14. Sprouting
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was Miriam's hair tickling the tip of my nose, followed by the warm, comforting heat of her body seeping through the cold metal plates of my Sirion Armor.
The scorching sun of the Levant hung high in the sky, signaling noon. Rays of light streamed down the rough stone walls of the forge, bleaching the ceiling white, while from outside came the distant sound of Damascus soldiers clearing away the traces of last night's chaos, like waves rolling in.
I carefully disentangled myself from Miriam and sat up. Through the tears in my thobe, the scales of the Sirion gleamed with a smooth luster, unscathed even after deflecting the assassin's dagger that had sought every gap.
A dagger can't pierce it. So what will pierce this armor?
My mind raced, blending the craftsman's drive I'd felt before sleep with knowledge from the future. But that thought quickly hit a chilling brake.
The paradox of the blacksmith: create a shield that blocks everything, and you must then devise a spear to pierce it. In my refreshed, clear-headed mind after a deep rest, it twisted into terror.
What if those assassins from last night had come armed with the weapon now forming in my head? A professional killer with time to scout me would have waited for me to shed my armor and sleep defenselessly.
This time, it was sheer luck. My preparedness, the Sirion's perfection, and Miriam's courage at the critical moment. If even one had failed, I'd be a cold corpse tossed into the Barada River by now.
That cold realization finally made me understand why Miriam had been so furious and tearful last night. She wasn't just worried about me—she instinctively grasped how thin the ice was beneath the path I walked.
In that sense, the blacksmith's paradox was a dangerous curse. The Sirion's protection was a blessing, but if my own hands created a way to neutralize it, I wouldn't be safe from that arrowhead either.
I could almost understand why medieval lords suffered such paranoid terror, their dictatorial madness making a bit more sense.
That's why I decided to record it but not act—yet. I pulled out a parchment hidden deep under the floorboards in the corner of the bedroom.
On it, I sketched a crude design for a mechanical device no one in this era would dream of: a steel bow with maximized elasticity despite its material, paired with a windlass pulley system that amplified human strength dozens of times over.
This wasn't ready for the world. Only when Sirion became the Levant standard, and knights grew complacent in its defense—then I'd perfect the pulley crossbow, the arbalest, to chill their hearts.
But before that weapon, my priority was clear. I couldn't rely on luck and Miriam's bravery forever. There was only one path: expand the board entirely.
Gather my people, fortify the forge, build it into a full factory—an unassailable authority no one would dare touch. That was my way back to the original world, and the thought enveloped me.
"After earning 1,400 dinars on a single auction item, take it easy, Barakah. And you've made a killing with the Mi'yar Swords and maces too."
Zaid, visiting the forge late in the afternoon, still looked dazed. His face was paler than usual after hearing of last night's bloodbath, but the weight of the gold pouch in his arms was solid.
But I had business more important than the gold he'd brought. I led him to the forge's innermost chamber, walled on all sides by massive stone, where noise was perfectly blocked.
"Mr. Zaid, money's always short no matter how you spend it. You know that. But what we truly need now is a fence to protect and grow that money."
I stared straight into Zaid's eyes, the freshly sketched arbalest blueprint covered by another parchment on the table.
"Whether it's Damascus's maliks or the Crusaders from the west, those powerful men covet me for one reason: I'm alone. Alone, so they can kidnap me. Alone, so they think killing me and stealing my techniques ends it."
"So... what? You planning to raise an army?"
"Not an army, but at minimum, turn this forge into a solid organization no one dares touch. In terms you'd understand, a guild. I've moved alone to avoid weaknesses, but last night changed my mind. Better to grow so massive they see touching me as a loss."
I caught my breath, then stated my true intent bluntly.
"So, Mr. Zaid, gather your caravan's most trusted veteran guards and skilled, tight-lipped orphans. It's time to go beyond selling weapons. Hone techniques, produce defenses, protect that knowledge and people—we need a vast, organic fence. And I'll build it here, in Souk Wadi Barada."
Zaid's thick eyebrows twitched at my proposal. As a merchant to his bones, he instantly grasped the implications.
A closed fate community built on era-transcending tech and knowledge. Not the thought of a mere blacksmith running a daily forge—it heralded the rise of a new force to shake the Levant's power structure at its roots.
"You... really mean to expand big. That could irk the maliks of this land or others."
"I said it: build it big. Home industry can't handle Sirion's explosive demand anymore. Processes will demand more hands, and future products will need dozens of times the security."
"Barakah, that sounds like not just a giant forge, but a guild or sect."
"Whatever form it takes, if needed. And security's core—you should handle it, Mr. Zaid. To fully embrace the golden goose that brings you the most wealth."
"Secure wide land via your trade routes, build high walls to block eyes. Inside those walls, my rules apply."
The talk was done. With over 3,000 dinars from the auction and past profits, it was time to launch a massive factory.
At the village edge, beside the old forge, a new steel foundation rising. From there, advanced tech-infused products would pour out.
To sprout fully for that purpose, I couldn't stop. No, I wouldn't stop.
I extinguished the last candle lighting the chamber. Darkness fell, but my plans shone brighter than ever in my mind.
Materials secured, land acquired. Sand packed firm, then foundation stones piled high. All the while, steadily forging and producing, a fortnight passed.
Zaid acted swiftly. No sooner had I spoken than he mobilized his caravans, scraping together usable talent scattered across the Levant.
With early March's milder weather, new faces arrived.
Conditions were strict. Not just vagrants or orphans—those with lost families from invasions, endless wanderers without roots. The enraged, the too-talented expelled from guilds, foreigners. Priorities: the discarded, who could never rise without me.
They gathered one by one at Souk Wadi Barada's outskirts, the massive stone structure rising on new ground.
"This the place? Where the master who forged the 'knight killer' resides?"
A dusty-clothed middle-aged man looked up at the building, eyes gleaming with vengeance and awe.
It was no longer the shabby old forge. On Zaid's secured wide plot, walls twice man-height loomed, entrance guarded by Damascus malik's elite soldiers.
Inside: a vast construction site. Dozens of laborers built new furnaces, divided zones for specialization.
I stood at the center, coldly scanning my prospective 'employees'.
Even in modern times as a sole proprietor, handling people wasn't my forte. But here, no room for clumsiness.
I read the desperation in their eyes, prepared to shape them from laborers into fits for my domain.
Silence stretched, hammers echoing louder. Artisans swallowed dryly, clutching bundles, eyes fixed on my callused hands and the silver Sirion peeking through my torn thobe.
To them, I wasn't just an employer—I was their sole escape, turning wretched talents into miracles.
"Tough journey here."
My words eased the tension. I approached the nearest middle-aged man. His hands scarred by burns and calluses, but steady.
"Heard you lost family. Who did it?"
Bloodshot eyes flared. His rough voice spat hate.
"...Crusaders. They burned my village, smashed my workshop, took my son's life!"
The air among the gathered grew heavy. Each carried their own ember of fire.
I nodded slowly, stepping into their silence, mounting the small platform to overlook them all.
"Want revenge? Rush into enemy lines with a single sword and die like a dog—that your idea of vengeance?"
The man bit his lip bloody, silent. I scanned the vagrants, expelled artisans, lifeless-eyed orphans.
"Most of you here in similar straits. Exiled from homes, robbed of all, rejected from birth... The wealthy mocked you, the poor ignored you. But!"
I lowered my voice to a growl, burrowing into their hearts like pre-storm hush.
"In my eyes, you're different! The beaten, crouching under reality's walls—no! You're the ones to reignite this barbaric era! I ask again: Is your pain your fault? Or is this suffering truly God's will?!"
Murmurs rippled. I seized the spark, hefting the heavy hammer at my feet.
"No mercy promised. Don't mistake me for a saint! I don't need charity cases. No bread, no lazy rest. Instead, share that boiling vengeance and crushed talent with us! Throw your lives into our furnace! If you can, I promise: I'll make you stand tall and proud in this world!"
I pointed to the unfinished furnace chimney.
"Bid farewell to ordinary lives! Envision the future your hammers forge! When smoke rises there, the iron you strike won't be housewives' knives or farmer's tools!"
I exhaled the breath I'd drawn for emotion, inhaled deeper, then bellowed louder.
"It'll pierce knights' hearts, topple walls, terrify the arrogant who chased and robbed you! Those who treated you like dogs will beg mercy under the steel you forge!"
To modern senses, cringey theater. But to those chained below humanity by status, becoming history's actors to overturn the world was dopamine stronger than religion.
"Great victories come from diligent workers' efforts and sacrifices, followed by others! So I ask: Bury nameless in desert sands? Or follow me as vanguard hammers leading history?!"
I slammed my waist hammer onto the platform. The soft wood boomed, kicking up sand.
"Choose! Kneel and live, or follow and be remembered!"
Silence shattered—not cheers, but beastly roars. Their eyes burned, no longer despairing, but mad longing and blind faith in me.
The man slammed his head to the ground.
"My life is yours! Give me that power... the chance!"
Dozens followed, kneeling like waves. March's mild breeze blew, but the heat rivaled the furnace.
I felt Zaid's stunned gaze at my fiery speech.
"Mr. Zaid, assign them to Rashid. And manage numbers tightly."
"Got it, Barakah. But... you're terrifying. Not just iron—you wield souls."
I turned wordlessly to the factory core, foundations set, rising higher.
Essentials in place. Materials arrived; only time to process remained.
But the world didn't yet know I was no longer alone.