With the blade complete, Kieran turned to the furniture—the components that would make this a complete sword rather than just a sharp piece of metal.
The guard came first. He'd designed it to be minimal but functional, two simple quillons that would protect Celeste's hand without adding unnecessary weight. He forged them from the same mithril-alloy, maintaining material consistency throughout the weapon.
But the guard wasn't just protective. Kieran set the focusing crystal into the guard's center, creating a setting that would allow radiant energy to flow from Celeste's hand into the blade. The crystal pulsed with golden light as he worked it into place, responding to his intent.
The grip required the dragonbone fragments. Kieran had never worked with dragonbone before—it was incredibly dense, almost impossible to shape with normal tools. But his Artifact Smith class provided knowledge of techniques that shouldn't have existed.
He ground the dragonbone fragments into powder, mixed them with special resins, and created a composite material that retained the bone's magical properties while being workable. This he layered over the tang in a specific pattern, creating ridges that would ensure Celeste's grip stayed secure even in the chaos of combat.
The monster-core leather wrapped the grip in overlapping spirals, bound with the silver wire in a traditional pattern that Kieran's hands seemed to know despite never having learned it. Each wrap pulled tight, each twist of wire placed with micrometer precision.
On day nineteen, he created the pommel. This was where the moonstone dust's final portion would go, creating a counterweight that would also serve as a secondary energy reservoir. Kieran hollowed out a sphere of mithril-alloy, filled it with moonstone suspended in crystal resin, and sealed it with techniques that came from somewhere deep in his class knowledge.
The pommel seemed to glow from within when he finished, pulsing in rhythm with the crystal in the guard.
Day twenty was assembly. Kieran fitted the guard, wrapped the grip, attached the pommel, and for the first time, held the complete weapon.
It was lighter than it should have been—the mithril-alloy and the moonstone creating negative weight somehow, making the sword feel almost eager to move. The balance point fell exactly three inches from the guard, precisely where Kieran had calculated it should be.
He moved through a few basic forms, despite having no real sword training, and the blade sang through the air with a sound like distant bells.
"It's beautiful," Mira whispered from the doorway. Kieran hadn't heard her approach.
"It's not done," he said, though his heart was hammering. "The enchantments. The final tempering. The—"
"Kieran." Mira stepped into the forge, her eyes wide. "That's... that's not a normal sword."
"No," he admitted quietly. "It's not."
The final two weeks were dedicated to something that couldn't be taught, only intuited. Kieran had to awaken the artifact—to bind the enchantments, establish the passive skills, transform the sword from excellent craftsmanship into something that defied natural law.
This was where his Artifact Smith class truly mattered.
He started by meditating with the sword for three days straight. Not sleeping, barely eating, just sitting in the forge with the blade across his lap, his mind reaching out to understand its nature.
Every artifact had a personality, a resonance, a purpose. Kieran needed to find this sword's truth.
On the third night, exhausted and half-delirious, he finally felt it. The sword wanted to dance. Wanted to move like light itself, wanted to be an extension of graceful violence. It wanted to amplify rather than dominate, to enhance its wielder's natural talents rather than impose its own nature.
You want to make her better, Kieran understood. You want to be worthy of her.
The revelation brought tears to his eyes.
Days twenty-four through thirty were ritualistic work—processes that made no logical sense but which his class insisted were necessary. He bathed the blade in moonlight for seven nights. He rang it like a bell at specific hours, listening for the resonance to shift and stabilize. He spoke to it, explaining its purpose, telling it about Celeste and her desperate need to prove herself.
"You're going to help her win," he told the sword on day twenty-eight. "You're going to move the way she needs you to move. You're going to be light in her hand but devastating to her enemies. You're going to amplify her radiant skills and make her faster, sharper, more perfect."
The blade seemed to glow brighter at his words.
On day thirty-one, Kieran performed the final binding. This required blood—his blood, specifically. He pricked his thumb and let three drops fall onto the blade while speaking words that his class provided, words in a language he didn't know but understood perfectly.
The blood absorbed into the metal, and the sword changed.
A blue System window appeared in Kieran's vision:
[ARTIFACT CREATED]
[Name: Unnamed]
[Rank: A]
[Type: Longsword]
[Creator: Kieran Ashford]
[Base Stats:]
[Damage: 180-240]
[Attack Speed: +35%]
[Critical Chance: +15%]
[Durability: Self-Repairing]
[Passive Skill: Radiant Amplification]
[Light-based abilities gain +40% effectiveness when channeled through this weapon]
[Passive Skill: Dancer's Grace]
[Wielder gains +25% to Agility and Dexterity while holding this weapon]
[Passive Skill: Moonlit Edge]
[Blade maintains perfect sharpness. Damage increased by 20% in low-light conditions]
[Special Property: Bound to Purpose]
[This weapon resonates with those who fight to prove themselves. Effectiveness increases with wielder's determination]
[Quality: Masterwork]
[This artifact represents the pinnacle of its creator's current capabilities]
Kieran stared at the window, his hands shaking. A-rank. He'd created an A-rank artifact.
"What should we call you?" he whispered to the sword.
The answer came from somewhere deep in his soul, in the place where craft and art and desperate hope intersected:
"Dawnbreaker."
He spoke the name aloud, and the System registered it:
[Artifact Named: Dawnbreaker]
[Name Locked]
The final week was dedicated to details that no one but Kieran would ever notice or appreciate.
He polished the blade for sixteen hours straight, working through increasingly fine compounds until the surface was flawless. Not just mirror-polished—beyond that, to a finish that seemed to hold light rather than merely reflect it.
He re-wrapped the grip three times because the first two attempts had spacing that was off by millimeters. The third attempt was perfect, each wrap of leather exactly the same width, the silver wire catching the light in precise spirals.
He engraved his maker's mark on the tang—a tiny hammer and anvil, so small it was almost invisible. His first time signing a work. His first time admitting that he'd created something worth claiming.
On day forty, he created a scabbard. Not just any scabbard—one made from the same monster-core leather as the grip, reinforced with thin mithril-alloy plates, lined with velvet that wouldn't scratch the blade's perfect finish. The scabbard had its own enchantments, minor ones that would help preserve the sword and make it easier to draw quickly.
Day forty-one was testing. Kieran took Dawnbreaker to the practice grounds in the dead of night, when no one would see, and ran it through every test he could imagine. He struck it against steel posts, testing durability. He performed cutting tests on various materials. He even threw it like a spear to test the balance.
Every test confirmed what he already knew: this was the finest weapon he'd ever created. Possibly the finest weapon he would ever create.
On day forty-two, the final day, Kieran did something he'd never done before.
He cried.
He sat in his forge, holding Dawnbreaker across his lap, and wept with the overwhelming emotion of having created something perfect. Not perfect by the standards of legendary smiths or artifact masters, but perfect by the standards of who he was and what he was capable of in this moment.
"You're beautiful," he told the sword through his tears. "You're everything I hoped you'd be. Please... please be enough for her. Please help her win."
The blade seemed to pulse with warm light, as if in answer.
Mira found him like that—sitting on his forge floor, crying over a sword, exhausted and elated and terrified all at once.
She didn't say anything. Just sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.
They sat like that for a long time, watching the morning light creep across Dawnbreaker's flawless surface.
Six weeks of work.
Six weeks of obsession.
Six weeks of pouring everything he was into creating something worthy.
Tomorrow, Celeste would arrive for the final delivery.
Tomorrow, Kieran would have to let go of his masterpiece and trust that it was enough.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
But tonight, in this moment, holding perfection in his hands, Kieran allowed himself to feel something he hadn't felt since before Greyhaven, before the cage, before the fear:
Pride.
Pure, uncomplicated pride in what he'd created.
It felt like coming home.