The Blacksmith's Hammer
Clang! Clang! Kaang!
The moment Elsid reached the blacksmith shop atop the hill, the steady thunder of hammering rang out from the doorway.
“Hoo… it’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of honest labor.”
Letting go of the cart handles, Elsid exhaled deeply. He had never neglected his daily training, so the climb hadn’t been difficult, but a light sheen of sweat was unavoidable.
With a creak, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Glancing around, he spotted a middle-aged man with a thick beard hammering away in focused silence at the heart of the forge.
As Elsid drew closer, the man spoke without turning.
“Ugh, another job? I swear I never get a break. Whoever you are, just dump your scrap anywhere and leave!”
“Uncle Tom, that stubborn tongue of yours is exactly the same as always.”
“What! Who the hell are you calling stub—”
Elsid’s light retort finally made the man stop hammering. He turned, revealing powerful forearms corded with thick veins and a pair of piercing eyes.
“You… Sid? Elsid?!”
His face flickered between shock and disbelief.
“Yes. I’ve come back to my hometown after a long time.”
Elsid smiled at the man whose face remained unchanged from years ago.
“If you’re busy, want some help?”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I asked Beth to send me a pair of hands quickly, and he delivers a first-class worker instead.”
Tom didn’t bother refusing the offer.
“Hey, you ready?”
“I said it myself, but you really don’t hesitate at all.”
Even as he spoke, Elsid had already rolled up his sleeves, prepared to work.
“What should I start with?”
“Move everything from that cart over here first. Then take the finished goods to the display rack outside.”
Tom pointed at the neatly maintained items and issued his orders.
“Just leave it to me, Uncle Tom.”
The instant he received the instructions, Elsid sprang into motion. He carried every rusted or worn piece of equipment inside, then arranged the products Tom had poured his blood and sweat into on the outdoor stall.
Hauling steel without pause left his muscles pleasantly tight—a different feeling from swinging a sword.
“You’ve gotten faster,” Tom remarked, watching Elsid finish moving everything in under thirty minutes.
“Of course. When it comes to brute strength, I’m the best in the village.”
Elsid flexed both arms, proudly showing off his biceps.
“Unbelievable. One little compliment and you get cocky… We’re not done yet.”
“I know. Next is removing rust from the weapons, right?”
“If you already know, then get to it. I’ve already sorted the ones with less rust. Grind them all until they’re spotless.”
“Yes, yes.”
Following Tom’s directions, Elsid gathered the rusted weapons and moved to a corner of the forge. Just as he remembered, the rust-removal tools were there.
A large circular whetstone that spun when the pedal was pressed sat waiting. With a high-pitched whine, Elsid began stripping rust from the equipment bit by bit. Under his hands, one piece after another was reborn as usable tools.
For several hours the forge remained silent except for the ringing of Tom’s hammer and the steady rasp of Elsid’s whetstone.
“Hoo…”
The sounds finally broke when Tom paused his hammering to catch his breath. Turning around, he looked mildly surprised. Elsid was still completely focused on sharpening blades, unaware the hammering had stopped.
“I thought you’d forgotten how to maintain weapons after leaving this place, but you still handle them well.”
Tom approached and examined the weapons Elsid had finished, offering rare praise.
“Of course. Who do you think taught me?”
He had learned bits and pieces while studying swordsmanship under his grandfather, and from the man before him he had learned weapon maintenance until he was sick of it. There was no way he could forget. Still…
“What about these?”
That was the problem.
“All these armors have rust on the inside. Just grinding the metal won’t be enough.”
Elsid was nearly clueless when it came to anything beyond weapons—like the armor he now held.
“Haa… I figured as much. I taught you this before. How many times did I tell you to wipe it down with phosphoric acid?”
“Phosphoric acid?”
“Yes. Catch.”
With a quick flick of his wrist, Tom tossed something over. A pair of thick brown gloves.
“Wear those whenever you use phosphoric acid. Unless you don’t mind ruining your skin, of course.”
“After hearing that, there’s no way I wouldn’t wear them.”
Elsid slipped the gloves on immediately and began removing rust from the armor using the glass bottle of acid and a cloth. By the time he had stripped every last piece of the dozens of old armors…
“Ugh…”
He stretched, working the stiffness from his body.
“Good work. I’ll be counting on you again tomorrow.”
“Eh? Tomorrow too?”
Elsid’s face clouded with obvious annoyance.
“I’m not going to use you for free. Don’t make that face. Help me for a while and I’ll give you something good.”
“Fine. See you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah.”
The next day.
“So how long are you planning to stay here?”
“For the time being.”
From the crack of dawn, Elsid had been chatting with his friend Beth—the village chief—who was already standing guard duty.
“What’s with that half-assed answer?”
“I haven’t decided anything yet. For now I’ll just help Uncle Tom and enjoy some peace and quiet.”
“Peace and quiet… you? Even a spoiled noble brat passing through would be calmer than you.”
Beth’s harsh words stung, but what frustrated Elsid more was that he couldn’t exactly deny them. This guy knew full well that his old nickname in the village had been “walking disaster.”
To be clear, Elsid had never once caused an incident himself. He simply had a talent for getting dragged into them.
“Sigh, I’m leaving.”
“Sure. Let’s grab a drink later.”
“Only if you’re buying.”
Any more conversation and he’d only hear worse, so Elsid ended the exchange with a light wave and headed for the forge.
“You’re late.”
“I was talking with Beth for a bit.”
Tom was already at work, hammering the finishing touches on a single blade. The scolding for tardiness was simply part of the package.
“Today you’ll be fixing these.”
Tom showed him a pile of bent weapons.
“Hey, aren’t you working me a little too hard, Uncle Tom?”
“Shut up. I’m not using you for free, so put your back into it.”
Without needing further explanation, Elsid understood what to do from past experience. He took the bent weapons, sat down at the spare forge beside Tom’s, and began.
“Let’s see what I can do.”
Despite his confident words, he was no blacksmith. Repairing weapons as skillfully as a man who had hammered for decades was impossible. Knowing his limits, Elsid first watched Tom work beside him, then slowly began copying the motions.
It took nearly an hour to repair one sword to a passable standard. But…
The crack is still there. The temper is weak too…
It only looked decent on the surface. Close inspection revealed countless flaws. Elsid raised his hammer again. If skill was lacking, he would make up for it with time and effort—the most obvious solution. He hammered with greater focus and force until the cracks vanished and the blade took on a respectable finish.
“Finally done? You really are slow,” Tom muttered once Elsid finished the first sword.
“I agree. Still, I’m not a blacksmith, so I’d call that decent.”
“If you know that, stop talking and keep hammering! There are still plenty left.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Answer once!”
“Yes!”
At Tom’s bark, Elsid lifted the hammer again, heating weapons in the furnace and striking them into shape. After finishing a large batch and finally taking a breather, Tom—who had finished tidying the forge—walked over.
“As expected from a swordsman. Your hammering lacks refinement, but it’s bold and powerful. Good work.”
“It’s nothing. You’ve been doing this for decades, Uncle.”
For a moment Elsid genuinely marveled at how blacksmiths could do this every single day.
Yet Tom said nothing in reply. He simply stood there, staring. Then he walked toward the back of the forge.
About five minutes later he returned carrying a single arming sword.
“Here. Payment for your labor. It should fit your hand perfectly.”
“Payment?”
Elsid accepted the sword. The moment he gripped it, he felt its quality.
“It’s a fine blade. Good balance, sharp edge, and it doesn’t feel like it would break easily.”
“As expected of a swordsman—you have a good eye.”
“Did you make this, Uncle?”
“It’s a piece my son made long ago.”
“Wait… Vandel?”
Elsid’s face twisted at the name. The boy he had come to know through his grandfather’s friendship with Tom. Tom’s son and Elsid’s peer—Vandel. This sword had been forged by him.
“Why is it that you don’t make that face for anyone else, but the moment my son’s name comes up you look like you’ve stepped in filth?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like him.”
He wasn’t sure what expression he was making, but he doubted it was pleasant.
“Good grief. A rivalry that bad is practically a disease.”
Tom shook his head with a sigh.
Only then did Elsid realize he hadn’t once wondered why Vandel—who should have been helping his father—was nowhere to be seen. Since the name had come up, courtesy demanded he ask.
“Where is Vandel, anyway?”
He asked without a shred of real interest, expecting the answer to be that the boy had gone off on some errand.
“…See you tomorrow. Lock up for me.”
Instead of answering, Tom simply left those words and strode out of the forge ahead of him, even asking Elsid to lock up in his place.
The strange behavior lingered in Elsid’s mind, but he didn’t chase after him.
Well, if I keep working here I’ll probably hear about it eventually.
There had to be a reason Tom avoided talking about his son. And knowing Vandel, the guy was probably living well wherever he was. There was no need to worry.
Let’s just swing the new sword.
With that simple thought, Elsid left the forge, the newly received blade resting comfortably at his side.