The Proxy Knight Who Wants a New Weapon (2)
Before a colossal furnace where the roar of the bellows never ceased, Borga, master of the greatest dwarf forge in the North, puffed on his pipe and looked over the guests standing before him.
A black knight whose face was bound tight in crudely torn cloth, and a woman warrior whose blue eyes shone sharp. It did not take him long to recognize the two figures at the center of every rumor scorching the North: Mumeong, and the dismissed inquisitor, Agnes.
But it was not their fame that seized Borga's gaze.
It was the mountain of spoils heaped behind the giant's back.
Good gods.
The bones of the Abyssal Drake Nergal. Silver scales. Fangs. They could not compare to a true dragon's, yet on any continent where human feet still walked, these were materials of legend.
As a dwarf craftsman, every drop of blood in his bones burned with the urge to hurl those materials into the furnace at once and hammer through the night without rest. A chance to forge the masterpiece of a lifetime.
But Borga squeezed his eyes shut and crushed the instinct rising in him. He was the chief blacksmith responsible for arming the entire Northern defense line.
"Sorry. I can't take your offer."
He forced the refusal out as if spitting blood.
The Black Knight froze, looking utterly blank.
"Why not?"
I pressed him, unable to understand it at all.
"Is it money? A few scales would cover that, wouldn't they? Or are you saying even dwarf craftsmanship doesn't have a forge hot enough to work these scales?"
"The materials, the capital, the skill—all of it is perfect."
The blacksmith called Borga resettled his pipe between his teeth with a bitter look.
"It's time I don't have. Or more precisely, this forge has no spare capacity."
"Capacity?"
"We're locked into an exclusive military supply contract for the North."
Borga pointed to the furnaces turning without pause and to the hundreds of craftsmen pouring sweat as they stamped out the same spears and shields again and again.
"I heard you killed the Abyssal Drake Nergal. A hell of an achievement. But do you know where you are? The harshest front line in the entire Empire. Nergal's death doesn't mean the threat is over. Who knows when the next predator will come hammering at the walls?"
His eyes were tired and absolute.
"We have to keep churning out the mass-produced arms the soldiers burn through. That's daily life in the North. To shape those bones and scales to your build and strength, my core craftsmen would have to lock themselves down for a full month."
"……"
"And the moment that happens, production of arms for the front line stops cold. We'd be in breach of contract with the Grand Duke, and a massive hole would open in the Northern defense line itself."
He wasn't wrong. I couldn't shut down a factory responsible for the entire defense line for a month just so one man could get custom gear. I understood. But I needed a weapon now, and the delay was eating me alive.
"And this month is an especially rotten mess."
Borga sighed and added with open resentment.
"We were short on arms as it was, so we'd signed a supply contract with the Marcello Merchant Guild in the capital to catch our breath. Then a few days ago, some mad bastard hit the supply wagons in transit and cleaned them out completely. The whole schedule blew apart!"
"…?"
"We've been scrambling to cover that shortfall. This workshop doesn't even have time to take a piss right now!"
Borga's complaint rang through the forge. I blinked.
…Huh?
A few days ago, the lunatic who had cleaned out the Marcello Merchant Guild's supplies at the 5th Fortress. The same madman who had lashed dozens of long spears together with rope, slung them on his back like a quiver, and bolted.
"What kind of heartless bastard would dare rob military supplies? No conscience at all."
I agreed with perfect calm and not a shred of guilt. Behind me, I felt Agnes silently press a hand to her forehead and hang her head. The very culprit who had forced the dwarves into this overwork—and thus into refusing my commission—was standing right in front of them, boldly demanding custom gear.
"You think we don't know that robbery was your doing?"
"…Ah."
I settled it with the guild and took those goods fair and square. Why am I getting treated like a bandit?
I slid my gaze aside and cleared my throat. Borga let out a short sigh.
"Forget it. One way or another, that brute-force stunt of yours is what brought Nergal down. I'll look the other way and call it payment for defending the Northern line."
"Haha… so that means forging my weapon is still absolutely out of the question?"
I asked urgently. Borga drove the nail in.
"A contract is absolute. The fire in these forges burns for the Grand Duke's army alone. Unless the ruler of the North, Grand Duke Baltazar himself, personally suspends the military supply contract, I couldn't work those materials even if you brought me the finest on the continent."
In the heat-blasted forge, the moment I heard Borga's answer, the equation in my head snapped cleanly into place.
So if I just get a stamp of approval from that old man they call the Grand Duke, it's a free pass?
With the method clear, there was no reason to rush. I nodded and turned away.
Then my eyes snagged on a scrap heap piled in the corner. Among the mass-produced gear meant for the soldiers, waiting to be discarded for failing inspection, sat one crude, cheap black-iron helm.
I dug a few silver coins from my pocket and tossed them to Borga.
"Call it a tip. I'm taking this."
I picked up the cheap helm dumped in the corner, tore away the cloth wrapping my face, and jammed the lump of metal down over my head.
Clank—!
My field of vision narrowed. The smell of raw iron stabbed my nose. The instant steel covered my bare face—
"Haa…"
I let out a long, easy breath of relief. Crude black iron without a single ornament. No shell could have suited the identity of Mumeong better.
You're ridiculously picky about the strangest things…
I felt Agnes's tongue-clicking stare, but that was her problem. The moment the helm settled, calm returned. I started toward the forge doors.
"Hey! What about these spoils? You're just leaving them?"
Borga shouted, pointing at Nergal's bones and scales still strewn across the floor. Without looking back, I waved a hand.
"Leaving them here. Old man, don't put a scratch on my materials. Keep them safe. I'll be back soon enough with the Grand Duke's seal."
"…!"
Watching my back as I walked out, Borga and the dwarf craftsmen could not close their mouths. He had tossed legendary materials aside as casually as leaving junk with a back-alley pawnbroker.
Where does arrogance like that even come from?
Borga swallowed dryly. In his eyes, the knight's departure looked like the unbending confidence of a man strong enough to seize the Grand Duke's permission by force if he had to.
Of course, my actual thoughts were nothing of the sort.
Ah, damn it. When am I supposed to rope all that up and haul it again? Steal it if you want. I'll cave every last dwarf skull in.
With Agnes in tow, I headed straight for the main gate of the Grand Duke's castle.
"Halt! State your identity and business!"
Security around the castle was iron-tight. Plate-armored sentries crossed their spears to bar the way. To skip the conversation, I jerked my chin at Agnes.
She removed her helm, revealing those blue eyes.
"This man is a knight and honored guest summoned by Her Highness Ilyana von Waldemar, commander of the 7th Fortress. Open the way."
"L-Lady Agnes!"
The sentries went pale and pulled their spears back. At the same time, cold sweat ran down their spines as they looked up at the black-iron armor standing solidly behind her.
"P-Please enter!"
At the same hour, inside Ilyana's reception room in the Grand Duke's castle.
First Son Kalan swirled his wineglass and smiled thinly at the frozen Ilyana.
"You played at wisdom, and all you did was dig your own grave."
The request for a Trial by Combat, flung down before the Grand Duke. It was a political snare meant to isolate Ilyana and crush her.
Grand Duke Baltazar would grant the trial. It would be the perfect stage to test whether she had truly bound that Black Knight in a proper master-servant bond.
But Kalan was certain she could not control the man.
"A mercenary who didn't even bother to show his face when the honors were being handed out. Do you really think that arrogant monster will quietly step into the sand of a Trial by Combat for you just because you beg? You never established any master-servant relationship with him at all. Am I wrong?"
Under Kalan's mockery, Ilyana stayed silent. The Black Knight was an uncontrollable beast. He had neither duty nor pretext to fight Kalan's knights for her sake.
"The moment you lose the Trial by Combat, every achievement you've built and every interest tied to the 7th Fortress becomes mine. You'll go right back to being bottom-scrap luggage."
Kalan was about to deliver the final sentence when—
Bang—!
The reception room door burst open as if it would shatter. One of Kalan's personal knights rushed in, face drained of color.
"Y-Young Master! Disaster—!"
"What is this racket? Have you no manners?"
Kalan snapped, but the knight's lips were trembling.
"That Black Knight from the rumors… the one called Mumeong has just entered the castle openly as a guest! He claims to be the personal knight summoned by Her Highness Ilyana—and he is walking straight toward this very room!"
"…What?"
Crash—!
The wineglass slipped from Kalan's hand and shattered across the floor.
The variable he had been certain would never come. The uncontrollable catastrophe had walked into the Grand Duke's castle of its own free will the instant the Trial by Combat was declared.
"That's impossible… Why would that monster come here on his own two feet…!"
Kalan's face went corpse-white. At the news, Ilyana's eyes went wide.
In the moment of despair… Sir Knight has appeared once again.
Every time she was driven to the edge of a cliff, the Black Knight had unfailingly turned his steps and come to find her. But unlike the past, when she had shed tears of gratitude, Ilyana's gaze sank firm and steady.
I cannot keep cowardly leaning on his devotion forever.
The declaration in the council chamber. The gazes of the old knights who had turned their backs on Kalan's greed and supported her pride—those had not been illusions.
I must seize my place with my own strength. That is the only courtesy I can offer the knight who has shed blood for me.
Ilyana looked straight at Kalan's shattered arrogance and smiled with elegant calm.
"It seems Brother's calculations have gone astray once again."
She turned, driving the wedge home.
"I am glad Sir Knight has come, but do not imagine—as you so fondly assume—that I intend only to hide behind his back. Did you not see it in the council chamber just now? The eyes of the old knights who turned away from you."
Kalan's lips trembled. Ilyana declared:
"I will prove my own worth myself. Now, if you will excuse me—I am going to greet Sir Knight."