a distraction. While the world watched the students fight, the Cult was assassinating a monarch in plain sight.

​I checked my inventory. I had the Nether Iron sample I’d swiped.

​Objective Updated: Prevent the King’s Death.

Sub-Objective: Don’t get caught by the Demon General lurking in the shadows.

​I turned to head back to the Athlete’s Village. I had to tell Arthur. But first, I had to figure out how to explain that I knew state secrets without admitting I was basically hacking reality.

​"Being a hero is exhausting," I sighed, vanishing into the smog.

(To be Continued)