Love's Whip
"You crazy bastard!!! Why the hell are you smashing that?!!!"
Dmeros bellowed at Leon, who was in the middle of snapping a staff in half.
"Because I don't like this staff!!!!!!"
"Then get it custom-made!!!!!"
"…Custom-made?"
Leon's hands stopped.
"Yeah! Order-made! You tell me the length, the weight, the material, the handle — all of it — and I make you a new one to match! If you've got the money to pay for every single thing you break, that would've been the smarter move from the start!"
"…!!!"
Order-made.
The sacred rite by which a blacksmith takes a well-heeled customer's feedback and crafts them a dedicated piece of gear, stitch by painstaking stitch.
Fresh materials, shipped straight from the source, lovingly worked with this forge's secret methods, and to finish it off, a generous heap of the master's hospitality piled right on top — one exclusive piece of gear, coming riiight up!
In exchange, the customer's money goes gush-gush-gush right out of the wallet!
"—That's what order-made is, isn't it?"
"The way you put it is a little… off, but. Yeah. That's it."
"We leave at once."
Dmeros let out a sigh and looked the customer in front of him over again.
"…So. Are you a mage? Or some kind of agent out of a secret organization?"
"Khk…!"
Leon's shoulders suddenly shook hard.
"W-what. Why are you crying?"
"…Do I really look like a secret agent? For real…?"
"Huh? Uh… at a glance, yeah."
A bizarre laugh erupted from beneath the mask.
"Eheheheheheh!!!! Kyaaahahahahaha!!!!!"
…Was this guy insane?
Under ordinary circumstances, Dmeros would have preferred not to get involved at all. But the man had already paid in full for everything he'd broken, and now he wanted a custom order on top of that…
Dmeros made a point of not seeing any of it and went back to his workbench.
"…Whatever. So what do you want made?"
"A staff with a good grip. Something that won't make my hands hurt even if I hold it and swing it for a long time."
"Meaning everything you've handled so far had a lousy grip?"
"That too, but the handles are all bumpy. Feels like they'd rub my palms raw if I used them for long."
A short staff, fussing over grip feel, and already accounting for situations where he'd be swinging it for a long time. The conclusion Dmeros reached was simple.
A combat mage, then.
Leon's thoughts, on the other hand, were a little different.
A switch's gotta have that satisfying hand-feel.
It'd be a damn injustice if my palms got shredded before I'd even landed a few hits!
From here on, let us listen to the rest of this conversation with both of their inner thoughts laid out as the premise.
Leon opened his mouth with complete seriousness.
"First off, it can't be too heavy. Swing it too long and the wrist gives out." (A switch.)
"Hmm. But if it's too light, you won't be able to put any real force behind it." (A close-combat staff.)
"Exactly. It's got to have just enough heft for that satisfying feel." (When you hit someone with a switch.)
"Makes sense, if you're going to be swinging it up close." (When you hit someone at close range.)
"Right? That snappy, wrapping-around-the-hand feel is what matters."
Something shifted in Dmeros's eyes.
This guy… he looks like a lunatic, but maybe he actually knows real combat?
"And it's not as if you swing once and you're done, is it? You go out and come right back. The return stroke has to be smooth, or you'll wear yourself out using it for long."
Leon flicked his wrist, mimicking a back-and-forth swing. Dmeros nodded slowly.
"You're thinking about the recovery, too."
"That's right."
Land a few hits and then have to rest because your wrist hurts, and you lose the whole flow.
Even a whooping needs rhythm!
"I'd like a little elasticity at the tip as well. If it's too stiff, the feel is garbage. Just a little follow-through, then it wraps and snaps back."
"Not too soft, not too hard?"
"Yes. Exactly that."
"Picky little bastard."
Dmeros clicked his tongue, but he understood the requirements themselves.
"Alright. I'll give it a shot."
"Oh. I'll be in your care."
And so the two of them believed they understood each other perfectly.
They did not.
The first prototype did not take long. It was only a matter of recarving an existing staff to match Leon's requests.
Leon took the finished piece, rolled it around in his palm a few times, then swung it hard.
Whoosh—!
"…I'm afraid not."
CRACK—!
"If it's no, PUT IT DOWN!!! Why are you breaking it!!!"
For the second one, he shaved off a little weight. Leon swung it back and forth a few times.
CRACK—!
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!!!"
For the third, he went the other way — added weight and shifted the balance slightly forward.
SMACK—!
Leon slammed it into the wall. This time his expression looked reasonably satisfied, so Dmeros thought maybe they had finally gotten it.
"…This isn't it either."
CRA—
"WAIT!!!"
Dmeros grabbed Leon's wrist in a panic.
"You little shit. You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
"I am not! The shock travels straight up into the handle! If I keep swinging this, my hand is going to hurt first!!!!"
This guy is genuinely unhinged…
But he wasn't wrong. When Dmeros tested it himself, the force transferred well — and so did the recoil, all the way up to the wrist.
"…Yeah. We'll need something to dampen the vibration."
"And this bothers me too."
Leon rubbed the grooves cut into the handle.
"Those are carved so it doesn't slip."
"Then just make it completely smooth. Get rid of the grooves, and skip the leather as well."
"Then it'll slip. Are you even listening to me?"
"Don't make it catch the hand — make it fit the hand. A little thicker in the middle, flaring slightly toward the bottom. Press the sides in a bit and it'll be easier to control the direction."
Dmeros couldn't immediately argue. At first it had sounded like more nonsense, but given that this was a custom order, it actually seemed possible.
"…Fine. I'll try it."
He remade it several more times after that. Changed the materials, adjusted the balance, carved the handle to Leon's specifications. And the answer that came back was always the same.
"Wrong. Completely, utterly wrong!!!"
"Just go home, you little shit!!!"
The patience Dmeros had been holding onto finally exploded.
"I made it exactly the way you said from start to finish, so what the hell is the problem?!"
"That is the problem! From start to finish, they're all the same!"
"A staff is a staff! What else is it supposed to be?!"
Leon pointed at the prototypes scattered across the floor.
"Passion! These staffs have no passion in them!!!"
"What passion crap is th—"
Dmeros's words stopped.
"…crap is th—"
…Passion.
It had been a very long time since he had heard that word.
At twenty-three, Dmeros had been obsessed with making things that did not exist in the world.
Bizarrely curved swords. Axes whose blade angles matched no one else's. Staffs where even the placement of the mana stone was strange.
Not a single one of them fit the popular specifications. But he had been sure of himself.
"Haha! It's finally done! Just you wait. Someday everyone's going to be copying mine!"
The staff he thought he had made best of all, he did not even intend to sell. He set it on display right in the center of the case.
But reality was always cruel.
"Come on in! The hottest One-Touch Staff on the market right now!"
The shop across the street had customers lined up out the door. Dmeros's shop just collected dust.
He had been confident in the performance and the materials. People only went looking for what they already knew.
Eventually, when his living expenses were about to hit rock bottom—
"Urgh… I never thought I'd end up making this kind of monstrosity…"
For the first time in his life, Dmeros made a staff that followed the trends. He only stubbornly kept a little of his own style in the handle and the balance point.
"Oh. This is a little unusual, but it's comfortable to hold. I'll take this one."
"…?"
It sold.
And the next one sold too.
His fundamental skill had always been outstanding, so the moment he changed direction, the business found its footing fast. He even successfully filed a few patents, and the name Dmeros started to gain a decent reputation.
In exchange, the work of making new things naturally dwindled.
Then came the year he turned fifty.
Dmeros pulled out the old staff that had been sitting deep in the display case.
"…It's been a while. My first child."
The thing his twenty-three-year-old self had crowed was his greatest masterpiece. He stared at the staff for a while, then gripped it tightly with both hands around the center.
Crrrk.
"…Yeah. That's life for you, isn't it."
CRACK!
The staff, snapped in two, fell into the trash.
At fifty, Dmeros chose the path of compromising with reality.
"…Passion… huh."
Dmeros looked down at the prototypes scattered across the floor.
At the time, he had been sure it was the right choice. Insisting on things nobody wanted just left you hungry, and making what the customer wanted rather than what you wanted was the whole point of running a shop.
But the brat in front of him was different.
Shake his head at the slightest dissatisfaction. Smash it if the weight was off. Tell him to make it again if the balance wasn't right…
Come to think of it, this is pissing me off. This goddamn little shit.
…Even so.
"Tch. Kid your age, poking at things you don't need to poke at."
Dmeros picked up the apron he had taken off.
"Hey, brat. This time, shut your mouth and wait."
"Huh?"
"I think I've got a pretty good idea of what you want."
Then, with a resolute look in his eyes, he tied a band around his forehead.
"I'll make it. Something so proper that everything you've ever held will look like garbage."
This time, he had no intention of just making what the customer told him to.
Dmeros, age sixty-three.
The ember he had thought gone cold and dead long ago was, at this late hour, starting to burn again.
Four hours later.
"…Here. Give it a hold."
Dmeros wiped the sweat from his brow and held out the finished staff. This time he had started over from the materials. He had carved the handle to fit Leon's hand himself, and adjusted the weight and elasticity by testing it over and over.
Leon took the staff without a word.
Whoosh—!
Immediately the other direction.
Whoosh—!
Dmeros stood with his arms crossed and watched.
And this time.
"…It's perfect."
He didn't break it. That was the most important thing.
You goddamn little shit…
"The grip, the weight, the balance — it's exactly the feel I wanted. You are truly the greatest blacksmith there is, Dmeros."
"…Tch. Finally you get it."
It was nothing special as far as compliments went, but it felt better than he had expected.
"Go on and put it to good use, brat. A guy this obsessive over a single staff might just make it all the way to the top of the Tower someday."
Leon gathered up the finished piece and bowed politely at the waist.
"Thank you. Truly. Dmeros."
"Get out of here. I don't even want to look at you."
A moment later, the bell above the door jingled as it swung. Dmeros just stood there for a while, staring at the door Leon had vanished through.
"…When was the last time I burned this hot?"
Then he roughly swept the wood shavings off the workbench with his weathered hands.
"…Tch. Reckless little bastard. Throwing an ember into a furnace that already went cold and then just walking out."
From that day on, slightly different staffs started appearing in Dmeros's shop. They were not perfect replicas of what he had made for Leon, but staffs of every length, every thickness, every handle size started rolling off in bulk.
And the first to respond to those products were female mages.
"Oh my, this handle is small but it's so comfortable."
"I'll take a slightly thicker one. Being able to pick the size myself is nice."
"The surface is so smooth and pretty, too."
Then one woman swung a staff back and forth a few times and muttered absently.
"…Wouldn't even hurt if you put it in."
"…"
The room went quiet.
The woman carried the staff to the counter as if nothing had happened.
…Anyway, they sold well.
The few pieces he had put out as a test sold out in no time. And before long, they climbed to number one among the staffs most sought after by female mages.
Looking at the mountain of order forms, Dmeros scratched his beard.
"…That lunatic."
Not only had he given him back a joy he had forgotten — he had even made him money.
"If I ever run into him again, I ought to buy him a drink."
The director's office of the White Magic Tower.
Celia was slowly turning a newly delivered staff over in her hands. It had been such a hot rumor among female mages lately that she had ordered one to try…
"…A little thick, maybe."
No. This might actually be just right.
Celia flexed her hand once, then gripped the staff tight again. Then she slowly ran her eyes down its length.
"…I wonder if Leon is about this size."
A brief silence.
"…"
Celia tucked the staff against her chest as if nothing had happened.
"…I'll have to try it later…"
There was a reason it sold so well.
The next day.
"…Why are you following me again."
From first thing in the morning, the look Zenith was giving me was anything but friendly. Well. That was fair enough.
Until just a few days ago I had beaten her into a bloody pulp with a stick, and now I was trailing after her as her so-called private tutor. Hard to find a reason to be happy about that.
"Today's an observation lesson, so just ignore me."
"Hah. Do whatever you want."
Zenith clicked her tongue and walked ahead down the hallway. And it wasn't long before her mouth opened.
"You still haven't cleaned that up? I knew your hands were slow, but I didn't realize your eyes were bad too. Instead of apologizing, just clean it up already."
"I-I'm sorry. Young Mistress…!!!"
A servant hurriedly gathered up the scattered papers. I watched in silence.
The rest of it followed a similar pattern. A comment because the tea was a little too hot. A comment because a document was in the wrong place. A comment at some poor servant because the office wasn't to her liking.
At first she kept sneaking glances at me, but once I didn't say anything, even that disappeared.
AI. You're counting, right?
> [Confirmed 12 criterion-violating remarks to date.]
She's been busy.
Well. Let's see how far she goes today.
Evening came before Zenith finally stopped in front of her own room.
"If you've got nothing to say, get lost. I don't want to look at you."
"No. Class isn't over yet."
"…What?"
Zenith openly scowled. I'd just followed her around all day without saying much, so it looked like her guts were starting to crawl back out of her belly.
People's adaptability really is something else.
Of course, I hadn't spent the whole day on this punching-bag tour for no reason either.
Zenith opened her door and went inside, as if she couldn't even be bothered to reply. Just as the door was about to close, I reached out and caught it.
Tak.
"…What are you doing? This is my room. If you've got something to say, say it outside and get lost."
"That's why I'm coming in. This is a lesson that's a little awkward to do in the middle of a hallway."
"What? What kind of lesson requires you to just waltz into someone's room?"
Zenith glared at me like I was out of my mind, but it couldn't be helped. Even if it was only temporary, a private tutor had an obligation to protect at least the minimum of a student's human rights.
"So? What are you trying to pull? You followed me around all day and now you're following me into my room."
AI. How many times did the young lady lose her shit today?
> [Confirmed a total of 23 criterion-violating remarks.]
Mm. She's been very productive.
"Today, miss, you unnecessarily tore into other people a total of twenty-three times. At first you were watching me out of the corner of your eye, but from the afternoon on you were just rolling it out like a fish that had found water."
"…You were counting that all day? You really have nothing better to do."
Zenith snorted and crossed her arms. Looking at that face, she still hadn't figured out the situation.
I'd followed her around counting every single number. Did she really think I was going to wrap this up with a few lines of a reflection essay?
"So starting today, I'm thinking of changing the teaching method a little. Explaining things with words doesn't seem to be very effective."
"What kind of weird crap are you trying now? I'll tell you in advance, I'm not going to just sit there like last ti—"
Whoosh—!
Before she could finish, I pulled the staff from my coat and spun it once in my hand.
…Nice grip. As expected.
Definitely worth the money. The weight was just right, the handle wrapped smoothly, and even a light flick of the wrist sent the tip following through and snapping back.
Truly the greatest blacksmith there is, Mr. Dmeros.
And the educational effect already looked considerable.
"W-what is that…"
"H-haah? Love's Whip…? You think I'm going to be scared of something like that?!"
For someone saying that, her body was being extremely honest.
Trembletrembletrembletrembletrembletrembletrembletremble.
Apparently her body still remembered a few days ago.
"F-fine! Hit me! Hit me as much as you want, just like that day! Don't think I'm going to fold this time either!"
"Ah. There's a slight misunderstanding here."
I laid the staff across my palm and tapped it lightly.
Tak. Tak.
Each time, Zenith's shoulders flinched, just a little.
"Miss. I'm currently your temporary private tutor. That day was a disciplinary beatdown. This time, it's an act that actually falls within the category of education… so how could I possibly turn a student into paste the way I did that day?"
"…R-right?"
"Of course."
I grinned and adjusted my grip on the staff.
"So let's not make this hard on each other. We'll do this peacefully."
Tak.
I gave the desk in the middle of the room a light rap with the staff.
"Bend over."
"W-what…?"
"Didn't hear me?"
I rapped the desk with the staff again. Tak, tak.
"Stick your ass out."