Chapter 29
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 29
Chapter Title: Master Craftsman - Advance
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After I joined in on the work, the production speed ignited in an instant.
Skilled hands played a part, but Rien's ability to convey Harman's fragmented memories as concrete instructions was decisive.
It eliminated the inefficient process of trial-making temporary results and revising them multiple times based on Harman's impressions.
"The guard... it's hard to explain in words. Like, the end curves like this—."
"If it's that hard, just draw it here. It's easier for me to understand that way."
"Eh? We have a notebook and pen! I've been struggling to explain with finger gestures in the air until now!"
"This is precious. Something to use sparingly."
Rien snatched the pen and drew lines across the notebook without hesitation.
Her drawing skills were best left unmentioned, but that confident wrist movement demanded questions.
"It's not me drawing freely. I'm just drawing what I see."
Rien hadn't heard Harman's explanation.
She simply said she had viewed its record.
"But... is this really precious? The notebook doesn't look special."
All 'items' in the tower come with descriptions attached, no matter how crude.
This notebook and pen had no special features whatsoever.
"It's something I brought in from outside the tower."
"...Uh oh, I've been using it so carelessly."
"One of the few things that survived intact."
"S-Sorry."
The notebook's pages and the pen's ink were both finite.
He didn't use them unless absolutely necessary.
For example, back when he made a sword for Harman in the past—that was one memory that stood out.
Even then, he'd hammered away in this workshop just like this.
The only difference was that Rien was here in this space with him.
"But... is it possible to bring outside items into the tower? Even the clothes you're wearing get replaced when you enter."
"Normally, no."
"That's why people with bad eyesight all rush to buy glasses first."
Vision issues naturally resolve as you climb floors, but they're severely debilitating at the start.
Fortunately, there happened to be an optician on the first floor.
Quite a modern shop compared to the other facilities.
"Still, you must have written a lot? This page you opened is more than halfway through."
"Can't forget the important stuff. Just wanting to remember everything doesn't make it stick."
He knew his memory wasn't ordinary.
But he was still human, within limits—not a computer.
His trait only granted retry opportunities; it didn't preserve memories.
The first time he tasted death in the tower and returned to the past, he felt like a god, if only for a moment.
That was just experiencing the ideal side of his trait, without sensing its limits.
Memorizable information always had a fixed capacity, and knowing something mentally didn't mean executing it perfectly.
High rank didn't make it omnipotent.
Not even now.
Traits not effective for climbing could accomplish what his couldn't—even common-grade ones.
"So this is a guide covering up to the 700th floor?"
"Even hundreds of notebooks wouldn't be enough for that."
"Whoa, so you're not denying you've cleared up to 700 now? Can I look at the front?"
"You won't find what you're hoping for."
Rien flipped back through the pages, ignoring him.
After skimming about two pages from the front, she promptly returned the notebook to the page where she was drawing the sword's shape.
"...With contents like this, I'd tell you not to read it—in fact, most people would get mad."
What had he written in the front, anyway.
Probably something like a diary.
"This description is enough. Just point out the detailed parts from the side."
"I only know what it looks like, not how to make it."
"Pointing out mistakes is plenty. I'm the one hammering anyway, right?"
Even just shaping it, Rien was a huge help.
Her trait was shining in unexpected ways.
He hadn't grasped his trait's abilities until the 10th floor, and understanding its conditions and limits came dozens of floors later.
On the first floor, this meant Rien had already figured out quite a few applications for her trait.
If her trait were unique—no, at least epic—she wouldn't be limited to viewing Harman's records.
Knowing alone achieved nothing, but what Rien lacked could be filled with his experience.
This work was long overdue, but he hadn't lost the ingrained sensations in his finger joints.
"The hilt was too short earlier. The blade was too long overall. Needs to be much lighter."
"At this weight, the balance is too close to the hilt."
"That's the kind of sword it is."
"Swinging it would be easy, but I can't guarantee impact power."
The more he hammered following Rien's instructions, the clearer it became: this wasn't a sword made for professional combat.
More like one carried for self-defense, to protect the body.
With the target clear, his long-accumulated proficiency shone through.
Harman—
"......"
—grew quieter as they went.
His entranced mouth hung slack, unable to close.
The work accelerated smoothly now, even without his expressions.
"Finally, wrap the leather around it spiraling like this."
One sword was complete.
A single masterpiece, born from three people.
It was utterly different from the one hanging at his waist.
Even the shared green gem was cut in a completely dissimilar shape.
Thanks to that, he realized just how pathetic his previous attempt had been.
He couldn't even score the sword he'd made.
【???《???》】
· Attack Power - ???
· Durability - ???
· Special Effect - ???
No information was revealed at all.
Nothing could be known.
The sword didn't even have a name.
He passed it to the proper evaluator.
"Harman, how is it this time?"
His evaluations were always,
No.
Feels different.
Not memorable at all.
Usually concluding in one of those three ways.
"Harman."
"......"
Ah.
Finally.
The lingering emotion wasn't his to claim.
"Ah, aah—. H-Huh... ha......"
Harman's reaction seemed hollow.
On one hand, moved to tears, then grinning like a child.
He clutched the sword to his chest and buried his head in his bent arms for dozens of minutes.
Neither Rien nor he disturbed that moment.
They let Harman pour out his pent-up emotions.
"Sorry for forgetting. Sorry, sorry......"
The master craftsman apologized to the sword.
"Mariel, Mariel....... Ah, aah...... Mariel......"
The master craftsman called the sword's name repeatedly.
"Compared to you, this sword isn't beautiful at all."
The true object wasn't the sword.
He already knew that for sure.
What Harman so desperately wanted to remember wasn't some mere blade.
The reason he made that sword, the person he wanted to give it to.
"My beloved wife, Mariel."
The tower held no malice.
It wasn't a sentient being—more a phenomenon.
"Sorry for forgetting you."
And yet he wanted to blame the tower for this cruel fate.
"I miss you."
Harman wept for over 40 more minutes after that.
His mutterings grew muffled, incomprehensible.
He supported Harman out of the heat-filled workshop.
Finally seated him in a chair by the dining table.
"Harman."
"......"
"Have you... calmed down a bit?"
Harman nodded laboriously.
The reason the tower stole most of Harman's memories was clear.
Otherwise, his veteran skill, blacksmith knowledge, and vast experience worthy of a master craftsman would produce superb weapons.
Weapons beyond the first floor's level, so the tower stripped those elements from him.
He asked why Harman's wife was included among the core memories taken.
"My life was blacksmithing. It was my first job from birth, and even as I aged—right up to this age—I'm still doing the same here."
Even before recovering her memory, he'd hinted at this fact.
That was how he'd earned the title of master craftsman.
"I had no interest or aptitude for hammering. I just inherited my father's work."
"But you've worked as a blacksmith your whole life."
"Yes. I hated it, but I had no choice but to continue."
Mariel, Harman's wife.
Their story began in childhood.
Mariel had a striking beauty from youth, and he was certain no boy her age in the village hadn't fallen for her.
"What did I have to offer? Not from a wealthy family either."
"You can't buy affection with money."
"Young me didn't know that. I was anxious every day."
Harman steadily tended the forge to win Mariel's heart.
"Terribly clumsy. The first sword I gifted her was more useless than the trash you made."
"......"
"And yet Mariel always loved it whenever I made something for her."
He learned only after they got together: Mariel was touched not by the gift's value, but by the effort of making it himself.
Everyone else just bought expensive presents—no one put in the work to craft one.
"I didn't realize, slaving away daily to gift better swords. Lost track of time, gripping that hated hammer all day."
If his skill improved a bit more, if he made a more beautiful sword, Mariel would look his way.
That completed sword was the one they'd just recreated.
"Mariel laughed so much. Normally, you give a ring for proposals, but I always gave swords."
That was how he confessed, and the moment she accepted.
By then, he was already a skilled blacksmith.
The trial and error making her sword had forged him into a craftsman.
"Always, even after. I had one reason to make swords."
Mariel wasn't just part of his crafting experience.
All of it stemmed from Mariel—that's why the tower made him forget his most beloved person.
So only a first-floor-worthy master craftsman making crude swords would remain.
"Then, what was the meaning of the green gem?"
"My favorite color. Mariel's most beautiful feature—her ever-vibrant green eyes."
Harman's eyes were deep black.
Sylvia's eyes must have been hereditary.
The memories awakened by this question-mark-filled sword ended there.
Sylvia's parents—Harman's children.
Regrettably, he hadn't recalled that far.
Still, Harman looked more refreshed than ever.
Without even popping his usual throat lozenges.
After successfully completing the second challenge, he slipped out of the forge alone and leaned against the wall.
Harman was exhausted from all the crying; Rien was fiddling with the created sword, lost in thought.
Thanks to that, no one caught him sneaking out.
Mariel.
A faintly familiar name.
He could find it amid the memo notes in one corner of the notebook.
"11th floor......"
Just a suspicion bordering on certainty, but he feared it would become an unquenchable thirst for Harman.
That was why he'd left the forge without a word.
"Probably not."
Please, let it just be a coincidence of names.
Recalling the eye color was too far in the past.
｢Master Craftsman - Advance｣