28. The Rising Sun (2)
A week had passed since returning from the oasis. The industrial complex's morning buzzed with more energy than ever. Thanks to that sweet-as-honey rest, every artisan, craftsman, and apprentice was cranking out work at insane efficiency levels.
The trap to smash Justus was already set via Jamal. Everything was perfect and smooth sailing.
Until that peace lasted less than a fortnight—until Kalim picked up a piece of steel and brought it to me.
"Master, could you take a look at this?"
Up until Kalim tonged that ingot over, the forge had been alive with heated work amid a happy vibe. But reality has this law: if one thing goes smooth, another goes straight to hell. His question dragged in yet another mess.
I grabbed an inspection hammer instead of answering.
—Kiiing... A faint noise. An unpleasant vibration hummed through the ingot—one only sharp ears would catch.
I struck it slowly once more.
—Pooeok... Heads turned at the second hit. Clang, clang. As the hammering dragged on, a heavy silence blanketed the noisy complex like poured ice water. Eyes from focused artisans locked onto me. The mood soured in an instant, crawling up my skin.
Pinpointing the culprit was easier than breathing. With tech and cash flowing freely, veteran artisans and craftsmen had zero reason to betray. Long-time apprentices rotated under different masters for hands-on work—if they'd pulled tricks, we'd have caught it ages ago.
Process of elimination left one option.
"You, the punk rolling his eyes in the alloying section."
The apprentice who'd rolled in from the Damascus guild recently. His shoulders twitched at my call. He'd basically advertised himself as a spy.
"I taught you to check with the foreman if shit goes wrong. Care to explain yourself?"
The kid dodged eyes, mumbling some bullshit about apprentices making mistakes. But does that fly? Alloying involves meticulous checks—weigh ore on scales before dumping into the crucible. No way this slips unless deliberate.
Two possibilities: the idiot knew and ignored it, or some punk did it on purpose. Either way, sabotage.
Apprentices are human; mistakes happen. But this level? He'd have been booted from apprenticeship long ago. So, blatant intent.
I regripped the hammer, nodded at Kalim to set the ingot on the anvil. Then raised it high.
The head arced down, smashing the center—where good steel should ring clang.
—Kwang!
Proper alloy would've had springy elasticity, bouncing my hammer. This shattered into powder, splitting to expose the guts.
Craftsmen's eyes turned murderous—enough to kill with a glare. The core hadn't even melted right; half-melted impurities clumped in a mess.
These folks lived by steel pride. How else would they take it? Lucky no hammer flew my way.
I set the hammer on the anvil, stared down the perp.
"See? Steel doesn't lie. Way more honest than people."
My cold gaze met his—like he stared at a monster.
That rude look made me want to kick him, but I summed it up.
"Real pros make gold from shit steel. You turn good steel to trash, you trash. Someone drag this punk out!"
Apprentices rushed, grabbed his shoulders and arms, hauled him off.
That was it. Guards would handle the rest. Micromanaging punks kills productivity.
Occasional weeding annoyed me, but it tightened discipline—silver lining.
I turned to Kalim, who'd flagged the issue.
"Kalim, good catch. Hey, got a proposal."
Time to forge the ultimate weapon against Justus. He fit perfectly as my toolkit.
"Gonna forge a weapon from scratch—starting with steelmaking. If you're up for it, assist."
Kalim beamed. He'd guessed the target from me forging personally.
"Yes...! Let me help, Master!"
Okay, complex lord saves a house-elf.
After that, I dumped ops on Rashid père et fils, holing up in the secret workshop with promising Kalim and a few artisans.
Goal: one weapon for showman-style neck-snapping on that arrogant prick Justus.
Modern steel knowledge plus top local materials—Indian wootz steel dumped in heaps. Days flew pulling every usable metallurgy trick from my mental database.
"Different texture from classic Damascus steel... what's the diff?"
A sharp-eyed artisan asked. But lengthy lectures? Boring and pretentious. No mass-prod plans anyway—too low ROI for them.
I shrugged it off.
"Just watch quietly. If Master doesn't explain, there's a reason."
Nodded inwardly at Kalim's smooth social game, tonged the glowing ingot onto the anvil.
Clang! Clang! Clang! Layer steel, twist, hammer flat. A chunky steel block took shape.
No slacking. Forging, etching ahead—long road. Back to the fire pit.
White-hot flames melted it down. Slow air-cool the molten, grind off slag. Furnace again.
Lukewarm red won't cut it. Watched obsessively for perfect forging crimson.
Hours in, compression time. Key for dense, pore-free matrix.
Tung—! Tung—! Light taps, rotate 90 degrees, pound even. Furnace, hammer—repeat. Peeled black oxide scales midway.
That grind ended: no medieval lump, but sleek modern bar.
Ultimate steel force-fitted into this backward era. But just raw material. Real forging now.
Shove bar in furnace, hammer annealing/normalizing.
Clang—! Clang—! Crisper ring. Drew it to 70cm, sized thickness/width, angled the edge.
Fierce pattern crawled from the hot tip.
Not done. No plain straight sword.
Thinned one face to triangle cross-section, curved gracefully. Joseon ring sword—hwando.
"First time seeing Master make a sword..."
"Me too. Never except for miyar... what's the wind blowing?"
Normalized, annealed, whetstone shaping. Now highlights: differential hardening.
Clay on back thick, quench in boiling brine.
Chiiik—! Blade/back hardness differential. Polished hamon, to ferric chloride etch.
Three-minute mental timer. Pulled at intervals—grin spread at the pattern.
Neutralized in baking soda water. Graceful but hazy blade.
Grabbed coarse sandpaper like hearty soup, polished. Hazy crap gone; shine revealed vivid waves bouncing forge light.
Olive oil finish.
"......"
Perfection. Weapon to yeet that prick knight to oblivion.
"Farah. Good name—pure joy, fits perfect."
Artisans gawked, awed beyond their Damascus blades. Showed the unfamiliar—scimitar-like to them—sword.
"Traditional do from my homeland. Materials differ, but crushes that punk's schemes."
"Baraka! Pulled another all-nighter?"
A woman's shout drowned me, filling the clangorous shop with familiar, fragrant presence. Miriam with a basket, sighing deep.
"Said I'd force a picnic if you don't rest proper? Planning that bushy mess till the big day?"
She nagged, but dabbed my forehead sweat tenderly with a handkerchief. Her arrival vitalized the grim man-cave forge.
"Ugh... nagging on arrival? Relax, wrapped early for once. What day is it?"
"Sigh, can't even track dates... September 27th."
She set food down.
"Fortnight away—don't forget? Oh, and city rumors: that fancy knight's stirring our artisans on some bullshit. Hoarding gold like mad."
I burst laughing. Gold inlay on flawed trash armor? Art-level idiocy.
"Music to my ears. Wasting cash and time on junk."
Quick meal, grabbed finished Farah—handle, all trims done. Living black wootz waves on blade.
Test swing: bent hugely like snapping—released, chaeng—! crisp snap back straight, no deviation.
Era-shattering elasticity and strength. Smiles and gasps barely peaked—
Then.
"By order of the lawful leader, the Malik!"
Herald's boom outside hit eardrums.
"Master, Malik's herald! Come out for the decree!"
Kalim burst in—I kicked open the heavy door.
"Malik" froze hammers; artisans parted like Red Sea.
"Back to work, folks. No biggie."
The stalwart herald with Duqaq's seal unrolled parchment before me. Boomed for the whole complex.
Stood before the natural-voiced guy—he bellowed undiminished.
"After the first Sabbath of October's first week! Military review at Damascus Grand Square! Baraka, supplier of arms, invited as honored guest—ascend to the citadel early that day!"
Here it comes. Same timing for that thick-skulled knight across the river.
I tossed dirham silvers from my pouch.
"Long ride—thanks. Tell the Malik: it'll exceed expectations."
Herald startled at the fat tip and my swagger, nodded solemnly, left.
Watching dust trail, I smirked viciously.
Vision of Justus, victory-drunk, jeweling his trash armor.
"Ten days left."
Sreung—. Slid fresh Farah's cool blade into matching sheath.
"Perfect timing to send that fool—who wasted away on bullshit—straight to hell in comfort."