Chapter 96
Chapter 96
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 96
Chapter Title: The Mad Forger
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Taang-tang.
The rhythmic clang of hammers echoed through the air. The sword blade on the anvil glowed red-hot, and the bellows fanned the forge flames with even greater intensity.
Kaaang-!
With each strike of the hammer, tiny impurities vanished as sparks.
The glowing red blade was plunged into a water trough, bubbling and boiling furiously.
But what set this smithy apart from others was this:
“Lord, have mercy.”
The smiths were chanting the Church’s holy scripture and offering prayers.
This was the smithy of the Church’s Master Forgers.
Helena, wrapped head to toe in her cloak against the scorching heat that could blister skin, stood beside one of the Master Forgers as he hammered away.
“How is it?”
“It’s fine. It’ll hold up for a thousand years, no problems. You’ve taken good care of it.”
“Of course. It’s as precious as my own life. No other issues, right?”
“None. Paladins are always so fussy—it never gets old. Who’d make something flawed? This is my masterpiece. It’s perfect, so don’t worry.”
Two swords of differing appearances.
Yet together, they were renowned as a matched set: Snake and Shadow.
Helena’s twin blades, Yukrin.
“You know Yukrin ranks among the top five masterpieces I’ve ever forged.”
He was the most influential among the Church’s Master Forgers.
The leader of the Master Forgers.
Gregory.
The wrinkles hinting at his years, along with his snow-white beard and hair, marked him as an old man, but his massive build and bulging arm muscles proclaimed he was still very much active.
“The number and quality of the carcass souls in your Yukrin wouldn’t cause issues like this. Don’t worry.”
Gregory’s work was complete.
Helena received Yukrin back with care, shrugging her shoulders as she replied.
“Paladins, right? When your sword and soul are bound, if the sword’s hurt, you feel it too.”
Paladins who underwent sword bonding, mingling part of their soul with the blade, were all like that.
Only with a sword they’d chosen as their lifelong companion would they perform the bonding, offering everything they had.
If the sword was damaged, so were they.
That was the soul’s binding.
“Helena.”
“Yes?”
Helena’s lips curved upward in satisfaction as she caressed the spotlessly polished Yukrin.
She usually handled carcass maintenance herself, but Helena always came to the Church smithy to ask him instead.
Because Gregory was the very maker of the twin blades Yukrin.
“Do you know Gide’s whereabouts?”
“Gide? Master Forger Gide?”
“Yes.”
“I heard he died. For committing the taboo of throwing a living human into the furnace, right?”
“...Yes.”
Gregory’s gruff face grew even gruffer.
Helena’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s alive.”
Everyone in the Church desired swords infused with the finest, strongest essence to offer to the god.
They believed only a sword pleasing to the god would grant them true rest in its embrace.
“Do you know what Master Forgers dream of?”
“Forging higher-grade swords?”
“Yes. We can’t turn humans into ore like the dwarves and craft anything, but we have our own history and depth.”
Master Forgers forged swords differently from ordinary pilgrims.
It began with creating more efficient carcasses.
“Even if you make a carcass from a roadside beggar or a haughty noble reaching for the heavens, it’s still just a carcass. So how are higher-grade swords made? By what principle?”
“What is it?”
“Pride. It’s the presence or absence of pride. And what is pride? It’s something you defend even unto death, or something you can cast aside before a small life.”
That was pride.
“Thus, the Church’s members assign grades to the dead based on their lifetime character and reputation before bringing the bodies to the smithy.”
Gregory pulled out an ingot gleaming with a subtle luster and showed it to her.
“Without a proper carcass ritual, the dead body becomes neither sword nor flesh. We burn and hammer it into an ingot.”
Reforging that ingot into a sword and completing the ritual turns it into a perfect carcass—that was a Master Forger’s work.
“Your Yukrin was made this way too.”
“I know. You barely managed it by mixing several high-grade ingots.”
“Yes.”
“But what does that have to do with Gide...”
“Swords made by the Church’s Master Forgers aren’t efficient, honestly. Mixing multiple ingots does raise the odds of a high grade, but it also increases the risk of collapse.”
Thus, completion rates were 20 to 30 percent.
With high-grade ingots, less than 10 percent.
A near-abysmal success rate.
“We thought it was due to soul leakage and destruction. But there was no fixing it. To create swords of higher caliber, we accepted the risk.”
However.
“One man thought differently.”
“To prevent soul leakage... Gide boiled humans alive.”
“Yes.”
To forge holy swords for the god, he broke the Church’s strict taboo.
“And that wasn’t all.”
“What else did he do?”
“He burned living humans in fire. Drowned them. Buried them alive. Killed people in every way imaginable to turn them into swords. Experiments. Testing how the manner of death in life affected the carcass.”
“Hmm...”
Just hearing it was horrifying—a utter madman.
It was no different from testing the rumor that burning a human alive yielded a fire-wielding sword.
Drowning and live burial were the same.
Things anyone might think of, but no one acted on—except Gide, who tested them all.
Helena felt goosebumps rising on her arms as she listened.
“The exact number is unknown, but it was no small amount. Not enough for him, so he even tampered with magic beasts. His sins are beyond repentance.”
He should have died for it.
“But his talent was valued highly.”
“By whom?”
“I only heard it was some noble. A high-ranking one, no doubt.”
“...He was spared.”
“I’m afraid. But also curious. Damn occupational disease.”
Gregory shook his head and let out a deep sigh.
Helena recalled that Gide had originally been Gregory’s disciple and waited silently for him to continue.
“Helena. Find Gide for me. And if possible...”
Before more sacrifices occurred.
“End his delusion.”
* * *
A dark night.
A night when black clouds veiled half the moon.
Kallias found the smithy marked with a half-moon emblem.
“Who goes there!”
It was a patrolling soldier.
Kallias stated his identity and cleared the misunderstanding.
“Sorry, sir. Lately, soldiers and knights keep going missing. Even the Count says to stay in quarters at night unless it’s urgent.”
“Why is that?”
“Rumors say ghosts are luring knights away.”
“You believe such nonsense?”
“Haha, no, but with so many vanishings... Anyway, be careful!”
Missing persons cases.
Kallias felt an uneasy twinge about the incident, clearly none of his business.
‘What is it?’
The thought teased at the edge of his mind, foggy like mist.
After pondering awhile, Kallias decided to focus on the task at hand.
He slipped past the soldiers unnoticed and reached the smithy.
He had to go through this trouble because the note specifically said not to let anyone else know.
Kkiiik.
Opening the door of the shabby smithy revealed a large forge inside.
Iron tools and assorted smithing gear abounded.
Tongs and anvil.
Swords lined up on the display rack.
And a young man, hands stained with grime, caressing a hammer.
Trala de Valentin.
Basking in the small firelight, his back to the moonlight, he welcomed Kallias.
“I dream of becoming a smith.”
An abrupt opener.
“Is that why you summoned me?”
This boy would grow to represent the Church as a Master Forger?
Kallias stared piercingly at Trala, newly intrigued.
The kid looked so scrawny—could he even lift a hammer?
It was amazing to think such a one would become a craftsman. Staring made Trala’s face flush.
“Milord Count, forgive me, but I don’t like men.”
“...What?”
Kallias’s face twisted.
But Trala’s nonsense continued.
“Though you smell nice and have such a handsome face, instinct is instinct...”
“Shut up. Say one more word, and I’ll cut out that clever tongue first.”
“...Sorry.”
Trala bowed his head deeply.
“Tell me why you called me.”
“You just said you’d rip out my tongue if I said more...”
If not for his noble restraint, curses would have flown.
“Speak. Why did you call me?”
“...As I said earlier, I dream of becoming a smith. But unfortunately, I must inherit the title. When Father steps down, I’ll become Count.”
So what? That seemed fine.
Surely he hadn’t dragged Kallias out in secret for the night over something so trivial.
“Get to the point. I won’t waste time on your rambling.”
“Yes, sorry. Simply put: please kill Count Valentin.”
“...”
Too direct.
“Why?”
“Because I want to become a Master Forger. Oh, if possible, could I touch your sword, milord?”
“...”
Did he lack even basic tact?
Dark circles blackened his eyes, his face pale and sickly—he looked unwell.
“You should organize your thoughts before speaking. Think twice. It’s a mess.”
“Sorry. I’m just too excited right now... Hoo.”
After deep breaths, Trala spoke calmly again.
“I want to become a smith.”
No real improvement.
Kallias resigned to puzzle it out himself.
“Why?”
“I have no talent for swordsmanship. But I love swords. That’s the reason, and second, I have talent.”
“Amusing fellow.”
He’d never seen someone declare their talent with such confidence.
A smith.
Of course they existed in this world too.
Even if pilgrims borrowed dead flesh and souls from the god to make swords, they couldn’t forge everything.
Farming needed tools, logging needed axes.
Construction needed implements, and those required smithies and smiths.
“For a noble’s son to take interest—how do you know you have talent?”
“Since I first perceived the world around me, distinguishing people from objects...”
“Shorten it.”
“I can sense souls. That’s the talent that makes me destined for smithing.”
‘A spirit medium’s gift?’
That would indeed lend credence to smithing talent.
More precisely.
“You want to become a Master Forger.”
“Yes!”
But still unclear.
“So what does that have to do with Count Valentin?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell it.”
“Do you know Master Forger Gide? As Heretic Inquisitor Captain, you might.”
The mad forger, Gide.
He knew.
“Why is that lunatic’s name on your lips?”
“Master Forger Gide is my teacher.”
“...”
“Teacher colluded with my father to throw a hundred knights alive into the furnace. To make swords for the god.”
A hundred knights.
Thrown alive into the furnace to forge swords.
Kallias swallowed hard upon hearing Trala’s tale.
“Why the face?”
“...No. So it was here.”
“Pardon?”
Shadows fell over Kallias’s features.
Not rage at the heaven-defying act, but deep regret.
Seeing that, Trala could only tilt his head.
But Kallias quickly composed himself and lifted his gaze.
“Where? Where is Gide? I must go now.”
With only a cloak over his shoulders.
Yet Kallias couldn’t shake the heavy weight pressing on his entire body.