Opportunity (2)
"Whoa, you're a real Beastkin! Hey, can I touch your tail just once?"
"Think that's gonna happen, you short-stack human? ...Wait, are you even human?"
"I'm a Dwarf."
"A Dwarf?"
It was a rare sight: a Dwarf and a member of the Cat-folk looking at each other with genuine fascination.
A few paces away, Lapisha watched the Beastkin and the demi-human with a soft smile. The disciples who had followed her to serve her noticed that their master seemed to be smiling more often since they arrived in the North.
"Liar. They say Dwarves have red noses and beards that reach their belly buttons. But you, pfft! Do you even have a beard?"
"I'm still young! I'll have a beard in just thirty more years!"
"Huh. Short-stack human, are you still just a kid?"
It was an innocent remark, but the young Dwarf pouted, clearly stung by the words.
"Now, now. Let's not tease the child too much, my friend from the Cat-folk."
Lapisha, who had been standing quietly behind them, stepped in to mediate the squabble. She had been dying to show her young friend, who was seeing the world for the first time, around the Beastkin village, but there was something more pressing to attend to first.
"I would like to see the mine."
"Ah, right, you said you came for that. Follow me!"
Denied the chance to tease further, the Cat-folk led the way, muttering nonsense like, "That was fun to poke at, what a shame."
The mine was just a stone's throw from the Cat-folk village. At first, it was said that some of the villagers were displeased to have humans—and "bad" humans being punished, at that—gathering so close to their homes. But as goods began to flow in and out of the mining camp and merchants started visiting, they naturally fell in love with the true taste of capitalism. These days, they said, the only Cat-folk who didn't carry a coin purse were the little kittens. They were a people who, once hooked, were hooked for good.
Clang, clang, clang—
As they approached the mine, a rhythmic hammering sound filled the air. There was also the hissing sound of cooling iron and the massive plumes of steam that rose with every strike.
"It seems there is a smithy nearby."
The young Dwarf, who had yet to grow a single whisker, felt his palms grow damp. He barely managed to suppress the urge to run toward the sound of the hammers.
"You may go if you wish."
"Really?"
"Just be careful not to trip."
"Yes, Lady Lapisha!"
"Japa."
"Ah, right. Thank you, Lady Japa!"
With permission granted, the young Dwarf dashed off in an instant. His legs were short and his stride wasn't long, but he pushed off the ground more firmly than anyone.
Whoosh—!
When the young Dwarf arrived at the smithy, it was just in time for the molten, glowing red iron to be poured out. Old Man Faber, who directed the smithy, was shouting in a gravelly voice, barking orders at his disciples and the "sinners"—who were somewhere between apprentices and slaves.
"Can't you get to your stations? If that molten iron cools, you're all responsible! Are you not paying attention? Do you want to be thrown back into the mines!"
"Eek!"
Thud, clang, thud, clang!
The molten iron was poured into various molds. The iron, still soft after being pulled from the molds, was reshaped by hammer blows. Old Man Faber himself swung the hammer to refine some of the pieces.
"...A Dwarf?"
Old Man Faber, who had been busy working the iron, suddenly felt an uncomfortable gaze. At the end of his line of sight stood an unripened Dwarf, standing stock-still, swallowing hard, his hands clenching and unclenching in a state of nervous indecision.
"...Do you want to try?"
The words had slipped out of the old man's mouth before he could stop them. The young Dwarf nodded immediately and took his place. In inverse proportion to his sparkling eyes, his hands were incredibly awkward—so much so that the other workers, already accustomed to the smithy, noticed it immediately.
"It's your first time with a hammer, isn't it?"
"...Yes."
At Faber's words, a shadow fell over the face of Lapisha, who had followed behind. Dwarves are said to be blessed by all minerals. With their innate craftsmanship, they are a rare race of artisans that nobles hunt down with burning eyes. To put it another way, they are a "race that became slaves because of their innate craftsmanship."
"Do you have a moment to talk?"
"...Who are you?"
"I am a friend of that Dwarf, and for now, perhaps his temporary guardian."
"She is Lady Lapisha Japa."
As Lapisha prompted him, one of the soldiers who had accompanied them quickly provided her name.
"La, La, Lapisha—!"
The petty criminals from the low-level prison had looks of "Who's that?" on their faces, but Old Man Faber, who had always been quite interested in how the world turned, immediately recognized the weight of that name and set down his hammer.
"It's humble, but, uh, this way..."
Thud—
The door closed. The young Dwarf stayed behind to watch the smithy. Inside the room were only Lapisha, Old Man Faber, and an administrator from the government office.
"Um, Lady Lapisha. Is that young Dwarf a runaway slave?"
"You may call me Japa. And he is not a slave."
"I suppose not. If he were a slave, he wouldn't have gone this long without ever holding a hammer. This old man spoke too soon."
A Dwarf living in luxury? Of course, they exist. Masterpieces pop out as if stamped by a machine the moment they touch anything, so how could there not be socially successful Dwarves? But the greed of those in power is endless, and they were extremely wary of a situation where an artisan who had gifted them a holy sword might hand a superior blade to their rival. Like the king of a certain kingdom who cut off the wrists of architects after they built him a beautiful castle.
Because of this, for the past few hundred years, "Dwarf hunting" had continued without end, led by the powerful. Securing more Dwarves meant the same thing as getting one's hands on higher-quality weaponry. But there was one thing the powerful ignored: artisans are not the type of people to be satisfied just because they are well-fed.
- My Lord! Weapon production is plummeting!
- It's a disaster, my Lord! The techniques have been lost, and it's said that repairing the family's holy sword is no longer possible!
- There is no one left who knows how to handle that ore! Yes, the Dwarf artisans are the same!
Artisans who had lost their freedom did not bother to show their skills to the outside world. They no longer did their best. As an example, the heads of countless Dwarf artisans were hung beneath city gates across the land, but nothing really changed. It only further accelerated the degradation of technology.
Dwarves weighed freedom against self-respect. And almost everyone chose freedom. The hands of the artisan who once held a hammer now held a pickaxe, and the hands of the artist who once molded pottery were covered in flour. The powerful were disappointed, but since it was something they couldn't have anyway, they figured it didn't matter if others couldn't have it either. A truly bitter ending, isn't it?
"Could you accept that child as your disciple?"
But there are always exceptions. Here was a young Dwarf who chose self-respect over freedom. The fact that he didn't mind training under a human artisan was likely a trait born from the pride of an artisan.
Old Man Faber swallowed hard. He pointed at himself with his index finger, asking if he was the one being addressed.
"I ask this of you."
"Oh my, I should be the one—! My hands are dirty, oh my...!"
The smithy was empty now that Lapisha and the administrators had left. Even though he was a prisoner, Old Man Faber lived in a dormitory attached to the smithy thanks to his position as the person in charge.
"Hehehe."
A chuckle escaped Old Man Faber's lips as he lay on his bed. Even if his life had taken a bit of a turn in his later years, the fact that he would be taking on a Dwarf as a disciple made the old blacksmith's heart pound.
These days, most people just saw Dwarves as a curious demi-human race, but Old Man Faber remembered.
- Do you want to try?
The true artisan who, instead of giving a few cheap coins to a ten-year-old neighborhood beggar, had placed a hammer in his hands. That artisan had been as short as young Faber. The villagers had called him the "Dwarf Old Man."
***
"You finished the family register filing?"
"Yes. They just finished signing it."
Aiden stretched with a very satisfied look on his face. Uncharacteristically, he pushed his paperwork aside and walked to the window to take in the scenery.
"Excuse me, Administrative Officer. It's true that Dwarves are a rare demi-human race, but he's only one person, and a novice who's just now picking up a hammer—why are you so concerned? The refugees from the fallen Hilton Duchy have more people, and..."
Roland approached and asked cautiously, but the answer came unexpectedly from Jamie.
"Don't you know? Our Administrative Officer is, uh, how do I put this? He's such a soft-hearted and warm person. That young Dwarf came all alone, without family or friends, to rely on us. How hard must his life have been? Right? So our Administrative Officer, with the heart of a parent—"
"That's enough."
Aiden hurriedly stopped Jamie's mouth, fearing that if he listened any longer, he would end up becoming the young Dwarf's foster parent.
"A promising sprout has rolled in on its own, so shouldn't I be happy about it?"
"Geez. Even so, it's just one young Dwarf. He only just learned how to hammer from Old Man Faber."
"That 'young' part is what's important."
"Pardon?"
Jamie looked as if he couldn't understand. The other two adjutants had similar expressions. But Aiden still wore a satisfied look, even humming a tune.
The words of a certain entrepreneur who said that one genius feeds a hundred thousand. Aiden was inclined to agree with that sentiment. Rapid growth or innovative change can never be reached by climbing a gentle slope. The shock of "Wait, this actually works?" is like an accident that arrives without warning. The people who cause those accidents are the revolutionaries called geniuses.
"And every genius goes through being a gifted child."
If you plant a watermelon seed, you get a watermelon. If a chick grows up, it becomes a chicken. Therefore, if a gifted child grows up, they become a genius. Of course, not every gifted child blossoms into a genius. That's only natural. Some tomato seeds don't sprout, some sprout and wither away, and some lose to pests. Isn't that the vast majority?
Even if you sow a hundred seeds, less than half end up bearing fruit. If that's the case for crops that you grow and harvest in just a few months, it's common sense that the germination rate for intelligent human beings, who must be cultivated over decades, would be much lower.
"So I have to cultivate him well."
Aiden thought quietly. What kind of gifted education program would be good to introduce?
'Investment-focused? Self-growth-focused?'
If he went overboard with a half-baked approach, there was a risk the sprout would suffocate. But if he left him to graze, he couldn't trust the apprenticeship system of this era at all.
Tap, tap-tap, tap—
A new blackboard filled one wall of his office. On it, Aiden wrote a single sentence.
- Special Gifted Education Plan.
"Let's have a meeting."
It was time to put their heads together.