Old Man Yeom's Trust
"What the hell is this, old man?"
I forced down the saliva pooling in my mouth and asked in a flat tone.
"You little shit, don't play coy—just grab it and eat! The young miss specially sent these over to our forge as a reward."
Old Man Yeom clamped a meaty hand on my shoulder, staring at my face with a look of utter disbelief mixed with awe. His eyes shimmered with even deeper shock and excitement than when he'd first seen the ring-pommel sword I'd made a few days ago.
"This morning, those guard bastards came charging at me, demanding if I'd ordered you to sabotage the carriage axle in the dead of night."
His voice trembled for a moment.
"I sure as hell didn't, so my heart damn near stopped! If you'd gone nuts and fucked with the carriage, and the young miss got hurt, my head would've been the next to roll! But..."
Old Man Yeom swallowed dryly.
"All day on patrol outside, she didn't go pale or get carsick even once. Not on those brutal rocky roads, not even when it rained and turned everything into muddy potholes! The carriage floated like a boat on clouds, soft as silk—she said so herself, and came back with these precious meat dumplings as thanks."
I cheered inwardly but widened my eyes, feigning ignorance on the outside.
"The head guard poked around under the carriage like he'd seen a ghost, and found that chunk of black iron wedged between the wheel axle and the body—the one you patched in, right? What kind of sorcery did you work under there?"
The old man's voice grew louder, his suppressed curiosity as a craftsman bursting forth like a dam breaking.
"I crawled under myself and felt that iron lump. Watched it while the carriage rolled. Every time it hit a bump—thud—those thick plates you added didn't snap; they bent like a beast's joint, then boing, sprang right back! Iron that's supposed to be rigid, soaking up the weight of that heavy-ass carriage without breaking! What the hell did you do to the metal?!"
Old Man Yeom's eyes blazed madly, the shock of his lifelong blacksmith truths shattering, coupled with an insatiable thirst for the miracle his apprentice had wrought.
I carefully picked up a steaming meat dumpling from the steamer on the anvil and spoke.
"Don't you remember what I told you yesterday?"
"What story?"
"Old man, what if iron could be hard and bend like a spring, absorbing shocks?"
I repeated yesterday's words exactly, and only then did realization dawn; he nodded blankly. I added more explanation.
"I used to think iron had to be stiff and unyielding too. But back when I was a porter, hauling stones heavier than me on my back, I learned something."
The principles of load and elasticity I'd hammered into my bones carrying cement bags and rebar on modern construction sites. I repackaged it naturally as the pitiful experience of this era's porter Aman and began explaining.
"If you use a thick, rigid pole for the load, every step feels like it'll snap your back and knees. But with a flexible wooden yoke that sways just right—like a water bucket carrier—it absorbs the shake, spreading the heavy load smoothly across your whole body."
"The springiness of a flexible yoke..."
Old Man Yeom murmured, entranced.
"If wood can do that, I figured iron tempered just right in the fire could shed its rigidity for tough resilience. I layered it under the carriage floor like knee cartilage in a yoke, to bounce back shocks."
I finished and bit deep into the dumpling. Hot meat juices and scallion fragrance exploded through the thin skin, filling my mouth. The rich pork fat coating my tongue blended perfectly with salty soy. Just days ago, a dirt-poor porter scraping by on stale, smelly grain lumps and dirty saltwater—now, the finest gift from Xu Province's top power was bursting in that same mouth.
"Hah... Enlightenment from a porter's yoke springiness, forging iron into carriage cartilage... Truly heaven-sent, freakish genius instinct."
Old Man Yeom stared into space, chewing over my words, then slapped his thigh and burst into roaring laughter.
"The young miss has your weird skills etched deep in her mind now. In the mighty Mi Merchant Guild, no one but the guildmaster himself dares touch a former porter like you. Even that dumbass head guard who looked down on me shut his trap when the shaking stopped—feels like ten years of heartburn just melted away!"
I swallowed the hot, rich juices flooding my mouth, wiped grease from my lips, and flashed a feral grin.
This wasn't just the taste of a full belly. It was crawling from the era's foulest trash pit, cracking the world's towering walls with my own hands and creations, proving my absolute worth.
The sweetest, most perfect taste of survival in my second life. I scarfed another dumpling, filling my gut solid. Nutrients surged through my veins, reigniting weary muscles fatigued from all-day bellows work.
Outside the forge, night had fallen completely. Deeper into the dark, my subspace mana would refill. With solid backing and a full tank now, it was time to forge something sharper, more overwhelming—to protect myself and crush enemies' bones.
I glared at the forge's glowing embers like a beast, then turned to Old Man Yeom, who was chuckling and slapping my back.
"Old man, I've got a favor to ask."
My sudden seriousness halted his laughter; he blinked.
"A favor? After scoring those premium dumplings from the miss, you angling for a silk quilt next?"
"Nah, nothing fancy like that doesn't suit me. I just need practice material."
"Practice what?"
I nodded toward the corner pile of mangled scrap metal, unrecognizable in its ruin.
"Those broken weapons the guards discarded from battles—chipped blades, snapped spears, all stacked in the warehouse. Hand 'em over. I wanna fix 'em my way."
His bushy brows furrowed.
"Repair broken weapons? Normal guys stuff themselves and crash snoring; you're saying you'll hammer iron late at night by the fire? Metal fever's got you good."
"Before I lose the feel for reading metal's grain, I wanna pound more. Rusty scrap's fine. Anything I can hammer."
No jest in my voice. My past life's survival instinct—from barehand steel beam climbs, clawing for daily wages—screamed. Strike while the iron's hot. With the blacksmith system open, stamina and mana holding, every extra swing meant XP swept up. That alone insured tomorrow's perils.
Old Man Yeom stared long into my steely gaze. A starving wolf's obsessive hunger. A lifetime craftsman, he knew exactly what blazed in my eyes.
"...A craftsman's path comes from endless repetition and doubt."
He finally barked a laugh, heaving his bulk up.
"A master blocking a student's road is third-rate trash. Follow me."
He grabbed a torch and led me deep into the forge's warehouse. The door swung open to reveal crates stuffed with rust-eaten, blood-scented scrap and shattered arms—mostly from Yellow Turban remnants skirmishes, broken or long-abandoned junk.
"Pick your poison. Chipped ring-pommel swords, snapped spearheads, blunt axe blades—plenty. Fix 'em to cut again, and they're guild assets. No loss."
By torchlight, I rummaged the crates. My eyes weren't just hunting dull edges.
"This ring-pommel sword twisted bad on impact—the blade core couldn't take the stress, stretched like taffy. Like jamming a crowbar wrong into a stone pillar on a work site... er, rocky column."
"Ho, you see it at a glance. That one's from yesterday—a dumb porter blocked a bandit's mace, bent it clean. Blade life's done."
I clutched the twisted sword to my chest.
"This'll do. Tonight, I'll have a chat with it."
"Fine. We'll see tomorrow if your freak surgery works on busted gear too."
Old Man Yeom grinned satisfied, patted my back, and left the forge. I sat in the side room, silently stroking the metal lumps, waiting till his footsteps faded and the whole caravan sank into deep sleep.