Episode 52 - The Gods' Blacksmith
"Eitryon?"
"What."
"Shouldn't you at least introduce yourself to the guests? Tell them who you are and what you're doing here?"
"Why bother?"
The Dragon Lord, a smile playing on her lips, simply stared at Eitryon without a word. Was he suddenly recalling the time he'd stolen a cow and spent three days and nights getting bitten for it? Eitryon abruptly stood up straight and tall, then guided us up to the forge.
The party members who followed him up the stairs all gazed in wonder at the massive anvil. Even before we entered, Eitryon had been hammering away at a lump of molten metal. Its true nature was...
"A longsword?"
"Not just any longsword. Do you recognize whose it is?"
I couldn't miss it. I'd spent a full six years living under the threat of that blade. The longsword's blade was engraved alternately with the heads of a hyena and a rat, as if reflecting its owner's barely civilized temperament. Far off, separated from the blade, lay the hilt's guard—simple in design, but festooned with golden tassels tied to its ring. A pathetic attempt by its owner to satisfy his vanity. Instead of replacing the hilt, he'd just collected tassels because no craftsman could touch that hilt without their palms bursting into flame.
Only the Hero and his sword's maker could lay hands on a Hero's holy sword.
Perhaps noticing my inner turmoil showing on my face, Esen placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
"Isn't this the sword that bastard swung at me? That Mara-whatever or Adamanthon prick."
"Adamanthon Sunsstorm. 'Uja's Lighthouse'. It's a holy sword."
They say that when a Hero is born, the gods celebrate by dropping a meteor. Not into a city to throw a human sacrifice party, of course. It's to send the material for the Hero's holy sword to the world's craftsmen.
Eitryon clearly wasn't a Dragon Lord. But the dignity we sensed from him didn't seem like mere superficial illusion.
I poured all the awe rising in my heart into my words.
"Are you the holy sword's maker?"
"And its destroyer as well. I possess the rare aptitude [Gods' Blacksmith]."
Eitryon nodded with a somber expression. He casually stroked the glowing red-hot blade.
"I remember every piece I've ever forged. This sly one has come back to my hands."
"You made Adamanthon's Hero sword?"
"Yes. From the dull iron-gray meteor iron that fell in Karanso. Manselrion Sunsstorm's wife—the famously steadfast Hero—had joyfully borne a third child who inherited the Hero aptitude. I flew to the Karanso wasteland, thrilled, chasing the new shooting star's tail. But... no one was there."
"No one?"
"Just me. Strange, right? Most [Gods' Blacksmiths] are terribly greedy. Those vicious lot race over mountains and across seas at the first sign of meteor iron falling, all to claim, 'I must be that Hero's weapon maker.'"
Eitryon, who had just confessed to flying to Karanso in excitement, muttered it all as if it were someone else's business. It reminded me of myself lately—more promiscuous than anyone, yet badmouthing other porters' promiscuity.
"Competition?"
"Exactly. It's bestowed only on craftsmen overflowing with innate honor and ambition. Those who dream of one day driving a sword they've forged into the Maou's heart. So naturally, everyone wants to craft as many Heroes' swords as possible... but."
Eitryon irritably lifted his hammer. He slammed it down on the sword with ferocious force.
"The metal told me right away. A guy without even the barest qualifications. Even the ones who'd likely arrived first must've slunk away. Born with the blacksmith aptitude, I couldn't just leave the meteor iron, so I took it and forged it myself. And in the end, it was used to gouge out my nephew's eye."
The gods' metal began to crack with a screech. With each hammer blow from the dragon smith, light burst forth instead of thunderous booms. It felt like primordial radiance was being shaped atop the anvil.
As we watched in mesmerized awe, the elf Nenya went pale, as if about to faint.
"The mana pouring out..."
"It's immense. It's essentially no different from cleaving apart the gods' own bodies."
"Cleaving it? A holy sword? Then what happens to that Adamanthon guy?"
"Regrettably, as long as the Hero lives, the sword can't be fully destroyed. By the gods' rules, holy swords return to their owner automatically. But from now on, he'll have to endure a broken, weakened blade. As its father, I have that much authority."
With the final hammer strike, Eitryon set the bent sword aside and wiped his sweat.
"Of course, if big sis loses her patience or the Sunsstorm family abandons their worthless youngest, this masterless metal could become another Hero's secondary weapon. I'm secretly hoping for that. Why in the gods' names did they make a scum like him a Hero?"
"Maybe they gave a holy sword to a quick-to-die guy on purpose, since some Hero needs a spare?"
Esen's joke sounded oddly plausible as she admired the scythe-curved holy sword.
"Whoa. Impressive. I kicked Tena's sword with everything I had, and it didn't even dent."
"...You kicked a Hero's sword? And you're still in one piece?"
"Like hell. My leg snapped, and I was bedridden for a month."
Eitryon blinked at her like she was insane. I turned to the Monica sisters in disbelief as well. They gave sheepish nods and awkward smiles.
"On her first day in the party."
"I thought I could break it."
"...Anyway. This meteor iron anvil and hammer are powerful tools for forging—and shattering—the ultimate weapons, holy swords. More than enough to dispose of that monster even priests struggled with."
"But it'll tire you out terribly, Uncle. We're imposing extra work outside your schedule."
"A fool's holy sword will take days of hammering to match a succubus seal array, but it's better than pissing off the Lord. Do you know how much she nagged me to come out here because you'd bring that monster to the nest?"
Eitryon grumbled as softly as he could, facing away so the Lord couldn't see his lips. Then he beckoned me to hand over the item.
I nodded and passed him the seal array.
"Anyway, enough talk. Nidroga? Take your friends and get lost. Join the party or crash at the inn."
[Wait a moment.]
Eitryon carefully placed the seal array on the anvil. The Succubus Queen, having overheard our entire conversation, began to tremble as the hammer that cleaved divine material loomed over her.
[Let's speak in our tongue.]
"Unlike the holy sword, this'll be noisy."
As we left the forge, the first hammer strike rang out against the seal array. The Queen's scream was deafening. We felt a refreshing relief, like a bad tooth finally pulled. The sisters and Reni sighed in relief, while Esen spat toward it.
"Bye, you bitch."
A week later—today's reflections.
The Dragon's Nest was a terrifying place indeed. Cookies offered kindly by locals for a "quick taste" send your sanity flying far away. Eating contests feature bombs instead of sandwiches or burgers. The young bride running the farm? Actually the Dragon Lord. Her friend-uncle, terrified of her ire, is the holy sword maker who smashed the Succubus Queen—who turned Bitsurk into a den of horror—with hammer blows alone.
Nothing good comes from getting involved, and no resident can be handled lightly. No territorial vibes or anyone dying to devour us. Instead, friendly folks welcoming us to drinking parties overflowed on this cozy island.
But it was still dangerous. As Nidroga said, dragons have pleasure thresholds sky-high, so their "normal fun" is our survival game.
We mastered the art of dodging the rowdy spots. To preserve our limbs until Nidroga's wings fully heal and Tomco's gut mends.
Yet this island was the ultimate resort. The founding Dragon Lord's foresight inspired genuine respect. "No paradise in a runaway's haven," they say—but here, paradise awaited wherever we fled.
I opened my bag, pulling out parasols, a grill, and sunbeds. I planted them side by side on the cozy sandy beach, alive with seagull cries.
"Tan Bantai's Tanning Center—three days accident-free."
"What're you on about?"
"And the first customer—"
I looked up laughing at the grumbling voice, but my smile froze solid.
Every organization has those people. Awkward around each other, needing a mutual acquaintance to share space without tension. Without that common link, the air turns uncomfortable, faces tightening like they've starved for days.
If it's just natural awkwardness, it could spark friendship. But if unavoidable conflict lies between them...
"...Bilena."
"Where'd everyone else go? Just you?"
Bilena muttered from under her wide-brim hat, hiding her face. She clutched her hem, stiffly retreating behind a beach tree.
I scratched my itching nape awkwardly.
"Sun's up, but it's still early dawn by the clock. They're probably washing up at the inn. You just came out early. What, wanted to swim alone?"
"Damn it. I just needed a quiet spot to read..."
I frowned. That didn't add up. If it was just for quiet reading, she wouldn't be dressed like that.
Bilena's outfit was a swimsuit exposing her bare legs from the hips down. She tugged at her white shirt to cover up, but it fell way short.
I averted my eyes and stepped aside. Bilena stayed glued behind the tree for ages.
"Damn... don't look!"
"...Not looking. Come out already."