The Smiling Man
"H-how... what are you doing here?!"
"D-don't get the wrong idea! I'm — I work here, that's all!"
Erina clutched the collar and hem of the shirt of mine she had thrown on over herself, doing her best to hide every inch of exposed skin.
Her reaction was only natural. After all, I had never told her what had happened between me and this fellow. I would have to explain, and quickly, before she went running out screaming on her own like last time.
"Master, why don't you take a breather?"
"Hmph. Brat, remember you're only alive thanks to Gathergold."
Humson snatched the ladle of molten metal out of Rex's hands and shoved it into the crucible beside the freshly roaring furnace. Then, as if it were nothing, he tore open the top of the Bacchus crate I was carrying, pulled out a bottle, and said, "This isn't an important piece. The commissions were finished and delivered long ago. Right now, in place of wages, the boy buys materials off me and practices with them. Of course, at the moment his work is a sorry sight — worse than children playing house. Brat! Quit standing there blank as a broom and watch the furnace! Don't let the charcoal drop through!"
"He'll improve bit by bit. You look brighter than before, though, Master. You've got someone to take over the odd jobs now, and the workshop's cleaner, too."
"Can't you see how worn out my face is? Having people around puts me on edge — I can't get a thing done."
And yet he doesn't throw the boy out. Looks like he's putting his one and only apprentice to good use.
"Did you bring the booze? The soju — Cheoeum-i-seul."
"Ah, I have plans today, so I'll just stop by briefly and head back before sundown."
"Shame."
"Try this instead, then."
I took the crate of drinks that had ridden along with Erina and handed it over.
"What's this?"
"It's called Vitamin 500 — a nutritional drink. It'll put some life back into a body worn down by work."
"Vita... what? They slap a 500 on the label, and there's hardly any of the stuff in the bottle? Looks like you cracked one open on the way over. Different wrapper, same bottle as Bacchus, I see."
The moment Humson spotted the signature orange glass, he twisted the cap off with practiced ease, drained a bottle in a single gulp, and his already fearsome face twisted up even further.
"Tch. What is this stuff."
"Not to your liking?"
"Nothing but pointless sourness. Give this sort of thing to the brat!"
With that, he set the crate of vitamin drinks down in front of Rex and trudged off, grumbling to himself.
A shame. As I thought, vitamins simply couldn't replace caffeine.
The moment Humson was gone, Rex — who had been hovering nervously, waiting for his chance — dropped to his knees in front of Erina and apologized for all he was worth.
"I am so sorry for what happened that day! I did exactly as you told me, Shopkeeper Gathergold! I went straight to my father, and Father said he would strike me from the family register and drive me out of Greenhill for good! I wasn't thrown out in the end, but instead Father beat me half to death!"
When Rex rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs, the bruises from his beating were still visible here and there.
Those still haven't healed. Do I have any ointment left back at my place? If so, I want to hand it over before I go.
Rex's father — Mr. Smith, who ran the Greenhill Smithy, the largest forge in town — had, in all earnestness, tried to throw his son out of the house after beating him within an inch of his life, like a dog dragged off for slaughter.
(Come to think of it, everyone who works iron for a living seems to share the same temper, regardless of race.)
That night, Rex had slept rough here and there around Greenhill until the guards picked him up and locked him for a day in the underground cell that served as the town jail. He ate a bowl of the bland soup they handed him, then spent another day wandering the streets.
He had no money, and he'd been thrown out without even a chance to pack — all he owned was a body swollen and throbbing with welts.
It was almost a mirror of what had happened to me when I first arrived in this world.
So Rex's next move was to come to my general store in person, apologize to me once more, and earnestly beg me to speak well of him to his father.
Still, I was glad he'd come back to me instead of turning to something worse.
What if the boy had made up his mind to go bad and slipped into the back alleys on this side of town? Me, I've got enough years on me that even after sinking low, I clawed my way back into the light. But if this kid had been left to rot, he'd have slid from street punk to pickpocketing and armed robbery before long.
And I've no doubt he'd have kept forcing himself on women in the meantime.
Anyway — I'd assumed Rex's father might smack his son's shins a few times, shut him in his room, maybe skip feeding him a meal or two. I hadn't expected parenting this extreme (if you could even call it parenting), so I took Rex with me and went straight to Smith's forge.
He spoke to me with a stern, unyielding expression, not a single word out of place.
"That my son tried to assault someone you know — I have no face to show you. But this is a matter for my own house. I raised the boy badly all these years, and for it, I now intend to sever the bond between parent and child entirely."
"I understand how you feel, sir, but please — you must not do that."
This isn't discipline. It's just neglect in yet another form.
I was beginning to see why Rex had gone crooked. Most children who grow up starved of their parents' attention and love turn out exactly this way.
Having to plead with the father of the man who'd tried to rape my woman was a strange position to be in, but I pressed for leniency all the same.
Attempted rape is a heavy crime. Even from where I stood, I couldn't simply pretend it had never happened. Least of all with this one — the ringleader of the whole affair. Driving a child out to be discarded was not what anyone could call rehabilitation.
"Then what would you have me do?"
"...If you're set on it, then put him to work. Teach him to earn his coin with the sweat of his back and to spend it on things worth spending it on."
"Our work? At the forge?"
"...Would that be so difficult?"
At that, Smith turned negative once more. He had put Rex to work at the smithy many times before, hoping the boy would carry on the family trade, but (by a father's yardstick) Rex had no grit and never saw a task through properly.
"Then might I suggest you take the boy yourself, Shopkeeper Luciel? Keep him on as an employee, or set him to every chore and drudgery imaginable..."
"I already have an employee. But one place does come to mind. Whether he'll take him, though, I can't promise."
And so Rex came to be brought before Humson.
Honestly, I gave it a one-in-a-hundred chance. I'd pushed him again and again to hire proper help, and he'd refused every single time. If this fell through, my plan was to take the boy to the labor office I used to run with and place him shoveling cow dung — the job I'd held longest. There was always work there.
But the answer that came back caught me completely off guard.
"Fine! But I'm not paying him."
The moment Humson heard Rex's story from me, the approval came straight out of him.
"R-really?"
"From now on, you work when I work and rest when I rest. Sleep when I say sleep, eat when I say eat. Do only what you're told, and touch nothing else. Keep to that, and I'll allow you to bed down and feed yourself from the storeroom."
"Th-thank you."
"Forget everything you ever learned from your father as a smithy's son. If I see even a hint that you aren't serious about learning, I'll throw you out on the spot. Brace yourself."
"...There isn't much... I remember anyway."
From that day on, Rex couldn't set foot inside his own home; he lived at the workshop, eating, sleeping, and working at Humson's side. The two of them got along startlingly well — better than I ever expected.
In a way, it reminded me of how Erina had come to live and work beside me at the general store. Of course, if the mood at Luciel's general store was the hopeful half of that story, Humson's weapon workshop was the despairing half.
Humson never told me why he'd taken Rex as his apprentice. I could only guess: Rex had been left truly destitute, with no home to return to; he repented of his past and meant to begin his life anew; and the recommendation hadn't come from just anybody, but from me — his business partner.
And last of all — for all his tough talk in front of me — working alone without rest had genuinely worn him down, and he'd been quietly thinking he ought to take on at least one pair of hands. But he'd already declared otherwise to my face, and pride kept his mouth shut — until this opportunity rolled right up to his door. (This last theory is by far the most likely!)
After that, work at the workshop moved at a brisk clip. With Rex lending a hand, finished pieces left the forge twice as fast, and the sword specs that had once wobbled all over the map evened out enough that the gacha-lottery grumbling among buyers died out completely.
Best of all, with someone to set his meals, someone to fetch charcoal and iron ore from the market, someone to handle the laundry and sweeping, Humson finally had room to breathe — and his health improved noticeably. He did drink somewhat more than before, but well...
And with that, I'd collected my apologies from all three of them: Henson, Will, and Rex.
From here on out, I hoped they'd all quit chasing foolish dreams and live steady, honest lives — like their fathers.
"...I see. You might have told me all this in advance."
Hearing me out, Erina's expression cleared of its misunderstanding.
"I couldn't say how elves are, but there's no telling what tomorrow holds for humankind. A dwarf's heart, least of all. Humson could cast Rex out any given day."
"He won't. He won't cast me out. I'm truly working and learning as hard as I can!"
Rex's face was pure sincerity. Perhaps Erina sensed the burning resolve to become a new man — a fire the old Rex had never carried — because she relaxed enough to take a seat in a nearby chair.
For a while, the three of us traded stories about the comings and goings of Humson's workshop, splitting gryphon jerky and Vitamin 500 between us. Unlike his master, Rex had taken quite a liking to the vitamin drink.
Well, he is at an age where nothing's off the menu.
"And, um... Shopkeeper Gathergold? My father set something aside specially for you."
"Hm?"
"Master Humson gave me a day off, so I visited my family home for the first time in ages — and my father had something prepared for you."
He gives his apprentice days off? While never taking a single one himself? How sweet of him.
"He handed it to me a while back, but work here kept me so busy I never managed to deliver it. If it pleases you, please accept it."
Rex suddenly heaved his great bulk upright and moved to a tucked-away corner at the back of the workshop where he kept his belongings. Before long he returned carrying something long, wrapped snugly in fine cloth, and held it out to me.
Not knowing what it was, I took it.
"What is this?"
I unwound the cloth — and out came the very thing I'd thought, no, it couldn't be.
A sword.
A rapier, no less — with a design of remarkable refinement.
At first glance it didn't draw the eye. But the closer I studied each part, the more superb the finish revealed itself to be.
The hilt was silver-plated in the swept-hilt style. The metalwork of the guard branched into several strands that wove together in elegant curves, merging into one at the pommel — a design flourish that even a complete layman like me could tell hadn't been knocked out in a few simple steps.
I couldn't very well not give it a swing.
Swish.
Oh. I don't know much about swords, but this is astonishingly light. That alone wins me over.
It settled into my grip as if made for it. Not needlessly long, not too short — a perfect match for my height.
"This... Mr. Smith... your father gave this to me? Genuinely?!"
"He said it was just the thing for a man of trade to carry for his own protection. That you'd never wield anything too gaudy or too heavy... not with so many eyes around you."
He was exactly right.
This was precisely why, even though I could buy weapons of overwhelming modern firepower through the dark channels, I didn't.
I had given up on returning to my old world long ago. I was a man who would live out his days among the people of this one.
I had no desire to play at being a warlord here, cutting people down with modern weapons until I stood alone and died in solitude. And I didn't believe it would actually work, either.
Unless I were a warrior, an adventurer, or a noble, walking around armed would make people mark me and keep their distance.
This world had weapons that were taboo for commoners, too. Crossbows with lethal killing power were one such example.
Swords like rapiers had supposedly been the exclusive playthings of nobility in the old days, but the mood here nowadays didn't much care.
Anyway — it wasn't that I couldn't afford AKs, grenades, miniguns, or automatic pistols. I didn't carry them because I wanted to live a long, peaceful life in this world.
If I'd splurged on everything just to feel strong and hauled it all around with me, I'd probably be Rambo by now.
Smith, truly. This was no leftover he'd happened to have lying around the forge. It was a gift chosen with real care, with how I would actually use it in mind.
"Um — this sword has a name."
"Hold on. The weapon has a name?!"
A named item?! A unique?! That makes it insanely rare!
"Smiling Man."
"Smiling Man?"
What are the odds? Back in my old world, there's a famous foreign classic novel called The Man Who Laughs. I hear there's a musical by the same title, too.
What could that name mean, for this sword?
"Father says it bears no enchantment. He forged it long ago, delivered it to someone, and only recently had it returned to him. I don't know the details."
"I thought as much. Something this precious wouldn't lack an original owner."
In this world, not every named weapon of legend carries an enchantment. A blade earns its name when someone accomplishes great feats with it — or when it's swept up in the current of an event that shaped history or politics.
I didn't know the story, but this one had to fall into the latter category.
Might the book I'd borrowed from the library — Reflections on the Kingdom's Historic Weapons — have this sword in it? I'd have to look through it once I was back at the shop.
"Gathergold. What's that you've got there?"
When it came to the scent of a new weapon, dwarves had a nose that bordered on the supernatural. Or perhaps he'd simply been eavesdropping on us from beyond the door this whole time.
I handed the rapier to Humson as he stepped back inside.
"So this is what the brat was wrapping up so tight and hiding all this while. Yours, is it? A gift from his father, by way of apology?"
"It is. What do you make of it?"
I asked Humson for his appraisal. Truthfully, I could already read the verdict in his face.
"...Well, damn my beard. It's as if the god of fire himself is smiling on this blade."
"That means it's good, yes?"
His reaction was confusing enough that I had to ask twice.
"If you carried this into the artisan trials back in my homeland, it would take first place. It's true this is a rapier without any particular flourish or kick to it. But there's not a single rough corner on it, either. Blade, hilt, grip — not one part exaggerates, not one part grasps for more. If anything, forging something this restrained must have been the harder road."
Wow.
This was the first time I'd ever watched Humson heap that much praise on any weapon. Though perhaps that was only because he'd never deigned to touch anyone else's work.
"And here's the maker's mark."
Humson had spotted a mark engraved in shallow intaglio on the hilt. No name was written there. Instead sat a single crest — one I had never seen before. It might have been the banner of some nation, for all I could tell.
"Might the original owner have been a noble?"
"Likely enough — but I'd not swear to it."
"Do you happen to recognize whose crest it is?"
"Come now, Gathergold, I'm no royal archivist. The trade brings me a crest or two with certain commissions, but I can't hold the heraldry of hundreds of nobles and orders in my head."
Haah.
I let out a long breath, then slid the sword carefully back into its scabbard and wound the original cloth around it once more.
"You're... not thinking of returning it, are you?"
"No. Rex, I can't take this. Not something like this. You're already paying for your crime with your own body, aren't you?"
"Please, take it... If I carry this back, my father will kill me."
Rex said, his face crumpling toward tears.
This was a bind. A far worse bind than the day I'd butchered all those pigs.
A sword far above my station. Stonefield might be another matter, but I had no intention of flaunting wealth out here in the sticks. People who look rich attract swarms — and the two thickest swarms of all are the flatterers and the envious.
Besides, in my hands the thing would only end up gathering dust in a corner of my rented room.
You'll find a better master than me.
"All right, then. I'll take this to him myself and return it in person."
"...Must you really...?"
Rex looked utterly deflated — anxious, perhaps, that his father would have his hide if he failed to deliver the sword.
I had just opened my mouth to reassure him when—
WAAAAAH!
WAAAAAAAH!
A strange cry rose from outside the workshop. Not one voice. Men — many of them. Shouting — a dozen throats bellowing the same thing at once.
"Did you hear that?!"
"I heard it."
Then the voices rose again.
URAAAAAH!
KILL THEM!
Every one of us who had been sitting shot to our feet.