Clang! Clang!

The hammer struck down on the blade resting on the anvil. The sound of the blacksmith’s labored breaths mixed with the hiss as the heated metal sizzled in the water, cooling in bursts of steam and sharp metallic scent. The roaring forge, flames dancing with intensity, cast waves of heat into the frigid winter air. The scene was stark—heavy hues of iron intertwined with the fierce glow of red, lending the smithy a solemn, almost reverent atmosphere. In the center of the workshop stood the kingdom's finest artisan, hammer in hand.

There were no calls for an assistant or muttered words to himself; the master blacksmith worked in silence, as though he had become a machine focused solely on the task of shaping, tempering, cooling, and polishing the metal. This month, only one new order had come in, and that sword was already complete, lying quietly in its scabbard, waiting for its new owner. The rest were repairs for regular patrons.

“This one’s ready now.”

The blade he was polishing gleamed like new, though its edge had once been dulled beyond recognition. The blacksmith set the sword on a stand and prepared for his next task. His gaze fell on the next sword to be worked on as he maintained the forge’s heat with the bellows.

Your turn, now.

The blacksmith picked up a blade made of dark iron, its blackened edge gleaming. While it wasn’t badly worn, the sword’s owner treasured it like a child, regularly bringing it in for sharpening and upkeep. Perhaps, with the martial tournament approaching, they simply wanted it to be in top shape.

‘I’ll sharpen it, oil it, and bring out its shine.’

With the plan settled, the blacksmith grabbed the sword and sat at the grindstone, pressing the pedal underfoot. The grinding wheel spun with a sharp whirr, and he deftly brought the blade to it, honing its edge. He remembered cutting his palm once while crafting it, the blade had been so razor-sharp.

Knock, knock, knock.

There was a faint knock at the workshop door, but the blacksmith, engrossed in his work, didn’t notice. He continued pressing the pedal, sharpening the blade.

Knock, knock, knock.

The second knock also went unheard as he spent several minutes refining the blade’s edge. When he finally straightened up, satisfied with his work, there was a third knock at the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

The blacksmith finally heard it and set the sword down. Ten years ago, he would have scolded anyone for interrupting him mid-task. But time, and a late-born grandchild, had softened his once-stubborn nature.

“Yes, who’s there?”

Perhaps it was a customer picking up a blade? The blacksmith sighed and opened the door, only to find a stranger—a knight he didn’t recognize—standing there. His brows furrowed.

“Is this the workshop of Thomas Zimmer?”

The knight, with pitch-black hair and eyes to match, looked steadily at the smith. Thomas raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the unusual air about this stranger.

“I am Thomas Zimmer,” he replied.

The knight nodded and, glancing toward the burning forge, continued.

“Apologies for the sudden visit while you’re busy. I have something I urgently need to request of you today.”

Seeing the knight’s respectful demeanor, Thomas refrained from his usual gruff reply. He had a good idea of why this knight had come.

“You must be competing in the tournament as well, right? Today is the first preliminary, and you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t already advanced.”

The knight let out a rueful laugh, realizing the smith had accurately surmised his circumstances.

“That’s right. Since you’ve already guessed, I imagine you also know the nature of my request.”

“A blade to be honed or a new one forged—those are the usual asks. And since you’re a stranger to my workshop, it’s likely the latter, yes?”

The knight nodded, and Thomas studied his posture, breathing, and general presence, attempting to gauge what sort of knight he was. Any true craftsman needed to understand not only the weapon but the wielder as well. Yet this knight exuded a unique aura, unlike any he had encountered before.

‘It feels… familiar, somehow.’

A faint memory scratched at the back of his mind. Though he couldn’t fully recall, he felt certain he had encountered this sensation before. The knight, noticing the blacksmith’s contemplative silence, took a step back, watching him carefully.

“May I see the sword you’ve been using?”

Every sword bore traces of its use—of the mana it had held, the aura it had contained, and the battles it had fought. The knight hesitated, then unfastened the weapon at his side and handed it over.

“Here it is.”

“Thank you. I’ll just have a quick look and return it.”

A sword’s history was the history of its owner. Driven by curiosity about this unknown young knight, Thomas unsheathed the blade. It was an ordinary iron sword, well-used, though not of poor quality. But the blade’s edge was worn to the point of nearing its end. Thomas examined the blade more closely.

‘It’s cut through humans…and many more beasts, perhaps tenfold more. Wait a moment.’

The sword was not old, yet its accumulated history was heavy. The marks left on it, the aura it exuded, didn’t seem to come solely from killing humans or beasts. Thomas could not fathom what this sword had cleaved through. His eyes trembled slightly.

“…What exactly did you cut with this blade?”

 

The elderly blacksmith had been observing the sword for a while, lost in thought, when he finally looked up and posed his question. Maxime’s eyes narrowed slightly at the inquiry. This was the sword he had used during his time with the Crow Knights, the very one that had sliced through both Deathworms and a Behemoth.

“I killed monsters with it.”

Thomas scowled at Maxime’s vague answer.

“Of course, you killed monsters. You’re not pretending you don’t understand what I’m really asking, are you?”

Seeing Thomas return to his stubborn and uncompromising demeanor, Maxime sighed heavily.

“I understand. But I suspect you also realize that I have no intention of answering your question.”

Thomas snorted, though he seemed to expect as much. “Fine. Most knights like you carry at least one story they’re reluctant to tell. But I would still like to know what sort of swordsmanship you use, if only to understand better how to craft a weapon suited for you…”

Thomas scrutinized the sword, muttering to himself. Then, a thought struck him, and he froze in place, sniffing the blade. Maxime watched with a sense of nervous amusement, wondering if Thomas might even try tasting the metal.

“This….”

The blacksmith looked up at Maxime with an astonished expression.

“Their swords are remarkable. They’re wielded as an extension of the world, opposite in nature to aura-driven techniques, and they take years to master. Or perhaps they’re wielded by someone with extraordinary talent…”

Maxime’s expression turned slightly tense as Thomas murmured his thoughts.

“Why would a knight who once wielded aura restrain it to use this kind of blade?”

Thomas lifted his gaze, his eyes sharp and probing as they bore into Maxime.

“You’re wielding a blade not made for humans.”

The air in the workshop grew icy, and Maxime’s gaze shifted, brimming with a subtle, deadly intent. Thomas felt a cold sweat trickle down his back, the heat of the forge suddenly irrelevant. Had he overstepped? Sensing the danger, Thomas quickly raised his hands in a calming gesture.

“Hold on, now! At least hear me out to the end.”

Maxime’s stare remained unyielding, pressing in like a blade against Thomas’s throat. The blacksmith swallowed nervously.

“It happened a long time ago—fifteen years at least. I had an unusual visitor at my workshop.”

Thomas recalled the scene vividly.

“A hooded figure asked me to forge a sword. Like you, they were here with a specific request.”

He remembered the mystical presence that had filled the room, carrying the unmistakable scent of wind, grass, and soil even amidst the metallic odors of the forge. Thomas had instinctively known this visitor wasn’t human.

“When the forge flames flared up, I caught a glimpse of their pointed ears.”

With a hint of frustration, Thomas continued, “I inspected that elf’s sword as closely as I inspected yours. I sensed something very similar from both. The elf seemed aware I had guessed their identity, but they didn’t ask any questions. They took the sword and left.”

As Maxime nodded, Thomas continued his story.

“I swore I’d keep that encounter to myself, and I haven’t told anyone since—not even my closest kin. I swear on my mana, it’s the truth.”

Sensing Maxime’s lingering tension, Thomas added with a sigh, “Besides, if I had intended to reveal that, I would’ve asked if you were using elven techniques directly, wouldn’t I?”

Finally, Maxime’s killing intent subsided, and Thomas released a sigh of relief.

“I’m the only one in this kingdom who could deduce this much from a single blade. Let’s call it a stroke of bad luck for you.”

Maxime nodded reluctantly. “…I’ll trust you on this.”

“Good. Now, let’s return to discussing the sword you need.”

Maxime had half-expected Thomas to throw him out of the workshop, but instead, the blacksmith’s enthusiasm seemed to double.

“You’re really going to make it?” Maxime asked, feeling somewhat uneasy.

“Of course! Do you think I’d pass up the chance to create a weapon for someone as interesting as you?” Thomas replied, already mentally planning the blade’s construction. Maxime clicked his tongue inwardly, impressed by the craftsman’s swift change in demeanor.

“Have you thought about the kind of sword you want?”

“Not specifically. I’d prefer something similar in form to my current blade, as I’m accustomed to it.”

“Alright, how about this?” Thomas tapped on Maxime’s sword.

“I’ll reforge your existing blade into something far superior. It’ll save time, reduce costs, and you’ll adapt to it much quicker.”

Surprised, Maxime raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ideal, but is it possible?”

“What do you take me for? Do you think the kingdom’s best master would struggle with such a request?”

Maxime gave a sheepish smile, and Thomas shrugged, explaining further.

“This sword may seem ordinary, but it carries a weight unlike any other. I have no idea what it’s been through, but even the ‘King Slayer,’ the sword that felled a nation’s monarch, doesn’t compare to the gravitas this sword holds. This sword could have slain an ancient emperor.”

Maxime thought back to the Behemoth—a monstrous creature that had once charged through the Wastelands, capable of reducing entire regions to ash. Its defeat had undoubtedly left an indelible mark on his blade. Thomas, watching Maxime’s thoughtful expression, couldn’t help but wonder what feats had been accomplished with this sword.

“While most knights may not realize it, a sword’s accumulated history and victories can make it exceptional. It can bring victory in unwinnable battles, take lives thought unkillable, cut through stone, and pass down through generations to amass even greater victories.”

Thomas’s expression became even more serious.

“Legendary swords, cursed swords, holy swords—these titles don’t originate from their crafting but from the blood they’ve drunk or the lives they’ve saved. It’s not the name that creates the legacy; it’s the legacy that bestows the name.”

He tapped the sword again. “Your sword, as I see it, is on its way to earning such a name. It’s far too special to be retired due to wear and tear.”

His voice brimmed with conviction.

“I promise, when this sword is reforged and reborn, you’ll understand exactly what I mean.”

Seeing the certainty in Thomas’s eyes, Maxime couldn’t help but nod. The blacksmith smiled, placing the sword on the workbench.

“I won’t begin immediately. I need to consider the materials, and I have to finish my current task.”

He nodded toward the forge.

“If you’re interested, why don’t you wait here? You can watch the process if you’re not pressed for time.”

Maxime had no other plans; he had finished the First Prince’s training session that morning and would be glad to stay and observe.

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

“Good. I’ll finish up quickly, then.”

Thomas walked over to retrieve the sword he had been sharpening. Maxime’s brow furrowed at the sight of the blade, recognizing it immediately.

“…Master, is that sword by any chance—”

“Ah, fine sword, isn’t it? Its owner is another competitor in the tournament. Normally, I don’t take on new customers, but they’re just as unique as you are.”

That wasn’t what I meant, Maxime thought, eyeing the blade in Thomas’s hands. If he wasn’t mistaken, that sword…

Knock, knock, knock.

Before Thomas could begin, another knock came at the door. He set the sword down with an annoyed huff, trudging to the door. Maxime glanced over as Thomas greeted the visitor.

“Ah, apologies for the delay; I’m running a bit behind on the sharpening. Why don’t you step inside and wait a moment? There’s another customer waiting, so you’ll have some company.”

The blacksmith opened the door fully, and the visitor stepped inside. Maxime froze when he met the person’s gaze.

“Ah…”

Their voices overlapped. Eyes dark as storm clouds, a face softly lit by the glow of the forge, and platinum hair falling over their cheek.

In this unexpected encounter, Maxime met Theodora once again.