Chapter 26
Chapter 26
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: When Sword Meets Sword (2)
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The figure of the ranked old man came into view.
Clang.
The old man raised his hammer. Then brought it down again.
Clang.
There was no variation in speed, no difference in strength. Not even the slightest undulation in pitch.
The sound repeated steadily, unchanging.
My heart began to beat slowly once more. A faint nostalgia flooded my mind.
[Clang, clang, clang.]
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The very first "memory" I could recall perfectly overlapped with reality.
Bzzz.
In that instant, some indefinable sensation enveloped me before vanishing just as quickly. It happened before I could even grasp what it was.
"Ah..."
I blankly recalled the feeling, and then the relentless hammering suddenly cut off.
An inexplicable sense of loss.
I looked at the old man.
The old man, having stopped his hammering, thrust a lump of metal into the forge and pulled it out.
He raised his hammer again. The glowing hot iron endured merciless blows.
Sparks flew, his back muscles rippled. Then, a pale hand suddenly thrust in between.
Swish.
Something cold touched my forehead. The unfamiliar sensation snapped me back to reality.
"Ah..."
A sigh-like sound escaped me without thinking.
In that moment, the world that had held only the old man's hammering was suddenly filled with all sorts of noises.
The clang of blacksmiths pounding metal. The whoosh of bellows. The roar of flames.
"Your Highness. You're sweating too much."
Amid it all, a soft voice pierced my ears.
I turned my head. There was Adelia, clutching a water-soaked handkerchief.
Only then did I take in my surroundings.
The busy blacksmiths, one by one, stopped their hands and bowed toward me. The apprentices who had been relentlessly working the bellows prostrated themselves flat on the ground or knelt.
A sturdy middle-aged man was going around the workshop, forcibly halting the blacksmiths' work.
The man, catching my eye, rushed over and threw himself at my feet.
"We lowly ones pay our respects to Your Highness the Prince."
He stood out from the other blacksmiths. There was none of the stubborn pride typical of craftsmen—only the slimy slickness of a merchant.
"Your Highness. That's Saxen—he's the one in charge of the blacksmith guild."
"I see."
I gave him a brief glance and turned away.
Even as everyone else stopped and showed their respects, the old man remained unchanged.
"What are you doing! Hurry up and stop your hands, bow your h—mmph!"
I clamped down on the noisy Saxen's mouth.
"Mmph!"
With his mouth covered, he rolled his eyes frantically, trying to read my intentions.
"Don't make a racket."
I released his mouth. I wiped my saliva-dampened palm on his shirt and looked around.
I spotted the blacksmiths peeking over, pretending not to be prostrated.
Their faces, forced to halt their work, brimmed with dissatisfaction. They boiled inwardly but dared not voice a protest.
"Why make them stop when I didn't ask?"
"Y-Your Highness?"
Saxen blinked in surprise. Ignoring him, I addressed the other blacksmiths.
"The metal's cooling."
At my words, the blacksmiths blinked.
"If you plan to let the forge flames die out too, stay down."
Finally grasping my meaning, they sprang up.
"What are you waiting for! Work the bellows!"
"Grab your tools already!"
Shouts at the apprentices rang out.
The bellows whooshed again, and the hammering sounds resumed from all directions.
They lacked the old man's enigmatic resonance, but the vibrant energy within satisfied me.
**
After that, I watched the old man for quite some time. He never stopped his work until the end, nor did he so much as glance my way.
Kals and the other Royal Knights looked like they wanted to force the old man to his knees right then, but since I stayed put, they could only grumble and hold back.
How much time passed like that?
The sun was already setting.
"Let's head back."
Regretfully, it was time to leave for today. My heart yearned to stay by his side, listening to that hammering, but I couldn't bear watching the heavily armored knights roasting in the workshop's heat any longer.
"Escort His Highness!"
Kals, visibly relieved, practically dragged me out of the workshop.
"Hooah."
The moment we exited, the Royal Knights gulped in huge breaths. They hadn't shown it, but being inside must have been pure agony.
"That old master smith has been making and melting swords repeatedly for the past six months. Even now, he's putting in such effort, but once it's done, he'll no doubt toss it straight into the furnace."
On the way back, Torrens Elun shared stories about the old man.
"Failures, then."
I figured he repeated the folly because the results dissatisfied him, but Torrens said that wasn't quite it.
"Before this strange obsession took hold, every sword he made was a masterpiece—not one exception—which is why even His Majesty the King bestowed upon him the title of "Master Swordsmith." The swords he's melted down so far were all masterpieces worthy of the name, without flaw."
"Then why melt perfectly good ones?"
Torrens sighed, admitting he didn't know either.
The guild was overflowing with orders for his exceptional skill, so this was causing immense losses.
"For the past month, he's barely slept, devoting himself entirely to work. Given his age, we're terrified he might drop dead before finishing the sword."
Torrens's voice dripped with distress.
**
The next day, and the day after that, I visited the old man again.
He was always the same. The only change was that the lump of metal he'd been pounding now resembled a proper blade.
I lingered in the workshop from sunrise to sunset, savoring the sound of his hammer.
I never felt that strange sensation from the first day again. But even without it, there was something about the old man's hammering that drew me in all on its own.
I could listen all day and never tire.
When I returned home after a full day in the workshop, Earl Elun was always waiting, as usual.
We dined, exchanged dull conversation.
If not for the guild workshop, I'd have wanted to leave the earldom immediately.
"You have an interest in metallurgy too?"
My uncle asked late one night. He'd heard from others that I'd spent the whole day in the workshop.
"Not that I'm uninterested, but more than that... being there just puts my mind at ease."
My uncle tilted his head, not understanding.
But he didn't seem truly curious about why I hunkered down there all day—he quickly changed the subject.
"Three days left. After that, we head to Iron Lion Castle. If there's anywhere you want to visit or anything to do, handle it beforehand."
"I'll manage. But why have you been so busy I haven't even seen your face?"
"His Majesty gave me separate instructions. It'll wrap up in a day or two, so don't worry about it."
My uncle looked somewhat fatigued as he spoke. It seemed the king hadn't let my outing go entirely free.
**
It was the day before we left Earl Elun's territory.
As always, I headed to the guild workshop.
"You've arrived."
Saxen greeted me with obsequious bows. I waved him off dismissively and passed by toward the old man.
As ever, the old man greeted me with his back.
Clang. Clang.
Listening to the rhythmic hammering, I examined him. In just a few days, he'd grown noticeably gaunt. As Torrens had worried—whether the sword melted or not—the old man seemed at the limit of his stamina.
Yet his hammering sounded exactly the same. Astonishing.
"I wanted to at least see it finished."
I said it loudly enough for him to hear on purpose, but the old man didn't respond.
He merely straightened his slightly slouched posture and hammered even more fervently.
I left the workshop much earlier than usual. Since it was my last day in Earl Elun's territory, I had my own preparations.
Though "preparations" just meant attending the farewell banquet Earl Elun had set up.
"Let's go."
With lingering regret, I turned back several times before finally departing the workshop.
**
"He's finally leaving."
Torrens Elun let out a sigh of relief.
How anxious he'd been upon hearing the infamous prodigal 1st Prince was coming. He'd fretted endlessly over whether the prince might wreak havoc in the territory.
And sure enough.
The prince arrived a day later than announced, tormenting him even before their meeting. While the prince led his knights wandering the plains, he'd cursed the prince countless times.
Still, reuniting brought relief. No mishaps with royalty in the territory could be tolerated.
"Your Highness."
The rumored 1st Prince was a fat pig stuffed with blubber, a foul-tempered wastrel.
But the one he met was nothing like the rumors.
Not a bloated pig, nor an irredeemable delinquent as gossiped.
The prince was a handsome man with a well-trained physique, and aside from some rough edges in speech and manner, showed no particular flaws.
Of course, he didn't let his guard down just because of a good first impression.
No chimney lacks smoke—who knew when the prince might reveal his true colors?
Indeed, at the welcome banquet, the prince skipped the proper greetings due a host. No one treats a guest with such disdain unless utterly contemptuous.
His father gifted precious armaments preemptively to avoid greater insult and curb any urges to rampage.
It worked—the prince behaved thereafter.
The first day passed peacefully.
The next day, the prince wanted to tour the blacksmith guild workshop. Knowing the craftsmen’s stubborn natures, his father predicted tantrums nine times out of ten and flatly refused to accompany him.
In the end, as eldest son, Torrens stepped up to take the abuse.
He even warned of the artisans' eccentricities, just in case—but the prince ignored it completely.
This won't end quietly, Torrens thought, steeling himself.
As expected, the blacksmiths refused to stop, fearing their metal would cool. Only after Saxen intervened did they reluctantly show respect.
Thankfully, things seemed salvageable.
But not everything goes as planned.
The sword-obsessed old man caught the prince's eye. The recluse who ignored even the lord now spelled trouble.
Yet the prince didn't rage. He even stopped Saxen from interrupting the master's work.
And more.
"If you plan to let the forge flames die out too, stay down."
Shockingly, the prince considered the blacksmiths forced to stop and urged them to resume.
Only then did Torrens think the prince might not be the hopeless sort from the rumors.
Watching him observe the craftsmen for days without interference or outbursts solidified that belief.
The prince seemed deeply regretful at leaving without seeing the master's sword complete—a regret so profound it tugged at onlookers.
That must have been why.
When he learned the master was on the verge of finishing, Torrens rushed to inform the prince.
It would likely be melted anyway, but he hoped the prince could at least glimpse the master's sword.
But that was a mistake.
When Torrens arrived with the prince, the master had already fitted a temporary hilt.
No crossguard yet, no decorations. Yet the sword outshone any the master had made before.
"I offer this sword to Your Highness."
And then the master thrust it upon the prince.
The masterpiece forged sleeplessly for a month, poured with his soul.
To the prince, with whom he'd never exchanged a word.