Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1245: The Heavenly Restriction
Chapter 1245: The Heavenly Restriction
The forge gave a steady, punishing rhythm.
Each strike of Quinlan’s hammer sent a ring through the air and a tremor through the chestplate on the anvil.
Kaelira’s blows answered him, precise and measured, shaping metal that wanted to tear itself apart under the strain of their combined mana. Sparks hit their arms. Sweat ran down their bodies.
Quinlan handled the enchantment. Kaelira handled the metal.
He poured fire into the sigils while she drove the hammer where the weave needed pressure.
The work required a balance between force and finesse. Too much mana and the veins in the armor would collapse. Too little, and it would never hold its shape under attack. They traded quiet warnings and single-word corrections between breaths, then sank back into the cadence.
Rykar watched from a shaded corner with his arms folded. Yet, on his face, the biggest, proudest of smiles could be seen. At least, as long as no one watched.
When someone looked at him, the old man quickly turned stern.
Seraphiel, Kitsara, and Vex – their dutiful assistants who wanted to be present for the creation of the armor – moved about the room with water and towels, keeping the heat from cooking them alive.
The metal hissed and sang. The anvil took on a heartbeat of its own.
Between strikes, when Quinlan’s breath hitched and his forearms trembled, the memory of the sauna found him. The words Black Fang had spoken could not be dismissed.
Once they struck the deal, once the year-long pact had been created, Quinlan quickly used the opportunity to ask about one thing.
The hammer rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Each strike pressed light into the metal, but Quinlan didn’t even notice. His focus was occupied by the memory clawing its way back into his mind.
“The Heavenly Restriction… I’ve heard the term before,” he had said. “I have some idea what it means, but I’d be grateful if you told me.”
Black Fang hadn’t answered at first, electing to ponder over his words.
*Clang.*
A ripple of mana left the hammer, so dense that Kaelira almost flinched. The forge’s sigils brightened, reacting to the overflow. Quinlan didn’t even notice.
“What level do you think I am?” she’d asked at last.
He’d smiled then. “A bit over seventy, perhaps close to eighty. Like the others on the continent.”
“Not just above seventy.” Her voice had been sharp enough to cut through the heat of the sauna. “Seventy-four exactly.”
*Clang.*
Another blow. The armor’s frame started to hum. Mana built inside it, more than any ordinary alloy could endure. Sparks skipped across the anvil. Vex exchanged a glance of utmost shock with Seraphiel, but neither said a word.
Their lover was a man possessed right now. Neither of the women understood what was going on, but they didn’t dare ruin his concentration by talking.
They understood that Quinlan was a rookie when it came to smithing, even if he inherited Rykar’s knowledge thanks to the old man’s strange class.
Thus, this was a truly unique sight.
Right now, Quinlan was as if he’d managed to assimilate that inherited knowledge seamlessly into his craft.
But at the same time, the women also saw that he wasn’t focused on the smithing process, not one bit. His head was elsewhere.
’Perhaps that was exactly what made this unique sight possible,’ they pondered.
Quinlan’s eyes stayed locked on the molten glow, yet his mind was miles away.
“Why so specific?” he’d asked her, finding it a bit weird the way in which she corrected him. She was acting as if his guess between seventy and eighty was plain wrong. “Seventy-four is above seventy.”
“You don’t understand. All of the strongest are seventy-four. The king. Morgana. Lilith. Everyone stops there.”
*Clang.*
The sound was heavier this time. Kaelira leaned closer to the table with her hands poised over a crystal mold that glowed under Quinlan’s aura. She followed his rhythm perfectly, sliding the core into place right as the hammer fell again.
“It’s connected to rank-up missions, isn’t it?” he’d said.
“In a way. People get missions every ten levels. Starting at ten, twenty, thirty. But after fifty…” She’d let the words hang.
“No missions at sixty or seventy?”
“None.”
*Clang!*
Molten mana burst across the edge of the breastplate, weaving itself into the grain in the form of a liquid thread. Kaelira held back a gust of wind that might’ve ruined the shape.
Her hands trembled from sheer awe. Quinlan wasn’t channeling; he was outright bleeding power without even realizing it.
The tomboy elf was already immensely excited each time it came to having another smithing session with her lord, but somehow, tonight was special. She couldn’t tell why exactly, but Quinlan was simply different now.
And she loved every second of the experience. She knew she’d never be able to forget this night for the rest of her life, such was its unique atmosphere.
Quinlan had thought of Vex then, who had no rank-up mission at sixty, she told him. He’d assumed the next would come at seventy-five. But, alas, that was apparently not the case.
Black Fang had watched him and spoke up after seeing his confusion. “Do you know how much experience you need to reach level seventy-five upon getting to level seventy-four?”
He remembered bringing out the folded note with his calculations from his pocket ring. “Each level needs thirty percent more XP than the last. Starting with a hundred. So… by seventy-four, it’s twenty billion, seven hundred ninety million, four hundred eighty-nine thousand, six hundred seventy-nine. What a joke… I can’t even imagine how utterly horrible grinding that will feel like.”
*Clang!*
The hammer landed again. The number echoed in his head, absurd in its scale. The forge shuddered. Rykar’s grin widened as the veins of mana in the armor turned from blue to white. It should’ve exploded.
It didn’t.
“The real joke’s coming up now. Tell me, how much XP do you think I’d get if I killed Morgana?”
He pondered for a moment. “Morgana? Considering how strong she is, how about a million?”
Her lips had twitched. “One.”
He’d frowned. “One what?”
“One point of experience.”
*Clang.*
The hammer hit harder than Kaelira thought it should’ve. The mana didn’t disperse, however; it folded in on itself, compressed, turning the alloy denser. The air around the forge trembled.
“That’s the Heavenly Restriction,” she had announced. “An invisible collar that forbids us from growing stronger.”
He had waited for the punchline. It must’ve been a joke, seasoned with Black Fang’s morbid humor.
The punchline never came.
“After seventy-four,” the woman continued, “every kill, no matter who or what, gives a maximum of one XP. You can slaughter armies. Kill kings. It doesn’t matter.”
He’d stared at her then, wordless, until the only thing he could say was:
“Holy fuck.”
*Clang.*
The final strike sent a burst of light through the forge. When it dimmed, the armor sat on the anvil. It was solid, flawless, still warm with mana.
Quinlan stepped back, yet his gaze was distant thanks to his thoughts lying elsewhere.
None of them spoke.
Kaelira just looked at him, at the impossible work glowing under the forge light. He hadn’t been smithing.
He had been remembering, understanding on the most instinctive of levels…
And somehow, both acts had fused into one.
The tomboy elf’s cheeks turned pink with excitement and pride as she then realized they’d created something truly special.
Soon, Quinlan’s breath evened. His eyes lifted, then his pupils shifted, burning with the depthless flare of his primordial sight.
Lines of script unfolded across his vision, shaping themselves into a neat, hovering panel of information.
[Unnamed Armor]
Rarity: Anima
Type: Soulbound Armor (Incomplete)
Status: Awaiting Designation
Imbued Spells:
…
