Evan sat across from Drogmir. But his eyes were anything but calm. They burned—sharp as blades, cold as death. Each glance slicing into the dwarf like invisible razors. "Drogmir," Evan said quietly, voice laced with frost, "Where are my weapons?" He pulled on a black shirt, hiding the holy-mended wounds beneath. His movements were precise. Controlled. "I'm running out of patience staring at your greedy little face." "Give me one reason not to end this now." He already knew it was over. Lie or truth—either way, the end would likely be the same. Still, with a shiver running down his spine, he tried. "I… I didn't make them," he confessed, voice trembling. "I thought I could kill you before I had to." "So I never forged a damn thing." Shame flickered in his eyes. But fear drowned it out a second later. Evan tilted his head, a cold grin curling at his lips. "You fooled me with that fake family oath—" "And never planned to deliver?" He drew a simple dagger. Then pressed it against Drogmir's chest—just enough to break skin. "Should I start digging the truth out by hand?" "No, wait! I'm telling you the truth!" Drogmir screamed, voice cracking. "I swear—I never made the weapons! I didn't think you'd live!" The fear in those eyes…It wasn't lying. He clicked his tongue. Even if he forced Drogmir to work now, would it matter? The dwarf didn't have the guts to forge Erith-rank weapons. Not for someone like Evan. …So do I really have to kill him? Turn him into a summon instead? Landing on the forge behind Drogmir. It had survived the earlier attack. Its core is still glowing faintly. Enchanted. High-grade. That forge… might be worth keeping. He turned back to the dwarf. "So you're not afraid of dying?" Evan's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Then maybe I should grant your wish." A crazed grin spread across Drogmir's face. "Kill me? DO IT!" he barked, laughter spilling out like poison. "You think I'm afraid?! My life's already garbage!" "You think I'm evil for trying to change that?" He pounded his chest, eyes bloodshot. "I didn't do anything wrong! I just wanted to rise higher!" "I saw power in your flames and reached for it!" "Isn't that what this world is all about?!" Trying to convince himself more than Evan. "You think a simple death scares me?!" He let the dwarf scream. Let him pour out every drop of his delusion. Evan stepped forward. "It's not wrong to want power." "It's not even wrong to steal it." His boots echoed against the stone floor. "But you forgot one thing." "The rule of this world." "The one who takes… must be stronger than the one he steals from." "You tried to take from me—without knowing who I am." "Without knowing what I command." "And now… you've been marked." Evan reached behind his back. A streak of silver flashed. He hadn't used it at all. Drogmir's head flew through the air—eyes wide in disbelief. It hit the floor with a dull thud. The shock frozen on his face was the last thing he left behind. Evan stood over the corpse. [You've gained 93 EEP.] [The Soul of the Dead has been partially absorbed into the Relic Ability.] (1/????) [Can be used anytime for any use.] "So this is what unlocking Arven's true abilities brings…" The system had grown too comfortable with harvesting souls. This wouldn't end as a clean execution. It had to look like an ambush. Evan shattered crates. He locked the door from inside. Then turned toward the forge. He cracked his knuckles. "Might as well take everything he's worth." He raised his hand over the corpse. Black tendrils erupted from his palm—twisting like serpents. They pierced into Drogmir's corpse with a hiss. A pulse of dark energy spread across the room. The system chimed again. "...Let's see what secrets you tried to take to your grave." [Stats Absorbed] ➤ +31 STR | +11 AGL | +41 INT | +27 VIT | + 39 END | + 36 STA] [Trait Absorbed] ➤ ⟪Iron Will [Skills Absorbed] ➤ ⟪Forge Mastery⟫, ⟪Smelting Mastery⟫, ⟪Material Insight⟫] [Same path between skill and a source has been detected in the host, do you wish to fuse the skill inside the source: Blacksmith (B)] [Iron Will (C)]: An unyielding trait of relentless persistence. The user refuses to falter, continuing their path regardless of success or suffering. Ash and silence filled the ruined forge. Shattered tools. A burned anvil. Blood smears the blackened floor. Evan sat cross-legged in the middle of it all. Expression unreadable. Gaze distant. He opened his system interface. Flicking through the loot panel from [Plunder]. Something was missing. There was no [Trait] tab. "Huh… that's odd," he muttered. "The other system had it. So this one's either incomplete… or hiding it." A shrug. He moved on. "Alright, question," he said aloud, addressing the system. "If I plunder a skill from someone, then raise their corpse as a summon…Can they still use the skill I took?" The answer came instantly. [Ding! Query received. Processing…] [No, Host. Once a skill has been plundered, the undead cannot use it—unless it's relearned.] "Tch. So that's a waste," Evan muttered. He leaned back against a scorched pillar. "No point forcing class skills into something that can't even use them." He waved the screen away. From his face, he pulled out a mask. Forged of darkened metal. A faintly glowing crystal is embedded in its forehead. The Mask of Concealment. Stripped of illusion. Showing its true form. He pressed the mask against Drogmir's severed head. A flash of light surged from the crystal. The light faded. The mask loosened. Evan retrieved it, wiping it clean with calm precision. He slipped it back onto his face. [Target's life experience has been extracted and stored.] [Would you like to review the memories now?] "Yeah," Evan said quietly. "Start to finish. Double speed. Let's see if the fool saw anything useful." Shadows unfolded in his mind. And he plunged into the sea of Drogmir's memories. The soul could not lie. And Evan… was its god now. The vision began within the halls of the Ironbelch Clan. A proud Dwarven bloodline, carved into the deepstone of the Tier 4 Expanse. There were supposed to be seven in the family. Father. Mother. Four sons. One daughter. But that number came at a cost. Childbirth complications struck. Twins—third and fourth in line—refused to be born. The healer's verdict was cruel. Save none… or sacrifice one. He gave up one child… to save the mother and the other twin. The survivor—Drogmir. A choice made in silence. Buried. Hidden. Never spoken again. And in time, the father swore— All his children, no matter how gifted, would be raised equally. The clan rose in power. Wealth poured in. The family soared. The eldest son awakened a 4-Star Divine Fire Affinity. A Tier 1 Weaponsmith in months. Forging magic-tier blades. The daughter awakened Holy magic. She joined the Church… though it came with chains more than glory. The youngest son grew into a fierce warrior. A natural adventurer. And then… There was Drogmir. No affinity. No gifts. Just sweat, failure, and bitterness. Still, his family tried. They never gave up. They encouraged him. Supported him. But Drogmir didn't see that. Disappointment. Pity disguised as kindness. And one day, after another argument… He snapped. No goodbyes. Just slammed doors and resentment. An adventurer took pity. Offered to train him. Five hours of daily drills? Two hours of weapon handling? He quit in thirty minutes. Even the adventurer, patient and kind, gave up in the end. "You don't lack talent, Drogmir. But Drogmir didn't hear that. He only heard betrayal. Rot spread in his heart. Even his nanny—the one who raised him—left. He drowned himself in liquor. Stumbled home drunk—on his birthday, no less. His father slapped him. Evan smirked, watching the memory unfold. His mother collapsed to her knees. But Drogmir didn't see love. He only saw judgment. That very night, he stole the money he thought he deserved… …and took the family's ancient forge. The same one Evan had nearly destroyed. And then he vanished. In his madness, he'd even taken a forbidden art. A technique that stole potential from others in exchange for borrowed life. Now, Evan understood. That's why Drogmir—barely in his thirties—looked like a rotting husk. Sacrificed decades of his future. And gained nothing in return. Because he never had the will to wield what he stole. Evan opened his eyes. Only thirty minutes had passed. He looked down at the corpse—headless, burnt, broken. No pity stirred in his chest. But now, he understood the man. "Misunderstandings," he muttered. "They really do destroy more lives than swords ever will." He stood and stretched. The full Forbidden Art. All buried in Drogmir's mind. Everything had value now. And he intended to use every piece. The scent of ash still clung to the air. Evan stood above Drogmir's corpse—mind sharp, heart cold. A severed head lay nearby. A part of him wanted to feel something. Satisfaction? Regret? All that came was emptiness. He recalled the look on Drogmir's face—Fleeing like prey from his own blood. Evan once believed Drogmir had chased him for his flames. Drogmir had wanted Kael's flames first. He only stopped because Kael was a friend. But when Evan showed up—a stranger, a nobody—That hesitation vanished. No pause.Just the desire to take. Evan's blood simmered. "It's easier to justify killing a stranger, isn't it?" he said. "Even if they're innocent…" Tried to shake off the spiral. He wasn't innocent either. But what if it had been someone else? Someone who didn't survive? Mana surged from his core, coiling like smoke. It dove into Drogmir's remains. Spectral threads wove between them. Flesh melted, revealing cracked, blackened bone. In moments, a dwarf-sized skeleton stood upright. Tattered robes hung from its frame. Its eye sockets burned blue. [Collected soul retrieved from Ability Storage.] [You have raised a Skeleton Blacksmith (Elite) – Lv.89] Evan skimmed the stats. The blacksmith's skills were intact. But the tenacity traits were gone—devoured by him. "Perfect," he muttered. "You'll forge my weapons now… until I surpass you. Or break you for a better one." The skeleton tilted its head. Evan ignored it and began looting the forge. He snatched up rare metals, tools, and weapons— Even ones Drogmir had selfishly crafted using Evan's own materials. That thought made him scowl. He glared at the undead dwarf. It looked back with hollow innocence. Tossing everything into his inventory, Evan turned toward the room's centerpiece— A legacy from the king to Drogmir's father. And this fool had wasted it. It was unbelievably heavy. Ancient enchantments flickered across its runes. This was no ordinary tool. 'Definitely needs testing later.' Evan braced his legs, poured mana into his arms, and heaved. The heat seared his skin. With a final grunt, he shoved it into his inventory. Every forge-related item followed. When he was done, his body ached. Sweat clung to his skin. His hands were red and raw. Only one task remained. "Same old plan. No witnesses. No evidence." Evan raised his hand. Two undead emerged from the void. —His loyal Undead Mage. —And a Goblin Skeleton, roughly Drogmir's size. He pointed to the forge's former heart. The goblin dropped without hesitation. Just blind obedience. Explaining was useless. The dead didn't think. They followed. Content orıginally comes from 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝕟𝕖𝕥 He turned to the mage. "Charge a fireball. Maximum output." A skeletal hand rose. Mana churned, condensing into a sphere of raw fire. Meanwhile, Evan worked. He scattered metal fragments. Bent tools Drogmir once held. Props for the illusion. A forgery of a final moment. Then—he stepped closer. Ashen fire gathered at his fingertips. A whisper of Kael's flame. A trick he'd memorised. He wove it into the fireball. No longer standard flame. But mutated.Phoenix-born.A mimicry of destruction. Once it stabilised, Evan dismissed the mage. Took the fireball in his own hand. The orb hovered above his palm, seething. Enough heat to warp stone.Enough pressure to flatten steel. And hurled the fireball behind him. The moment he exited— A hellish blast ripped through the forge. The shockwave slammed into Evan's back. But Bone Armour and Mana Shield caught most of it. [Your Undead (Goblin Skeleton) has been destroyed.] The front door burst open. His body melted into the shadows, vanishing. Behind him—The Ember & Anvil exploded. Fire swallowed the blacksmith whole. Smoke billowed into the sky. The very street trembled. Pedestrians screamed. Reduced to char and rubble. Adventurers poured in. Mages formed barriers. Water spells danced through the air. But nothing stopped the blaze. Flanked by his party. His gaze locked onto the inferno. Then, without warning— Flames bent around him. His Phoenix-born resistance turns fire into mist. But he didn't flinch. His eyes scanned the wreckage—Until they landed on a broken form. A blackened skeleton. Collapsed in the center. The unmistakable size. He dropped to his knees, trembling. A shimmer appeared beside him. Vela—A flickering spark of Death Phoenix flame—Kneeled at his side. The fire consumed too much. But the mana here… It's near the 9th Star. "My flame is here. Yours too." Kael's fists clenched. No one else in this region could've channelled Phoenix fire. Not even in the Second Expanse. His greed gets over him." Kael lowered his head. The truth scorched deeper than the fire. He picked up the bones. Lifted the skeleton in his arms. Someone who had once believed in him. Gasps echoed around him. But Kael said nothing. Tears ran down his face. Ash stained his armour. Behind him, the girls followed. The Ember & Anvil—A legacy of fire, steel, and craftsmanship—Was gone. —High above, in the shadows… Evan stood still, arms folded. A tall, armoured skeleton. Enchanted hammer in hand. A blacksmith reborn in undeath. His voice was cold. Commanding. "Get to work. I want my gear in three days. The burning forge reflected in his eyes—But no guilt lived in them. The reborn Drogmir paused—looked down one last time. At the body that wasn't his. And followed his master. His eternity had just begun. And when it would end— I hope you enjoy the chapter and add it to your library for instant updates on new mysteries in the Zeroth Expanse.