4. A Word Without Feet Travels a Thousand Miles
"Hey, Rashid! You got those plow blades I ordered ready?"
A voice thick with sweat drifted in as the canopy at the forge entrance was pushed aside. The middle-aged man looked more at home with dirt than weapons—he was a farmer from the neighboring village here to pick up the tools he'd commissioned yesterday.
Normally, he'd have haggled over the price and taken the lump of metal Rashid handed him without a second glance. But today, his steps halted naturally in front of the workbench.
"...Rashid, did you make this sword?"
The man's gaze locked onto the straight sword I'd just set down. Bathed in the morning sun, the blade gleamed with a silvery clarity so pure it was almost transparent. Amid the rack of rough weapons, it exuded an otherworldly pressure, as if it existed in a different era altogether.
Even a humble farmer here for plow blades could sense it instinctively. This wasn't the kind of sword he knew. Touch it wrong, and your finger would be sliced clean off.
But Rashid just shook his head silently.
"Rashid, since when could you afford to buy a sword like this?"
Forgetting all about his plow blades, the man drifted toward it like a moth to flame. Rashid cleared his throat and pointed at me.
"Not me. The master over there made it."
The man's awestruck eyes turned to me. He wasn't a mercenary buying arms or a knight seeking glory, but coming from a farmer who'd spent his life wielding tools of iron, his admiration rang truer than any flowery praise.
"Never seen anything like it... I've eyed countless blades hawked in the Souk Wadi Barada, but this is a first."
As he gathered his plow blades and left, he kept glancing back, tongue clicking in wonder. The moment he vanished into the market bustle, coppersmiths from next door and mule drivers passing by started peeking into the forge.
Rumors spread faster than the scorching 12th-century winds.
I gripped my heavy hammer tighter, savoring the growing stares and murmurs at my back. The word without feet was already off and running. To handle the ripple effects, I'd need to forge even more masterpieces.
My back was burning. The folks in Souk Wadi Barada were a curious bunch. Or rather, the unnatural heat pouring from Rashid's forge—the one they'd mocked as a junkyard till yesterday—and the razor-sharp gleam of the blades I'd honed were stirring their instincts.
I ignored the stares and glared at the iron lump on the anvil. Fame doesn't come free. To greet the real customers the rumors would draw, I needed more stock on hand.
"Um, master."
Rashid approached cautiously. The guy who'd been puffing up like a clown showing off to that farmer earlier this morning.
"Calling me 'master' is a bit much. Gives me the chills."
"Then what should I call you? I caught a glimpse earlier, but your name... frankly, it's too tricky. My tongue ties itself in knots."
Fair enough. To 12th-century Levantines, "Han Jinwoo" might as well be alien gibberish. Even Rashid, and Hasim hauling whetstones beside him, mumbled it like "Jinu" or "Hajinu."
To put down roots here and overhaul the infrastructure, I needed a name that rolled off their tongues.
I set the hammer down and pondered.
Han Jinwoo. 'Live blessed with true fortune,' you said...
Even when I was covered in soot as a blacksmith, my perceptive dad—always worrying—emphasized the "blessing" in my name, saying techs like me would get respect someday. Of course, his hopes for my big break rang hollow in modern times; blacksmithing wasn't exactly booming. I'd long figured his dreams had gone bankrupt.
But here I was, dropped into the 12th century, handling crude pig iron in a barbaric age, earning respect as a skilled craftsman. Ironic.
"My clan name is 'Han.' It encompasses my people. In your tongue, they call us Silla."
"Silla? Oh, that mystical land far east where gold flows like rivers? I've heard tales from caravaneers."
12th-century Middle Eastern merchants saw Goryeo as Silla's successor or still just called it Silla. But that wasn't the point now. No need to dive into tangled history.
"And my given name... it means something like Barakah in your language. My parents wished true blessings on me."
"Barakah? 'God's blessing'?"
"Exactly. True fortune. So use that instead of mangling my real name."
Rashid slapped his knee.
"Barakah of Silla! Barakah al-Silla! What finer, more auspicious name could there be?"
"Yeah! Way better ring than some common Yahya. Barakah master!"
Hasim, lugging whetstones, chimed in excitedly.
Blessed blacksmith of Silla. It had a legendary flair, but given I had to prove myself to skeptical locals, the grandeur suited me fine.
"Barakah... not bad. Blessing or whatever, as long as it brings coin to this forge."
I hefted the hammer again. Barakah al-Silla. In Souk Wadi Barada, Han Jinwoo was buried in my heart, and the blacksmith from the East was born.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
They say names hold power. With mine set, I swung freer, easier. Even amid the forge's searing red-hot glow, I breathed steady. My arm, striking iron, tingled not with fatigue but thrill, infusing new life into the metal.
Of course, a new name and spirited hammering didn't spit out gear like magic. But one thing had changed: infused with vigor, the forge ran hotter than a battlefield.
I didn't just teach brute hammering. To Rashid, material selection and heat-treat timing by carbon content. To Hasim, polishing sequence and angles by grit. My modern-honed fingertips and head full of knowledge—the artistry of precision—were being passed on.
"Hasim, I said relax your shoulders when whetstoning. That's not polishing; that's grinding it away. You wanna waste all that hammering? Push steady till the grain shows."
"Yes, Master Barakah!"
Hasim's palms were blistering, bursting, callusing over. Yet the boy sparkled through the toil. Each time his blade caught the sun in a deadly sheen, he beamed—like he'd joined some magical rite.
Three days passed like that.
With enough stock piled, Souk folk started calling the forge not "Al Hadid" but "Barakah." Peekers drawn by curiosity now nodded past to the rhythm of our clear, steady forge-song. Thanks to that first farmer's tall tale spreading right.
"Barakah, that's six already. Enough to arm a decent mercenary squad."
In three days, we'd produced six Mi'yar Swords including the first. The old man marveled at each finish. First at the quality in such time, then same quality faster still. Now he just accepted it, surprise worn thin.
"Still a ways to go. Local charcoal won't hold even with bone meal. Next time, coal... nah, too soon."
The Historical Accuracy Demon in me craved coal smelting, but we were building foundations. Sand-swept Levant to distant China? Absurd.
Instead, I slumped on the forge bench, gulping cool water Hasim offered to shake off days of fatigue.
"Rumors sure spread fast. Yesterday the village head down the valley asked if I'd make a dagger for his son."
"You turned him down?"
"Of course. Like you said: 'We don't make just any blade.'"
My marketing ploy. Scarcity. Even top quality loses value if everyone's got one. We weren't some run-of-the-mill Souk Wadi Barada forge anymore. We were building mystique: home of the enigmatic artisan from Silla, blessed by God, crafting legendary blades.
On the seventh day, change arrived.
The market din hushed. Heavy boots crunched earth, well-oiled chainmail clinking to a stop at our entrance. Not some rumor-chasing gawker or freelance sellsword.
I set the hammer down and looked up.
Beyond the canopy: dust-caked cloak over faintly gleaming chainmail, chest emblazoned with a familiar emblem.
"This the place? Where the Silla smith quenches in water and boxes the wind."
His voice carried undeniable authority—and the chill of one who'd trod countless battlefields.
Rashid's eyes flicked instinctively; Hasim froze, whetstone in hand.
I rose slowly, slinging my sweat-soaked towel over my shoulder. A week-honed Mi'yar Swords gleamed on the bench, awaiting their owner.
Here we go. The real customer.
I grinned crookedly and spoke.
"Welcome. Looking for something?"
At last, the true buyer arrived—reeking of gold and blood alike.