Chapter 518: For Those with Dreams Help Those with Dreams
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 518: For Those with Dreams Help Those with Dreams
Becoming a knight meant change was inevitable.
To those who knew Encrid, some things had already changed, and more would likely change in the future. But regardless of that, there were things that would absolutely never change.
Ever since he first picked up a sword, there was a saying that had been drilled into his ears until he was sick of hearing it.
"A bastard who doesn't cherish his own weapon will one day find himself holding a snapped blade, stabbed to death by someone far worse than him."
It was a strangely specific warning from the mercenary who had first taught him the sword, but he understood the meaning well enough. He had heard similar warnings countless times since.
"A sword is an extension of your hand. Would you pinch kronas if you were buying your own hand?"
That was a line from a sword merchant, of all people. He had been a smooth talker, and his words had served as an excellent weapon to empty the pockets of many swordsmen looking for a blade. Of course, Encrid had never fallen for such rip-offs, but he did agree with the sentiment.
Could he really entrust a sword that held his life in the balance to just anyone? Naturally, he couldn't entrust his weapon to someone with blind, rotten eyes. To Encrid, this was common sense.
"Are you doubting my skill?" the dwarf asked.
Was it the typical stubbornness of an artisan? It didn't seem like it. All that lingered in the dwarf's cloudy, murky eyes was greed.
Did he say he came from Martai? Mentioned credit? As if anyone would quietly extend credit to a fellow like him. It was absurd. While he might not have killed anyone, he had almost certainly skipped out on a bill.
"Could you go outside and call one of the passing soldiers?" Encrid spoke to the artisan's apprentice, ignoring the dwarf entirely.
"Pardon? Oh, yes, sir."
The atmosphere in the room grew tense. The artisan stared intently at Encrid and spoke.
"His skill is superior to mine."
"Not in my eyes."
"Why, you little bastard!"
The dwarf flared up like a furnace, but cooling his heat required nothing more than a simple gesture.
At a speed invisible to anyone in the room, Encrid drew the gladius—its hilt and blade rattling loosely—and pointed its tip directly at the dwarf. Despite the loose fitting, the weapon didn't make a single sound. In the blink of an eye, the slightly dulled tip of the blade was poised before the dwarf’s throat.
Even in that brief moment, Encrid noted that the artisan had maintained the blade well, keeping it steadily oiled.
"I may not know the exact details, but I'm fairly certain I have the authority for summary execution. Martai is a sister city to the Border Guard, and if you caused a nasty incident there, the commander of this region has every right to hold you accountable."
Having calmly stated the facts, Encrid looked back at the artisan. The artisan blinked a few times. For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. The dwarf could only shift his gaze, his eyes darting nervously. But that didn't last long. The artisan suddenly looked at Encrid and asked:
"Is there a particular reason you must entrust it to me?"
Encrid replied without hesitation.
"Your eyes."
"My eyes?" the artisan asked, and Encrid met his gaze.
"Even though you claim your skills are lacking, your attitude and your eyes say otherwise."
Just as Encrid had his own convictions, the artisan had his. Admitting his skills were lacking was a cold, objective assessment of his current state—but he had no intention of staying there.
That was the artisan's conviction. He had no intention of stopping here.
To hone his craft, he faced the roaring flames every single day. His fingertips had blackened, and his face had grown weathered and burned. His soot-stained forearms were proof of his dedication.
On the other hand, the dwarf was pot-bellied, reeked of alcohol, and demanded a house as payment. To Encrid, the dwarf was nothing but trash. If the dwarf had demanded a woman on top of a house, Encrid would have already beaten him half to death. There were plenty of female soldiers in the Border Guard; handing the dwarf over to them would have ensured he was thoroughly trampled.
Sure, the dwarf might possess a natural talent for working iron. Technique could be inherited or gifted. But what about the will poured into it?
He wasn't saying this simply because he was a knight who wielded Will. Even if Will didn't exist, Encrid would have treated him exactly the same. Even if he weren't in charge of the Border Guard, and even if the dwarf were a better fighter than him, his stance would not have wavered.
For even when some things change, there are others that must remain absolute.
The artisan's eyes wavered. Did this man speak with some deeper knowledge? No, it didn't seem like he was speaking from prior knowledge.
Still holding the sword in his left hand, Encrid asked:
"Do you have a dream?"
The artisan blinked. Slowly, three times. Whatever shift occurred in his heart during those brief moments, his gaze steadied, and he opened his mouth.
"Call me Eitri." He offered his name, his tone suddenly shifting to one of deep respect.
"Encrid of the Border Guard."
"Then I, too, shall be Eitri of the Border Guard."
Though he appeared calm on the outside, this was the first time in Eitri's life that someone had looked him in the eye and spoken of dreams. Staring into the blue eyes of the man before him, he felt as though he could confess anything—even his deepest dream, a story that would surely draw nothing but ridicule from others.
In this era, many took up the hammer and forge simply to put food on the table. It wasn't that true artisans didn't exist, but once they attained a certain status, they inevitably succumbed to reality and stopped striving to improve. Those who spoke of dreams and struggled to achieve them? There were always some at the beginning, full of youthful bravado. But as time wore on, their hearts changed. It happened to everyone.
But not Eitri.
He had a dream—one he had never been able to easily share with anyone. It was that very dream that had driven him to forge the Mount Lewis Solid Steel Axe and the Solid Ink Gold Greatsword.
Before him stood a man who spoke of dreams. Though Eitri knew his hair had grayed, his crown had thinned, and the strength in his arms had waned, he reached deep down for the one thing he had never forgotten.
"I want to forge an Imprinted Weapon."
An Imprinted Weapon was a weapon bound to a knight. Since a knight typically bound only one Imprinted Weapon in their lifetime, forging one was the ultimate honor for an artisan. Yet, it required immense luck and talent; without the proper qualifications, one couldn't even dream of the opportunity.
At present, there were likely no more than three artisans on the entire continent capable of crafting an Imprinted Weapon. Would there be more if one searched the hidden corners of the world? Perhaps. After all, no sage existed who knew all the secrets of the world.
So, what would one have to do to obtain an Imprinted Weapon right now? At this moment, the most logical path would be to seek out the White Fire Guild, rumored to reside near the Demon Realm. They were a collective of artisans renowned for wielding white flames, and they possessed actual experience in crafting Imprinted Weapons. Of course, tracking them down and commissioning their work would be no easy feat, but it was undoubtedly the best option.
Yet, to forge an Imprinted Weapon—that was the dream of this old artisan who spent his life shaping iron in the flames.
"I heard you can't even touch magic weapons."
"I am studying and researching them. Will you allow me to forge your weapon in the future?"
His posture was incredibly respectful. The apprentice, unable to leave, held his breath in sheer shock. He had never heard his master speak to anyone in such a manner. Eitri had forged weapons for the members of the mad unit, but he had never shown them this level of deference.
Was it because the man was the Demon Slayer? No, his master was not one to alter his tone or bow his head for mere status. That was precisely why the apprentice respected him.
"I shall wait."
"I am asking for the privilege when you eventually become a knight."
"And that is why I said I shall wait."
"Pardon?"
"If you meant a knight by title, I would have to pay a visit to the royal palace. But you weren't referring to a mere title, were you?"
Eitri blinked, wondering what on earth he meant by that. But comprehension quickly dawned. His eyes widened in shock before his face settled back into a neutral expression. While it was no secret that Encrid possessed the skills of a knight, only a handful of people actually knew the truth. Yet he had spoken of it so casually.
Eitri was stunned, the apprentice was shocked, and even the dwarf was taken aback. The dwarf, who had been stealthily trying to slip away while the Demon Slayer and the artisan conversed, abandoned all thoughts of escape the moment he saw the tip of the sword shift toward him—all without the Demon Slayer sparing him a single glance.
The dwarf cursed his rotten luck. He had assumed that meeting someone of high status would mean they would immediately grovel before his talent. Usually, anyone who wielded a weapon would fall over themselves once they witnessed his craftsmanship. Was it because he hadn't demonstrated his skills yet?
No, the writing was on the wall. If he acted up, he would die. Even if he proved his genius, even if he forged a masterpiece right then and there, this man would never wield a blade of his making.
"Haven't you left yet?" Encrid spoke indifferently, prompting the apprentice to scramble out of the room.
Eitri held out his hand once more. Encrid placed the gladius into his palm. The dwarf hovered awkwardly, trying to gauge the room.
"If you try to run and I catch you, I'll break your legs. If you require that kind of intervention, feel free to speak up," Encrid spoke calmly, his eyes fixed on Eitri's hands.
"I'll behave." The dwarf's voice was noticeably quieter now. Not that anyone paid him any mind.
Eitri picked up a hammer and punch, lightly tapping the pins securing the gladius's blade to disassemble it. He then raised the bare blade to eye level, checking its straightness and the condition of the edge.
"I'll heat it and reshape the edge. Do you tend to treat your weapons roughly?"
"I face many overwhelming opponents," Encrid replied plainly, without a hint of bravado. Eitri nodded and immersed himself in his work.
Whoosh.
As he pumped the bellows, the flames roared to life. A wave of intense heat washed over the smithy, raising the temperature instantly. The air grew so stiflingly hot that it pressed heavily against their lungs. If even Encrid felt the discomfort, Eitri and the Frok sitting nearby should have been suffering, yet both remained perfectly composed.
Encrid watched Eitri from his seat. After observing him for a moment, he casually pulled out the leather he had purchased on his way here and showed it to him.
"I'll work on that as well," Eitri glanced over and replied. When Encrid mentioned the whistle daggers, the smith said he could craft a few of those as well.
"That Frok doesn't look like a customer."
The Frok, who had briefly glanced back earlier, had already returned to his work. Seated on a stool higher than Encrid's chair, he leaned over a workbench with both elbows planted, utterly absorbed.
"He's a fellow who came to learn how to make jewelry," Eitri explained.
Encrid found this even more absurd than seeing a giant working as a merchant.
"A Frok?"
The question slipped out naturally. Froks were born with notoriously slippery skin. Depending on their emotional state, their entire bodies could secrete a slick oil. This was why they fought with ringed weapons, hooking their fingers through them to maintain a grip. The Loop Sword and Loop Axe had been invented for precisely this reason.
A Frok's slick skin was a massive advantage in combat. It allowed them to slip past almost any blade. Setting aside the use of Will, one had to possess master-level martial skill just to stand a chance against a Frok. It was an incredible biological advantage.
But trying to craft delicate jewelry with hands that struggled to hold onto anything was a massive handicap. Anyone could see how incredibly difficult it would be. By nature, Froks were a race utterly unsuited for craftsmanship.
"Why? Am I not allowed?" the Frok asked.
Encrid stared at him. His eyes fell upon the sharp protrusions on the Frok's hands. They were metal pins, driven straight into his flesh. Since his slick palms had clear limitations, he had used these tools to compensate. Driving pins into his own flesh and letting his body's natural regeneration fuse them in place...
Just because he's a Frok, does that mean he doesn't feel pain?
Even without Luagarne's reminders, Encrid knew that pain was still pain, even to a Frok. Driving those pins into his flesh meant enduring agonizing pain. Those metal rods, now fused with his flesh, had become an extension of his hands.
"Why? Do you want to stop me?" the Frok asked again.
Encrid looked into those bulbous, frog-like eyes. Although he had spent a fair amount of time with Luagarne, Encrid still couldn't easily tell one Frok's face from another. But he could certainly read the look in their eyes.
It was the same burning gaze he occasionally saw in Luagarne. A gaze that burned even hotter than hers.
"I, too, refuse to set limits on myself."
Those were the words Luagarne had spoken once before. And Luagarne wasn't the only one Encrid had seen with such eyes. He had seen it just moments ago in this very room. A shining gaze—the eyes of someone marching resolutely toward their goal.
"No," Encrid spoke.
As always, he championed those with dreams. This moment was no different.
"I'll speak to the city administrator. If you need anything, just say the word," Encrid said.
"I don't need anything," the Frok replied, immediately returning to his work. Without even offering his name, he picked up a chisel and began shaving a piece of wood.
"I've been forging the tools he needs," Eitri murmured from behind.
A dreamer was helping another dreamer. They were walking a path of endless yearning, refusing to let their desires fade.
And Encrid could see it clearly.