Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

Chapter 333: Chapter 21: The Blacksmith and the Roast Pig

As dusk set in, two men were still bustling in the blacksmith shop.

The elder blacksmith, Misha, held a red-hot iron billet while the younger blacksmith, Berlion, swung his hammer. Their shadows danced against the wall, following the flickering flames, as if performing some special kind of dance.

With every strike from Berlion, Misha would adeptly adjust the angle. The two blacksmiths worked seamlessly together, swiftly forging a curved sword blank from the billet.

Misha tossed the formed sword blank into an oil barrel and called for his assistant to prepare the hilt.

Berlion went to the back of the shop to retrieve a wooden hilt made from the resilient and comfortable to hold edge material of oak, which had been pre-shaped to fit the user’s hand.

The hilt, carved with spiral grooves, was tightly wrapped by Berlion with milky stingray skin, glued together with glue made from fish bladders.

After ensuring it was securely glued, the young blacksmith placed a can of black ink near the forge to warm it, and started to lacquer the hilt.

For Winters, who was watching from the side, the earlier work of the two smiths, while interesting, wasn’t anything special.

But when the ink-dipped brush touched the stingray skin, he was dazzled.

Under the effect of the black lacquer, an exquisite and meticulous pattern emerged on the originally unremarkable skin, tempting one to touch it at just a glance. The black ink had become a magical stroke that turned the decayed into the divine.

The real marvel came afterwards, as Berlion, having completed lacquering and drying, pulled out a spool of silver wire.

After securing one end of the silver wire to the tail of the hilt, the young blacksmith began to wrap it along the grooves. Soon, the black leather was divided into evenly spaced segments by the fine silver lines.

There was no use of gold, no embedding of gems. Yet, in Winters’ eyes, this sword hilt was no less exquisite than any royal’s ceremonial sword hung at their waist.

The black stingray skin contrasted with the bright silver wire, not only looking refined but also practical. The simplicity and elegance made the glittering ceremonial swords seem vulgar in comparison.

Not only were Winters’ eyes glued to the young blacksmith’s hands, but even the old blacksmith Misha couldn’t help but marvel.@@novelbin@@

A door in his memory was flung open, and Winters suddenly recalled where he had seen similar craftsmanship, or rather, a similar style and aesthetic.

It was on a dagger that had almost claimed his life—the hilt of Sofia’s dagger was strikingly similar to this sword hilt.

The wrapping of the silver wire was quickly finished, and the remaining finishing touches were simple, just assembling the various parts onto the blade before delivery. But it seemed to the young blacksmith, these were not yet the final touches.

After temporarily fixing the sword blank, hilt, and counterweight, Berlion handed the sword to Winters, saying briefly, “Try it for yourself first.”

This was a single-handed sword, one of the weapons Winters had ordered days before. The blade was an off-the-shelf item Misha had someone buy from the city of Revodan, a journey that took nearly half a month for the traveling merchant to complete.

Winters then pressed the tip of the sword into the ground and pushed downward, bending the blade to the side in an arch. When he let go, the blade sprang back naturally.

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes to examine it, and the sword remained perfectly straight, showing no sign of warping.

He hacked on the spherical anvil used for testing swords several times. As he gradually increased the force of his blows, the sword still held firm, experiencing no bends or breaks at the front.

Winters nodded, pleased.

Misha, the blacksmith from Dusack, lamented from the side, “Man compares with man ’til one is blue, goods compare with goods ’til one is thrown through! The ready-made blades from the steel fort are much better than my work; if my swords were tested like this, they would have broken already. There’s no comparison, not really.”

“These blades have been tempered again; they’re a bit tougher,” the young blacksmith simply said.

Winters swung the sword in the air a few times, the stingray-skin and silver-wire hilt feeling extremely good in his hand. It was comfortable to grip without being abrasive, and the grooves provided a way to wick away sweat, keeping the hilt from becoming slippery.

“The balance is a bit to the rear; adjust it a bit forward, to about a foot in front of the blade,” Winters returned the sword.

The current center of gravity on this single-handed sword was near the blade, but Winters preferred it a bit more forward for more power in a swing.

The advantage of a custom weapon is that everything can be changed, but in reality, there’s not much that can be altered about the weapon itself.

Special requests from buyers are mostly reflected in decoration, and that’s why Winters was in the blacksmith shop—Misha had invited him to come and pick a decorative style.

“Are you sure you don’t want to etch any patterns on the blade?” the elder blacksmith couldn’t help but ask.

“No need,” Winters said with a smile, shaking his head, “Wouldn’t that weaken the strength of the blade?”

Misha waved his hands dismissively, “No problem, it doesn’t really affect it. After all, a sword should have some patterns on it to look nice.”

“I prefer simplicity,” Winters stated.

Misha said regretfully, “Etching is a real skill, probably only Berlion is capable of it in the whole region. It’s really a pity not to try. Well, if you ever want to add some decorations to your sword, come back.”

“Sure,” Winters pondered, then casually remarked, “Even as a layperson, I can tell that your sword-making skills are truly impressive.”

“Me, an old guy, make swords? I only know how to forge farm tools,” Misha said with a pleased smile, patting the young blacksmith’s shoulder, “This lad is the truly skilled one! The swordsmiths in Revodan can’t even compare to him. The only pity is that he’s in such a small place; if he were in a big city, he would have made a fortune by now.”

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