Zeke's Sword (2)
A man with two protruding buckteeth. The loan shark Lorden visited the Geborg Weapon Shop.
Inside, a burly middle-aged man was listlessly hammering away.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Lorden sidled up behind the man, throwing an arm around his shoulders in feigned familiarity, his voice syrupy sweet.
"Aleng~ Are my swords ready yet? Fuck, it's hot in here. Can't you turn down the fire?"
The man called Aleng flinched at the words, stopping his hammering mid-swing, and replied in a servile tone.
"J-just give me a little more time..."
"Huh? How much more time? I've already given you plenty, haven't I?"
"I-I'm sorry."
"Aleng, this is really a problem. You weren't even picked by the academy, right? That's why I took you in."
Crash! Thud!
Lorden hooked Aleng's leg, sending him sprawling backward. Then his friendly grin twisted into a savage scowl as he shoved his face close.
"Make the swords!!! You little shit!!!"
"I-I'm making them."
"What? You mean that garbage?"
Lorden swept his gaze over the swords hanging on the wall.
"Who the hell would use crap like that? Some are too short, some too long, the grips all uneven. Huh!? I gave you a bunch, and the kids tossed them all, saying they were useless, you fucker."
Aleng bit his lip hard, trembling with rage.
"Aleng. Aleng. I told you, right? Just make plain swords for the kids. Who asked for masterpieces?"
"......"
"I know your skill level. You can make ordinary swords, can't you? If you weren't so fucking stubborn. Right?"
"......"
What if I smashed this bastard's skull with this hammer? Aleng stared blankly at the hammer in his hand, lost in the thought.
"Otherwise, get out next month. Oh, but the debt doesn't go away."
"N-no!!!"
"This is the last time. So hand over the swords. As many as possible. Got it?"
With that, Lorden patted Aleng's cheek and kicked the door open on his way out.
Screeech—
Screeech—
The rusty hinges filled the forge with their grating wail.
Aleng slowly rose to his feet.
Bang!
Aleng, the owner of the Geborg Weapon Shop, hurled his hammer to the floor.
"My swords aren't that kind of shit... not that kind of shit..."
He dragged a hand down his face, staring at the cooled lump of iron.
Rage boiled up from his gut, hot blood rushing to his head, but there was nothing he could do.
"Goddamn it. Fuck..."
To fulfill that vile request, Aleng picked up the hammer again.
He hammered the iron furiously.
Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang!
Ever since Lamieli Academy swept up all the local artisans,
everyone flocked there, leaving nameless smiths like him struggling just to put food on the table.
Lorden the loan shark had seized the chance, buying up the abandoned workshops in the old town.
He jacked up the rents, saddling the remaining smiths with debt, and forced them to make weapons.
What did those iron-rice-bowl types know?
These were smiths discarded by the academy—no one spoke up for them.
The moment Lorden's attitude softens even a little, I should get out of here...
The reason Aleng hadn't received a collaboration offer from Lamieli Academy
was that his work was far from the nobles' tastes: "elegance," "ornamentation," "obviously superior quality."
Aleng focused solely on one thing: "custom-fitted to the user."
He tailored each sword to the individual's calluses, grip habits,
height, musculature, arm and leg lengths—perfect for that person alone.
That's how he'd always hammered the iron.
Believing someday someone would recognize it.
But no one showed interest until he was backed into a corner.
"Rotting hell..."
Mid-swing, he glanced at the swords he'd made over time.
The bastard was right.
Custom-made for individuals, unsellable garbage to anyone else.
Even if given to others, the subtle discomfort would lead to quick breakage or discard.
But to their owners, they were different.
No frills, just comfortable, perfect fits.
"My swords aren't bad. They're not bad..."
"They're bad."
"Gasp!"
"Custom-fitted to the user... Good intent, but if the skill's poor, it's worthless."
Thud!
At the sudden low voice from behind, Aleng startled and toppled backward.
Thinking Lorden had returned, his heart pounded.
"You alright?"
A silver-haired woman of noble bearing stepped out from behind the man, her eyes worried.
Something about her instinctively made his head bow—she was clearly aristocracy.
"Wh-who are you?"
"Ah, I'm the lady of the Yohayden Duke's family. Serena Yohayden."
"Yo-Yohayden!!!"
Yohayden—one of the empire's three great ducal houses. The place that could drop a flying wyvern with a glare alone.
A noble from such a mighty house in this dingy forge?
Aleng stared dumbly at Serena, then realized his rudeness.
He bowed low in haste.
"S-sorry!"
"It's fine. Rise."
Then the black-haired man cut in from the side.
"Here for a commission."
"A commission? Perhaps a sword for the gentleman..."
"No. This one will wield it."
Aleng looked up, appraising the silver-haired girl.
Innate grace. Beautiful face. Delicate build. And those... impressive... Ahem!
Having crafted swords to fit people for years, Aleng's instincts kicked in.
"Um..."
"What?"
The man's gaze on Aleng was ice-cold, a bizarre pressure freezing his heart.
Sweat beading, Aleng chose his words carefully.
"It's terribly presumptuous to say, but..."
"Cut the bullshit formalities. Get to the point."
Aleng squeezed his eyes shut. Saying this might end his life here.
But dying now or to Lorden later—same difference.
At least he couldn't forgive a sword he'd made causing harm to its user.
"Th-the lady and a sw-sword!"
It doesn't suit her. As he started to say it, the man shot back.
"Yeah, I know. It doesn't fit."
"Th-then why..."
"You have an eye for it. So, what about a rapier?"
Rapier. Thrust-focused, relatively thin and light compared to standard swords.
Still relative. A sword was a sword. Even that seemed mismatched for the girl.
"...Even so..."
"Try it first. Advance payment."
Clink. Gold coins dropped before Aleng's eyes.
Th-this is gold. With this...!
Clang! Hm. Clang! Hm? Clang! Hm.
Aleng hammered, but his mind was a whirlwind.
To make a sword suited to her,
his meticulous assessment confirmed his initial instinct: This body shouldn't swing a sword.
Even so, trembling, he returned the gold and relayed the info, but the man just nodded,
insisting on the sword.
The Yohayden name outweighed any Lorden. Status and money bore down—he couldn't resist and picked up the hammer.
And one more thing.
The man fetched a chair and sat, watching coldly from behind, chiming in with every strike.
Clang!
"Hm?"
Clang!
"Hm."
Clang?
"Hmmm?"
Claaang...?
"Hmmm..."
Ah! Why?! What?! What's wrong?!
His nerves frayed, focus shattered, but the man was high nobility with the Yohayden lady.
No complaints possible—he endured, forging on.
Aleng pitied his plight: tormented by Lorden earlier, now by this suspicious noble.
Instructor... how long do you plan to stay here?
When he'd first said he'd get her a custom sword, Serena was thrilled.
It meant he prioritized her above all.
But for Serena, who'd fantasized a day touring spots with Zeke, building memories,
wasting time here was agonizing.
Already hours in.
Zeke stared unblinkingly at the smith's hammering.
Ignoring her completely, no conversation. Treated like furniture.
Zeke can live here forever! Serena's leaving!
She glared daggers at his resentful black-haired nape.
Can't I just smack him once?
Then.
Screeech—
The back door opened, revealing a familiar face—one of the mansion's servants.
"Ah, miss."
He rushed in, approaching Serena with urgency.
"Huh? What is it?"
"Someone sent by the duke has arrived at the mansion."
"What?!"
"You should go right away."
Serena's pupils shook. Her dreamed Zeke-date itinerary crumbling.
No, wait. I figured I'd go, but I didn't mean I wanted to!
She glanced at Zeke—still fixated on the smith.
She poked his shoulder. Tap. Tap.
"Um, Instructor."
"Hm?"
"Someone from Father arrived, so I need to go."
"...Should I come?"
"No, not that, but... Will you stay here, Instructor?"
Nod.
Serena's cheeks puffed out.
Nod? Nooood?
She was leaving due to an emergency, and all he gave was a nod—no farewell?
He couldn't come along, fine, but a "take care" at least!
Tch! Hmph! Really! Hmph!
Serena whipped her head away, making her sulk obvious, and snapped at the servant.
"The carriage!?"
"Waiting outside."
"Hmph! I'm! Going! Now! Let's go!"
She stomped out furiously, broadcasting her departure with every fiber.
But Zeke remained absorbed in the smith's hammering.
Aleng, however, broke into cold sweat.
Uh-oh. The lady's pissed!
"Don't get distracted. Your hammering's off."
No, that's not the issue! The lady's still holding the door handle, staring! Look back, damn it!
"Hammer properly again."
You fucker... Can't you see through the door crack? Those eyes!
"Hm?"
Hm? Bullshit. What the hell is wrong with this lunatic...
Aleng swallowed his frustration and hammered on. Hours in, he'd started grasping Zeke's cues.
"Hm." meant keep going as is.
"Hm..." trailing off meant adjust force slightly.
"Hm?" or "Huh?" with a question meant wrong—fix it.
But who—what noble—sits all day in a forge watching hammering, even nitpicking!
His artisan pride bristled.
But already soiled by Lorden. Might as well do as asked.
As he hammered away, Aleng felt a mystical sensation.
Gazing at the emerging sword, he envisioned Serena Yohayden's silver hair whipping as she swung it.
Lighter and shorter than a standard rapier, yet retaining practicality—not a small sword.
But durability was fragile; it'd bend after clashing with a greatsword a few times.
Like a sword for a fixed number of uses, not long-term.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Aleng forgot his surroundings, eyes only on the iron, hammering.
Zeke nodded, watching Aleng now immersed in forging.
Initially, only his stance was salvageable, but a few pointers and
he'd caught on quick, shaping the sword.
This guy was a genius unseen for lack of guidance.
While wandering the old town earlier, he'd heard promising rumors and come—jackpot.
If he kept this up, Zeke could commission swords for his future students here.
More meddling would break his focus and ruin the sword.
Zeke picked up a sheet of paper nearby.
Here is the mansion's address. Come when the sword is done.
Remaining payment decided after seeing the result.
If the sword's good, we'll commission more ongoing—do your best.
Emerging from the smithy, it was already evening.
Ah, dinner already? Fucked up.
His original goal for the day—
something for tomorrow's class—still unmet.
He scoured from old town back toward Lamieli Academy,
mainly weapon and various shops.
Late hour—many closed.
Even if he didn't wield a sword,
he couldn't teach swordsmanship empty-handed.
Dull, not sharp.
Not metal.
Moderately sturdy yet light and brittle.
Painful to swing without mana.
Those were Zeke's minimum criteria for a "weapon" he could hold.
Other ideals abounded, but
failing these basics shattered his sanity.
Even a wooden club was too sturdy—a lethal weapon in his hands.
Searching with those conditions, scouring shops,
nothing caught his eye. Pipe dream.
Wandering, he'd looped back near the old town.
"Wrap it in cotton or something?"
Grrrowl—
His stomach rumbled.
Come to think—save a few spoonfuls of Serena's soup yesterday, four days fasting.
Skipping breakfast for her promised restaurant.
"Bread! Get your bread! Last loaves left today—cheap!"
A girl's bright call ahead.
Bread sounds good.
"Soy Spoon! How many left!?"
"Sis! Don't call me Soy Spoon! My name's Elise!"
"Sis, Mom named you—why hate it?"
The familiar name drew his gaze: a brown-haired girl selling bread, face known.
"How can a name be Dirt Spoon, Dirt Spoon! You're Silia, he's James—why only me!"
"Elise Spoon. Bear it."
"Yeah. Got it."
Soy Spoon bickered with her little brother and sister-like kin, similar hair.
"Sis Silia, know what? Soy Spoon goes around academy calling herself Elise."
"James, come here."
"Elise Spoon. Bear it."
"Yeah. Got it."
The sign read "Hilais Bakery."
Zeke approached.
"Soy Spoon?"
The brown-haired girl scowled, turned—then gaped dumbly.
"Who're you calling Soy Sp—Huh? S-sword instructor?!"
"That's informal."