The Heavenly Sky Sword
I entered the workshop at eight.
I picked up a hammer at twelve, and at fourteen I made my first sword.
It wasn't a sword, not really. Just scrap metal, heated and beaten thin. The first blade worthy of being called a weapon came in the winter of my fifteenth year. A swordsman of some repute took a liking to it and pressed a gold coin into my palm.
Convinced I had a gift for the hammer, I refused my father's attempts to stop me and opened a workshop of my own. Whether it was because the swordsman who bought that first blade went on to make a name for himself, customers poured in without end.
I expanded the shop. I took on unskilled smiths and piled on the orders. I supplied weapons to countless organizations and raked in money at an age when most boys were still apprentices. The workshop grew. Gold coins stacked up like a mountain. The days I actually held a hammer dwindled, and the hours I spent out in the world throwing money around multiplied. A life of success so young it was almost absurd. The kind of life everyone envied.
I was enjoying that life when the accident happened.
Pressed against a deadline, I skipped a proper inspection and delivered swords and shields in bulk. The quality was flawed. Soldiers who went out to subjugate monsters died, or came back maimed.
The kingdom demanded staggering reparations. I handed over most of everything I had accumulated and barely managed to meet their terms. Ten years of savings gone in a stroke — but that was not the real problem.
People had died because of weapons I had made carelessly.
I understood then that what I had been producing was not merchandise. These were weapons that saved lives and took them. I was not a merchant. I was a blacksmith.
Only then did I understand why my father had opposed my leaving the workshop so soon. I had the skill, but not the mind to match it. He had seen this coming.
From that day on I drank through every night. I drank, and drank, and drank again. Without liquor, I could not bear the faces of the people who had died on my steel.
I lived as a drunk for ten years, burned through what little fortune I had left, and went back to the ruined workshop intending to end my life there. I was going to die in the shop I had built with my own hands when my eyes fell on the hammer resting atop the forge.
The hammer my father had bought me. I had held it for more than ten years. I thought I would hold it one last time before I died.
The moment my fingers closed around it, I started crying and could not stop. Every feeling I had bottled up since the accident seemed to burst at once. I sank to the floor alone and howled through the entire day.
When the tears finally ran dry, I stood up. Strangely, the will to die had drained away with them.
I gripped my father's hammer and lit a fire in the rusted forge. Into those flames I threw scrap iron and every stray thought I had. All that remained in me was a single hunger: I wanted to swing a hammer.
I struck the iron.
I struck the iron.
I struck the iron.
Money, fame, feeling, life itself — I melted all of it in the furnace and simply beat the steel.
A great deal of time passed. When I came back to myself, the title of Continental Master Smith had attached itself to my name, and I had forged a sword for the man called the strongest on the continent.
I had outgrown the regrets of my youth, achieved greatness, even built a family. All that should have been left was to enjoy a life I could be satisfied with. And yet something was missing. An unnameable lack punched a hole through my heart.
It was a heart demon. The despair of knowing I could never make a sword that surpassed the Heavenly True Sword crushed me from head to heel. I set down the hammer I had held for so long and ran, using the making of Gold Charcoal as my excuse. I spent ten hollow years comforting myself that I was still trying.
I was on the verge of giving up entirely and going home when a blonde brat showed up.
Short for his age, skinny as a rail, but his eyes were settled and cold. He said he wanted to feel the fire, so I told him to do as he liked. He wouldn't last. That much was obvious.
He lasted. The blonde brat endured, for months, a heat that sent even veteran blacksmiths fleeing in disgust, and in the end he produced aura.
The legendary Gold Charcoal was born — but what my eyes followed was not the charcoal. It was the boy. For the first time in decades, the desire to forge a sword for someone took root in me, and I promised I would make him a weapon.
After that I rebuilt my body and tempered my mind for five years, and the brat returned. He had grown enough to gladden the heart, and through a chain of connections he had gathered the finest materials and the finest circumstances a smith could ask for.
The day of the forging. I stoked the furnace to its absolute limit with Gold Charcoal and fed the metals in.
Watching them melt, slow and sure, I burned the impurities out of my own heart. The ambition to surpass the Heavenly True Sword. The hunger to leave behind a supreme work before I died. I melted even those into the flames.
What remained beneath was a blacksmith's instinct, nothing more: I wanted to strike iron. I drew the molten mass from the furnace, impurities and stray thoughts melted away together, and I lifted the hammer.
I struck the iron.
I struck the iron.
I struck the iron.
Just as I had fifty years ago in a ruined workshop, alone, I forgot even who I was and simply beat the steel.
As if answering a concentration honed sharp as a blade's edge, three irons of wholly different grain twined together, and the shape of a sword slowly revealed itself.
A deep, dense black. Like the Heavenly True Sword I had made from Gold Grain, the entire blade was black from end to end.
I fed the sword into the furnace, drew it out, and struck it again. The form settled. The edge rose. The black light sheathing the blade would not be erased.
I dusted it with kran powder and returned it to the fire. A sword that should have gleamed white as a snowfield still refused to surrender that darkness.
I hammered, and hammered again. I would not have minded if this were my last work. I forgot time itself and kept bringing the hammer down.
The blade took shape and poured out a killing edge so keen it raised the hair on my arms — and the black light covering the steel remained exactly as it was.
"I don't understand it."
Even I, who had held a hammer and beaten iron for decades, could not tell with any certainty whether this sword was finished. That had never happened before.
A low, resonant hum rolled through the workshop.
Not knowing what else to do, I brought the hammer down one more time — and the sword cried out on its own. It was not the sword-cry of a blade breathing with its master. It was a howl. A call for its owner.
"Ah — Dad!"
"Wait."
I waved the startled Haren back and watched the sword's cry. With a violent shudder, the blade lifted into the air.
A deep, thrumming drone filled the room.
The sword that had risen of its own will drifted, as if drawn along an invisible thread, toward Raon, who sat at the far end of the workshop.
It hummed again, hanging inverted, until it reached a finger's breadth from Raon's face and cried out once more. It seemed spent, about to fall — and then Raon, who had been sitting as still as the dead, reached out and caught it.
A piercing ring split the air.
Seized in Raon's hand, the sword shuddered with a fierce, climbing vibration. As the shaking intensified, the black light clinging to the blade crumbled into ash and scattered, and a sword-body white as snow bared itself to the world.
A flash.
As light brilliant as a snowfield under the sun rippled along the blade, Raon opened his eyes. Blue and red — two colors filled his gaze and poured out a strange, luminous radiance.
Only then did I understand.
That sword had been born for Raon, and for Raon alone.
Raon narrowed his eyes at the sword in his hand. He had never held it before, and yet it clung to his grip as if it had always belonged there. It felt like finding a missing half of himself.
A deep, rolling hum vibrated up through the hilt.
Simply holding the blade set the energies of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames and Glacia ablaze. The aura-amplifying properties said to reside in Gold Grain, Fire Seal Iron, and Cold Blood Iron seemed to have grown far stronger than before.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Vulcan let out a disbelieving laugh and sank to the floor.
"A sword flying off to find its own master. That's a first, even for me."
"Ah…"
Raon understood at once that it was true. If the sword had not come to him on its own, it would never have been in his hand.
"I thought it wasn't finished. It was waiting to meet its master. Only then was it complete."
Vulcan let out a breath thick with wonder.
"That is your sword. Raon Zieghart. A blade that will follow you alone, that you alone can wield."
His eyes traced the white, glittering length of the blade as if he were under a spell, and then he went on.
"And it is my greatest masterpiece."
"You're saying this one stands above the Heavenly True Sword?"
"That's a different matter. Every scrap of material in the Heavenly True Sword was Gold Grain. I wouldn't call this a victory over it. But the sword that holds everything I am is not the Heavenly True Sword. It is that nameless blade in your hand. I went back. I did nothing but swing a hammer."
Vulcan muttered that his old grudges and regrets had been laid to rest, and that he felt light. Raon could not follow all of it, but the old man seemed to be looking a long way into the past.
"Have you thought of a name?"
"No. Not yet."
"Then would you let me name it?"
"Of course."
Raon met Vulcan's eyes and nodded. The craftsman who forged a sword was the one who named it. There was no reason to refuse.
"True Heaven means a blade that makes the heavens resound. For yours, then — how about Heavenly Sky?"
"To lead the heavens themselves?"
"It's an arrogant name. I like it."
"I'm glad."
Vulcan and Raon looked at the sword together and smiled.
The Heavenly Sky Sword.
As Raon tightened his grip, messages bloomed before his eyes.
You have fully absorbed the heat of the Red Dragon Turtle.
The achievement of the Ring of Fire has increased.
The achievement of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames has increased.
The achievement of Glacia has increased.
All stats have increased by 3 points.
The messages told him he had taken in the unsorted energies still lingering inside him. But that was not all.
It had raised his stats for coming into possession of his own weapon at last.
Judging by the increased stats and the risen achievements of the Ring of Fire and his aura arts, he had climbed nearly seven-tenths of the way up the wall of Master. The far side of that wall was beginning, little by little, to come into view.
Not much left.
By next year at the latest, he felt he would be able to smash through the wall of Master.
From here on…
"Nngh!"
As Raon clenched a fist in anticipation, Wrath burst out of the bracelet.
"Again! It's happening again!"
He glared at the messages as if rage itself were boiling over.
"How much of This King's true body must you wring dry before you're satisfied, you little—"
Spit-roasted whole hog.
"…Huh? Mm?"
The spit-roasted whole hog is waiting for us.
"Nnnngh…"
The instant those words left Raon's mind, the sharp frost boiling off Wrath settled like down.
"D-damn it."
He was furious, but he was clearly swallowing it for the sake of roast hog. It was a look worthy of a Demon King of Gluttony who had taken a cover job as Wrath.
"You did well too."
Vulcan smiled at Haren, who was leaning against the wall.
"Raon and I were both sunk deep in it. We lived because you moved without breaking that concentration. You scurried about rather well."
"Tsk. You had so many decent words to choose from. What do you mean, scurried?"
Haren scowled and grumbled.
He's not wrong, though.
Raon nodded. With both Vulcan and himself lost in complete immersion, moving at exactly the right moments without shattering that focus was extraordinarily difficult. As Vulcan had said, Haren seemed to have a gift for it.
"Thank you for your work."
"Ahem…"
When Raon offered a greeting with his eyes, Haren scratched behind his ear, looking embarrassed.
"L-let's get some air in here! I've been cooped up in this place for two days, I'm gonna d— hhk!"
He flung the sealed iron door wide and recoiled with a start at the person standing directly in front of it.
Runaan was there, her silver hair spilled over her left shoulder. The faint red around her eyes suggested she had been waiting for quite some time.
"Done?"
Runaan tilted her head, a silver sword Raon had never seen before cradled in her arms.
"Looks like you finished too."
"Mm."
Runaan drew the sword from her arms and held it out. The blade gleamed silver, the same shade as her hair, with a cool, lofty killing edge steeped into the steel. Even at a glance it was a remarkable treasured sword.
Blue flower petals were engraved along the scabbard as if scattering on the wind, lending it an elegance to match. Runaan's expression had not changed, but the faint color in her cheeks said she liked it a great deal.
"A sword that suits her down to the ground. You made it properly."
Vulcan admired Runaan's blade and gave a deep nod.
"Raon. I intend to make your scabbard from the Red Dragon Turtle's shell. I'll bind it so it's splendid and hard enough to use like a club."
He looked unmistakably exhausted, but he clenched a fist as if to say not to worry.
"Haren. You help too."
"Yeah. I mean — yes! Understood!"
Haren thumped a tightly clenched fist against his chest as if to say, leave it to me.
"Thank you."
Raon stood and bowed his head to Vulcan and Haren.
"It was a fateful encounter, meeting you, Master. That's how I was able to obtain a sword like this."
"A fateful encounter?"
Raon lifted his head at the questioning note in Vulcan's voice.
"Was a single one of the materials in that sword something you stumbled on by accident? That child giving you Cold Blood Iron. The Gold Charcoal being born. My deciding to forge you a sword. All of it happened because you were the person you are."
"The person I am…"
Vulcan smiled gently, stepped close, and patted Raon's shoulder.
"The path you have walked until now was not wrong. Keep advancing."
The word bonds, and the words was not wrong, struck something in his chest. Even the hell of his previous life felt, for a moment, as if it had been consoled.
"…Yes."
Raon bit down on a trembling lip and bowed his head once more.
"Thank you."
Truly.
Two days later.
A scabbard hung at Raon's waist with the Heavenly Sky Sword sheathed inside it. Dawn-gold and sunset-crimson were woven together in a harmony that suited, perfectly, a vessel made to hold a sword that would lead the heavens.
That Vulcan and Haren had turned the Red Dragon Turtle's shell — which had been nothing but sheer hardness — into a work like this drew a quiet breath of admiration from him.
"Then we'll be going."
Raon bowed his head to Vulcan, who stood before the workshop.
"A shame. You could have stayed a little longer."
"A mission will be starting soon. As vice-leader, I ought to have things in order."
"True enough. With that delinquent as squad leader, I suppose you would be busy."
Vulcan clicked his tongue as if the world were going to ruin.
"Yes. That's about the size of it."
Raon gave a short laugh and nodded.
"Then what do you mean to do with all that?"
Vulcan pointed at the Red Dragon Turtle's shell, claws, talons, and teeth still inside the workshop.
"I'm too worn out now to do anything with it."
He waved a hand as if fanning himself. It was no lie. Since finishing the sword and the scabbard, the wrinkles on his face had deepened as if he had aged ten years.
"I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize. I wanted to make a sword, that's all. I'm more than satisfied."
Vulcan laughed without reservation. It was the face of a man with nothing left to cling to.
"Then as for those materials…"
"Please leave them to me!"
Before Raon could finish, Haren sprang forward from behind him.
"If you entrust them to me, I will turn those materials into the finest armaments there are."
He dropped to one knee as he said it and bowed his head.
"Don't look at me."
Vulcan shrugged as if to say it was Raon's decision.
"We still haven't settled the wager from when we first met, have we?"
"Eek!"
Haren let out a strangled sound, as if he had only just remembered.
"You said you'd do anything I asked. Here's the condition. Until you forge a sword that satisfies me, you work as the exclusive blacksmith of the Light Wind Squad."
Raon smiled, watching a serious light begin to kindle in Haren's eyes. Haren had talent enough for Vulcan to acknowledge it, and over the past four days he had started to get his head on straight. He would become an outstanding smith. Putting a man like that to work as the Light Wind Squad's dedicated blacksmith would be an enormous help. That much was certain.
"I-I'll do it, no question! Thank you!"
Haren nodded so fast his head might have come off.
"Then I'll give you your first assignment. Use the Red Dragon Turtle's materials to make basic armor for thirty-four swordsmen."
"Basic armor…"
"Can you do it?"
"Of course! As much as you need."
He grinned as if asking Raon to trust him.
"I'll look in on it too. To see whether this idiot actually does the work or not."
Vulcan tapped Haren's head lightly and smiled.
"Then we'll take our leave."
"We'll come again."
Raon and Runaan bowed to the two of them, took up their new swords, and started down the hill.
"Hmph…"
Vulcan watched their retreating backs with a faint smile.
"I find myself looking forward to how far they'll have come the next time I see them."
A seventeen-year-old swordsman with Master already in sight. Once his name spread, the entire continent would shake. Anticipation for the might of the Heavenly Sky Sword Raon would one day swing put a reflexive strength into Vulcan's own hands.
"Dad! What are you doing standing there! Get in here and help! I can't lift this by myself!"
Haren's voice carried from inside the workshop. A boy who had lived like a wreck for two years had, in a mere four days, gotten his mind back and was showing the same fire Vulcan himself had once had. Even without any strength left, it made him laugh.
Raon had said he was grateful. The one who was truly grateful was on this side.
"I know, I know!"
Vulcan wished Raon and Runaan luck as they receded into the distance, and stepped back into the workshop, toward the racket.
Raon headed with Runaan toward the Dwarf's Hammer, tucked in a corner of Mirtan Village. Famous, just as Haren had said — even out on the village outskirts, the place was packed.
"Hooah. Even the scent is pulling This King in. This King can smell the sauce they say is made from fifty ingredients."
Wrath was already excited at the entrance, tongue flicking.
Calm down a little.
"This King is eating real food for the first time in days, and you want This King to be calm? Absolutely not."
Then hold on. We'll be eating soon.
Raon forcibly reined Wrath in and stepped into the tavern.
"Welcome!"
A server hurried over with a bright smile.
"Table for two?"
"Yes."
At Raon's nod, they were shown to a seat farther in.
"What can I get for you?"
The server offered a menu and folded his hands politely.
"What do you want?"
"Whatever Raon's having."
Runaan only blinked, as if that settled it.
"Then two servings of the spit-roasted whole hog…"
"Ah — I'm truly sorry."
The server winced and bowed his head.
"We've run out of ingredients."
"You've run out?"
"Word got around that the Red Dragon Turtle was slain, and people have been pouring in from everywhere. The ingredients are completely gone."
"Gaaaaah!"
The instant the words run out left the server's mouth, a bizarre noise tore out of Wrath's throat.
"Mm. Then when will the ingredients…"
"It'll take a week at the very least, I'm afraid."
A shame, but that was as far as it went. They could not wait a week.
"W-why in the world…"
Frost-flame seethed and burned along Wrath's entire body.
"Why is it that whenever This King tries to eat something, it is never there?!"
It can't be helped. The ingredients are…
"This is all your fault! You dragged that turtle here and caused this whole disaster! You should have sold the lot of it from the start!"
Well…
Raon scratched the back of his head. That was, unfortunately, accurate enough that he had no retort.
I'll have to soothe him with something else.
If they ate some other dish in place of the spit-roasted whole hog, Wrath's mood might recover, if only a little.
"Then do you have a recommendation?"
"It's not quite the roast, but we do have one rather famous menu item."
"Which is?"
"The Blacksmith's Set Meal! Warm onion stew, soft bread, and chicken stir-fry under a sweet sauce. There's no way it wouldn't be delicious!"
"Uh…"
Raon swallowed dryly and lowered his head. The thing Wrath hated most in the world was a set meal — and even the lineup was identical to Habun Castle's.
"A set meal. Another set meal. No matter where This King goes, there is always a set meal…"
Well, of course…
"Silence!"
As expected, blue lightning exploded in Wrath's eyes.
"Damn it all! Is this a conspiracy?! How is even the menu identical to that accursed castle's scout set meal?!"
He threw his head back toward the ceiling and roared.
"The world itself despises This King!"