Chapter 22
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: Master Craftsman - 2
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The village blacksmith shop was tucked away in quite a secluded spot.
This place was quiet and serene, regardless of peak or off-season.
In a way, he was the only one who didn't care about the hordes of first-floor adventurers.
The cracks visible on the wooden door hinted at the passage of years.
"No sound at all. Is there even anyone inside?"
"At this hour, he's usually up, but he's sleeping in late today."
I knocked on the door with the back of my hand.
Footsteps pattered from inside.
After waiting a few seconds like that,
- Creeeak
the door slowly opened with a worn-out groan.
"Huh? No one's here, so who opened the door?"
"Down here."
"Pardon?"
Beyond the open door stood an invisible homeowner.
Lowering my gaze, I spotted a little child.
She was much shorter than Rien, which was why I hadn't noticed her.
"Is Grandpa still sleeping?"
"Yup."
She'd been taught dozens of times to wake Grandpa first when someone knocked, yet every time, she stretched for the doorknob with her tiny arms and ended up greeting guests alone.
There weren't any villagers who'd harm the child, but with all the adventurers passing through these days—practically outsiders—it was always a worry.
At least the shop being on the outskirts in such a remote spot was a blessing.
"This kid is the blacksmith?"
"No way. She's the blacksmith's granddaughter."
"I can swing a hammer too!"
"Good for you. Now, could you go wake Grandpa?"
The blacksmith and his granddaughter lived together in the forge.
The workshop and living space were all in one building.
"I don't wanna talk to Grandpa."
"Why? Last time, you were thrilled when he brought you pretty clothes."
"He ate candy all by himself! Didn't give me any!"
"……."
Maybe childcare was harder than blacksmithing.
Tough luck, Harman.
"What's your name?"
"Sylvia. I'm six."
"Next time, big sis promises to bring you candy, okay? So could you wake Grandpa?"
R-Really?"
The granddaughter scampered off with short steps to wake her grandpa.
"……."
"What?"
"Your kid-handling skills are top-tier."
"For a hidden piece, running candy errands is nothing—even a hundred times over."
Rien was already convinced the forge held something special.
Sorry to shatter her expectations, but today's lesson would hit harder that way.
"The blacksmith's name is Harman, a master craftsman who's devoted his life to the hammer."
"Ooh……."
Among villagers, he was called "old man," and Deina called him "Gramps," but the title of master craftsman suited someone who'd spent decades on one craft.
"Every metal item in the village has passed through Harman's hands."
"Even the ones I'm using?"
"Of course."
The basic gear given free to beginners was all bought by the village head from Harman's stock.
And that was just the start. The many swords in Tiana's training grounds, the kitchen tools at Bell's restaurant—all came from the same smith.
Sylvia returned to the door, and Harman followed, rubbing sleepy eyes behind her.
"Haa…… Waking someone in broad daylight like this is poor manners, don't you think?"
"The sun's high in the sky—what do you mean 'broad daylight'? Sleeping in has zero perks."
"It's normal at my age. You'll get it when you're as old as me."
"Lucky me, that won't happen."
"You dog."
If we added up our lived years, Harman couldn't hold a candle to me, but outwardly, I looked much younger.
In an ageless tower, no matter how time passed, I never got treated like an elder.
Harman's talk of age was closer to physical condition than years.
He had an old, sickly body.
Preserved in that state, even the clinic was useless.
In that sense, Human Restoration Clinic might suit better than clinic.
"So, what's your business? If it's shoddy work, complain to the seller, not me."
"I want to learn blacksmithing."
"You? Learn what more?"
"No. The learner's this one."
I grabbed Rien's shoulder and personally pushed her forward to Harman.
"Ehh? Senior, you didn't mention this!"
"Give it a shot. Can't hurt to learn."
"I thought we'd get a hidden weapon……."
She sure loves her "hidden" stuff.
She looked unmotivated, so I tossed in some kindling.
Because I'd felt her gaze drift to my waist.
"Where do you think I got this sword?"
Beginners all carried identical swords.
Crude things with no special functions or standout performance.
In contrast, I drew my sword embedded with a blue-green gem before her eyes.
A sword only I had, its refined blade shape captivating.
Though by Harman's standards, it was still a failure.
"Ah, so this is the start of the hidden quest!"
As expected, Rien's misconception spread.
Still believing in shortcuts on the first floor, a little kindling set her motivation ablaze.
"I never said I'd teach."
"Don't be childish. You taught me just fine."
"You think I'm a teacher? One wasted effort's enough."
"This time might be different."
I'd wielded countless swords already.
Snagged good ones from trophies, bought some for big coin.
Even following Harman's directions fully, my experiences unconsciously inspired me.
The only sword Rien had handled was a crude first-floor one.
A blank slate like her in forging could yield better results.
I could've dispelled her misconception outright by declaring no hidden pieces existed.
Choosing the roundabout way was partly for Harman's memories.
"Follow me."
"Thank you."
Harman turned toward his usual workspace.
Do you know the term "mass-produced"?
It refers to forms optimized for quantity over quality.
Often used derogatorily for cheap, generic products lacking individuality or caliber.
Master craftsman and mass-produced.
An awkward pairing hard to fit in one sentence.
Yet no better words described Harman's workshop.
"Senior……. Didn't you say he was a master craftsman……?"
Rien whispered in my ear.
Even a low voice wouldn't reach his deaf ears, so it was overkill.
The workshop held stacks of identical swords.
Exactly like those carried by beginner adventurers, Rien included.
Harman was a capable blacksmith.
All metal goods came from his hands.
Without the village's sole smith, most first-floor folk would suffer.
But when it came to weapons, things changed.
A master craftsman's weapons? Just crude swords.
Armor wasn't much different.
The corner piled with nothing but failures.
He didn't just supply tutorial-appropriate gear to adventurers.
He could only make tutorial-appropriate gear.
The failures piling up were best offloaded to newbies in bulk.
Like how Tiana's top teaching only yielded common classes and no real skills.
The tower's standards were stricter on products.
Master-crafted high-performance weapons couldn't exist in the tutorial.
The first floor needed only first-floor fitting items.
If village gear worked on the 50th floor boss, it'd be a blatant bug.
"How long you gonna gawk? Nothing to see."
Thus, the tower stole the master's memories.
It took every element for great weapons.
Inspiration for elegant blade curves.
Experiences researching thrust-and-slash swords.
Memories of his masterpieces.
The blacksmith remembered none.
From the moment he became first-floor smith, good swords were beyond him.
He couldn't even recall Sylvia's parents, who should exist.
He didn't know their names but was sure she wasn't adopted.
In his words, trying to remember filled his head with smoke.
"I'd have forced the craft on my kids too. Definitely. No doubt."
Speculation: his children tied heavily to his weapon-making days.
Without Sylvia, he couldn't even conceive of having kids.
He vaguely recalled being called sword master once.
His flawless works, forgotten shapes but lingering emotions.
"Must remake them. Can't forget that sword. What…… did it look like?"
That's why failures piled up.
Emotions remained, fixating him on one sword he must recreate or die trying.
This green-gem sword was my attempt mimicking his vague descriptions.
"Not it. Warmer, more beautiful……."
Pretty failure, but apparently nothing like his memory.
His abstract words didn't help.
"Ah, Grandpa! Eating candy alone again!"
"None for you."
"So mean!"
Harman clutched his forehead, chomping handfuls from the jar like snacks.
For a preserved old blacksmith, this was "cured."
Potions didn't touch aging.
Drugs eased headaches but not causes.
A smith unable to burden his young granddaughter with truth played greedy candy-lover.
Lame act only a child would buy.
"Start from basics?"
"Seems so."
"It'll take time."
Harman glanced at me.
While Rien learned, I took Sylvia outside.
"You okay?"
"W-Wait. Just till the meds kick in."
If you're faking, do it right.
Voices leaked through the door.
"Big bro? Why cover my ears?"
"Ahem, didn't you want candy?"
"Yeah! You buying?"
"Rien jumped the gun, but a promise is a promise."
Recalling tower-blocked memories worsened Harman's headaches.
Teaching someone as crude-sword smith naturally surfaced artisan knowledge.
About two hours—enough to keep Sylvia out and teach basics.