2. Steel Holy Land, Damascus
"No way... fuuuck...! But still, why the hell do I have to suffer in a dump like this?!"
The instinctive "no" that slipped out naturally after my resolve, followed by the outburst of anger. It was a quintessentially Korean reaction, but I didn't have time to just vent. Instead of freezing up as the sandstorm carried away my futile cry, I needed to get my head in gear. My scream, slicing through the sand-laden wind, scattered pointlessly into the dry air.
After calming myself a second time, I panted as I scanned my surroundings. The piercing stares of passersby who were giving me a wide berth, looking at me like I was some lunatic, stabbed into me. If I caused any more of a scene here, the next place I'd be venting my rage would probably be a jail cell at the local guard post or police station.
The gritty sand still crunching in my mouth, the stench of animal dung and acrid smoke assaulting my nose. This was no finely crafted virtual reality.
'Calm down. Han Jinwoo. First, assess the situation.'
I pressed my trembling hand against the mud wall and slowly regulated my breathing. Fragments of the language and knowledge that the unidentified gallery had crammed into my head swirled in my mind. The types of languages forced into me, a brief deductive process about where this place was, contrasting with the surrounding buildings and terrain—it all gradually sharpened into focus.
The silhouette of the massive Anti-Lebanon Mountains on the horizon, no different from modern times, and a waterway flowing so abundantly it was hard to believe we were in the middle of a desert.
"...The Barada River."
That meant this was near Damascus. Having pinpointed the location, I now recalled the era. To infer it, I lowered my gaze and observed the people passing by on the street.
Amid merchants in splendid silk robes, I spotted Turkic mercenaries in crude leather armor, and with various races visible, the period had to be the early 12th century—factoring in the climate sealed it. The heart of the Islamic world, a thriving trade hub under constant threat from Crusader states. Historically, Damascus at this time was ruled by the Burid dynasty, alternately fighting the Crusaders or maintaining a precarious peace.
'Damascus steel's cradle, my ass. What a joke.'
That was my thought upon seeing the low-quality steel arming the locals, failing to live up to the fame of being the origin of the legendary Damascus steel. I knew well the myths and truths behind those famed "Damascus blades," but even so, the level of what ordinary soldiers in this inland village carried was pathetic.
Slag not fully removed in smelting left rough surfaces, uneven heat treatment resulting in chipped edges left as-is—plenty of them. Seeing such trash proudly displayed on market stalls made me sigh involuntarily.
This place was a crossroads where eastern Uts steel raw materials flowed in and Western forging techniques collided. And yet, just because it was the 12th century, this garbage circulated? Unacceptable.
I mentally reviewed the early 12th-century timeline. Mere decades after the First Crusade ended. The Kingdom of Jerusalem and Principality of Antioch had blades pointed right at our doorstep.
To survive, I needed to prove tech that earned its keep right away. Fortunately, I wasn't empty-handed. Though my home and equipment were gone, years running a die factory and personal forge had ingrained modern metallurgy in my head.
As I'd told that unidentified gallery, no thermometer? Judge by flame color. No electric furnace? Improve the hearth design. At least it wasn't the Stone Age; the 12th century was a small mercy.
'Not that I'm grateful...'
"Alright... let's do this."
I straightened my back again, fixing my gaze on the forge at the village edge, where smoke rose to an obviously superior level. That would be my first outpost to purify this era's barbaric tech.
(211.999)—that bastard's mocking laughter echoed in my ears, but it didn't matter anymore.
"You floating piece of shit... I'll definitely get back, reclaim my forge and house."
With cold resolve, I strode toward the forge, thick with the stench of rotten charcoal.
*****
The forge interior was even more dismal than it looked from outside, acrid smoke trapped swirling against the tent ceiling. The hammer strikes had no rhythm or pattern. It was less smelting than brutish coercion of the iron.
"...This isn't a forge; it's a crematorium."
Jinwoo's brow furrowed. The pungent sulfur stench stinging his nose proved they used charcoal, feasible even in Damascus.
Inside, a copper-skinned giant and a skinnier boy sweated before a glowing red ingot.
"What is it, traveler? If no business, get out. We're busy."
The giant owner, not even bothering to engage, growled while wiping sweat from his eyes.
But Jinwoo's gaze ignored the threat, locked solely on the ingot cooling on the anvil, shared with the smith.
As the man gripped the tongs tight and raised the hammer high, Jinwoo's icy voice cut the air.
"Hey, look. You really think hammering at that timing is right?"
Gripping his own forging hammer firmly, he halted mid-swing in the air, staring back.
"What?"
"Working without checking the flame color? And that ingot's clearly cooled too much—hit it more and it'll crack inside! Wanna blow it up and eat the loss?"
Interrupted, the smith's ugly mug twisted uglier. His voice rose naturally, slamming the workbench with a thud! as he approached—but not hurling the hammer proved his character.
"Don't know where you crawled from, you mad bastard, but who are you to wreck my workplace? I've hammered iron here 30 years, since my granddad's granddad! A whole village's lives saved by my strikes!"
"You survived not 'cause you made 'em well, but 'cause the enemy's gear was crap too—pure luck."
Ignoring the size difference, Jinwoo didn't budge an inch. His eyes gleamed with pride for the iron, not letting it become trash, leaving the smith flustered. In that gap, Jinwoo snatched the tongs and thick leather gloves from the bench.
He shoved the cooled ingot deep back into the charcoal hearth.
"If you can't tell how hot, open your damn eyes. You, kid! Pump the bellows till I say stop!"
Overwhelmed by Jinwoo's intensity, the boy started on the bellows—but his rhythm was off. Jinwoo clicked his tongue, shoved him aside, and took the handle himself.
Some lunatic barges in, picks a fight, swings their livelihood tools—what normal person wouldn't restrain him physically? Yet the smith and boy just watched silently.
The reason no force was used was no different from the mercenaries earlier. No upside to touching a crazy guy. And while they watched warily, they could see the visible process with their own eyes.
The bellows breathed rhythmically under Jinwoo's hands. Precise oxygen fed the dying flames, reviving them fiercely.
His left hand adjusted the iron with tongs, right hand controlled bellows tempo. Dull crimson flames sharpened to vivid orange-red, then clear yellow. At the core, faint blue flames flickered.
The best achievable with 12th-century tech and setup.
"...!"
The smith's eyes reflected the hearth's golden blaze. Even he, lifelong ironworker, rarely saw that beautiful flame, only glimpsed over fathers' and grandfathers' shoulders.
To a man who'd struck anvils over 30 years, it was pure destruction, creation, inspiration surging.
Jinwoo pulled the heated iron, placed it on the anvil. It glowed soft and supple, incomparable to before.
He raised the hammer.
Clang!—Clean, pure forging ring echoed in the shabby forge. In that first sound, the smith sensed his 30 years negated, yet a new chance laid before him.
The revived golden flames from Jinwoo's hands illuminated even the forge's dark corners.
The iron on the anvil shed its crumbly form, gleaming with living flexibility.
Jinwoo hammered without hesitation.
Clang!—Clang!—Steady rhythm, precise hits. Forging along the grain, expelling impurities, densifying—it was worlds apart from the 12th century's haphazard, oral traditions.
The smith's eyes twitched like spasms. Regret for lost time? Longing for new opportunity? Even he wasn't sure.
He heard his common sense crumbling in real time.
At proper temp, Jinwoo stopped, thrust the tongs with iron right under the smith's nose.
"Look at this. This is the shit iron you beat to death. Now does it look like iron?"
Dazed, the smith stared. Surface slag cleaned, dense metal grain alive.
"How... with just a few strikes..."
"No need thousands to clear big chunks. Right force, spot, timing—that's it. Skill matters, but method and care too. You felt it deep down, right? Beating this crap forever yields nothing good."
Jinwoo steadied his ragged breath. Inside, his heart pounded—he'd wrecked the place as a stranger; one hammer swing from the giant and he'd be done. Fortunately, awe outweighed anger in the man's eyes.
Relieved a bit, Jinwoo continued calmly.
"What's your name?"
"...Rashid."
"Good, Mr. Rashid. I'm homeless too—wanna team up? You give me board, share space; I teach hammering, better goods. Let's grow this forge proper."
Saying so, Jinwoo set the hot iron on hearth stone, surveyed inside. Creaky bellows from earlier, anvil concave from years, sulfur-heavy low-grade charcoal. As a pro, this setup infuriated him. No progress if you eat by this.
Rashid hesitated, but couldn't forget that blue flame. For him, self-taught over shoulders, alone it'd take lifetimes to reach.
"Don't know how you got here, but if I can recreate that flame, I'll help any way."
With consent, Jinwoo sighed in relief. Lodging and workspace secured. Next plans crystallized like milestones.
'Surviving's baseline. But first...'
Jinwoo muttered inwardly at the air—or that "floating bastard" who sent him.
'That fancy infra you boasted? I'll lay it myself. Up to 15th-century Bohemian level. See if you can deny my skill then.'
Condition to return to Earth: simple. If (211.999) that troll didn't lie, his satisfaction alone.
One way: Overwhelm this era with solid, fast fun.
Prelims needed.
'Normalize facilities first.'
Crude 12th-century bellows couldn't hold temp. Leaky hearth lost heat. Before Historical Accuracy Demon, survival meant fixing for breadwinning.
"Mr. Rashid, let's start first job. Grab mud, straw, good wood planks now."
"For what?"
Jinwoo wiped sweat, faint smile.
"Forge gotta look like one for good work, mercenaries trek here. Overhaul this kitchen-stove crap first. Then you, me, kid suffer less, make proper stuff."
Jinwoo's eyes went to the boy in hearth corner, wide-eyed staring.
Pushed aside earlier by Jinwoo's aura, yet he gawked at every strike, fear mixed awe.
Rashid cleared throat, tapped boy's shoulder.
"Hey, Hasim! Don't space out—fetch what the master said. Straw from next-door stable, planks from last trade leftovers."
"Y-yes! Father! No, Master!"
Seeing Hasim mix titles in panic, Rashid smiled bitterly. From brief call, Jinwoo guessed: not mere errand boy, but son and apprentice to inherit trade.
Eyeing Hasim's retreating back, Rashid murmured low.
"My poor skills always bugged me—not teaching him proper. Seeing your flame... if my son learns that, I'd kneel."
Gruff medieval smith's heartfelt paternal love.
Jinwoo felt his stay here more solid—not just renting space, tied to desperate futures.
"To teach proper, need teachable setup first. Hasim! Hurry up!"
At Jinwoo's shout, Hasim gathering afar yelled "Yes, sir!" briskly.
Boy's voice held thrill for unknown tech over prior fear.
Hot desert wind blew, but Jinwoo's eyes burned clearer than hearth embers.