Was It You?
I woke silently in the early dawn. Even after squeezing every muscle to its limit last night while forging the black-gray ring sword in the Subspace Forge, my body felt as light as a feather. Strength 11, Stamina 52. The synergy of those two numbers had transformed the wretched body of the porter Aman into something with endurance on an entirely different level.
I threw on some rough hemp clothes and, wrapping the cool ring sword I'd made the night before in a scrap of hemp cloth, tucked it into my bosom before stepping out of the side room.
The merchant guild's main compound was deathly still, shrouded in thick, bluish dawn mist. I headed straight for old man Yeom's blacksmith area. For once, the master wasn't there ahead of me, glowering at the iron ingots by the massive furnace he'd already lit.
I picked up the crude broom leaning in the corner of the yard. Silently, I began sweeping the forge floor, which was a mess of iron filings, charcoal chunks, and dirt from yesterday's work. Once that was done, I sorted the scattered hammers and tongs by size, hung them neatly on the wall, and brushed the dirt from the molds the apprentices had left behind, stacking them tidily to one side.
"Hoo."
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I scraped out the ashes from the furnace and piled fresh charcoal in a perfect arrangement. It was set up so that tossing in a spark would ignite it to maximum heat instantly. Just as the forge air had cleared up nicely, a heavy, thudding footsteps echoed from the entrance.
"Huh?"
Old man Yeom, who had been walking in with the morning dew on him, rounded his eyes at the spotless forge. His gaze flicked between the neatly arranged tools, the furnace freshly stocked with charcoal, and me—standing there soaked in sweat like I'd been caught in the rain, broom in hand.
"You're here, Master."
I set down the broom and gave a light bow.
"You... you cleaned up the whole forge this early in the morning?"
The old man's bushy brows twitched. Normal apprentices only dragged themselves out, rubbing their eyes, when the master's bellows forced them—moving sluggishly to clear the ashes. In his decades as a blacksmith, he could count on one hand the ones who'd come before him and set everything up this perfectly.
A cough leaked from his thick lips, but he couldn't hide the satisfied smile spreading through his rough beard. He'd seen with his own eyes the most fundamental quality of anyone learning a craft: diligence.
"Seeing you bustle about like this, I bet you didn't slack off on handling the iron last night either. So, what happened to that bent ring sword you took yesterday? I didn't hear a single clang all night—don't tell me you gave up groaning and just went to sleep?"
The old man sat heavily on the rickety wooden chair by the anvil, feigning sternness. In answer, I carefully unwrapped the hemp bundle from my bosom and placed it politely on his knee with both hands.
"See for yourself."
With a soft rustle, the hemp cloth fell away, revealing the black-gray ring sword that gleamed with a chill menace in the pale morning light.
"......!"
Old man Yeom's eyes widened like they might split open. His thick hand gripped the hilt. Just yesterday, it had been scrap metal, bent like a candy twist in the middle, its blade life utterly spent. Now, it was reborn as a straight, eerie, and beautiful weapon.
"This... how can this be."
An incredulous gasp burst from the old man's lips. He ran his fingertips along the flat of the blade, tracing madly the seam where the original steel met the added black iron tip. He raised the sword to eye level to check the edge's angle.
"And this color... it's not the stiffness of water-quenched steel. You baked it in oil to max out the edge hardness, but gave it that tough elasticity so it won't snap when chopping through thick enemy bones. Did you infuse the same flexibility into this blade as that 'joint cartilage' you mentioned yesterday while chomping on those meat dumplings?"
Awe now tinged the old man's voice, beyond mere shock. The miracle born of Strength 11 honed through real-world training and the Subspace Forge system's perfect trajectory correction.
"I just followed the feel in my hands and hammered the frame into shape."
I answered flatly with my usual innocent expression. Old man Yeom let out a hollow chuckle and gently placed the black-gray ring sword on the anvil. For a long moment, he stared into my face with eyes like he was piercing a bizarre yokai that shouldn't exist in this world.
"Aman."
"Yes, Master."
"'Genius' doesn't cut it. You're a monster heaven shoved onto this earth just to work iron. If you'd rotted away as a porter your whole life, the heavens would've been pissed at the wasted talent."
The old man shot to his feet and crushed my shoulder in his massive palm.
"See that storage shed over there? The crate full of busted weapons and scrap you rummaged through yesterday."
"Yes."
"From today, that door's open to you anytime. Whenever your hands crave iron, go in and take out whatever broken weapons you want. Snapped spear shafts, dented axe blades—before you lose the feel, hammer like mad till that monstrous sense roots deep in your bones!"
A thick, feral smile spread across my lips. This was exactly what I'd wanted—no, what I absolutely needed for my growth. To forge weapons every night in the Subspace Forge, I needed materials. Now I had unlimited scrap from the old man's shed.
"Thank you, Master. I won't forget this grace."
From that day on, my routine became a perfect cycle of labor and training. By day, I stuck by old man Yeom's side, tending the roaring furnace. At night, alone in the side room, I'd burn my full mana of 7 to open the Subspace Forge door without fail.
It was a few days later, late afternoon, as I was fully immersed in the forge's sweltering heat, sweat pouring like mad.
"Master! Furnace temp's dropping! I'll pump the bellows harder!"
I'd stripped off my upper clothes, hanging my full weight on the massive leather bellows, my torso gleaming with sweat.
"Yeah! That's the sweet spot where the molten iron starts to thin! Aman, slide the mold over here now!"
Old man Yeom, too, was dripping sweat under his leather apron, ready to ladle the molten iron. That's when it happened.
"Old Forge Master. Your skill with molten iron is as sharp as ever."
A refined, subtle voice cut through the hammer clangs—one that didn't belong in this gritty, smoke-choked forge.
Old man Yeom and I stopped pumping the bellows and turned our heads at once.
At the forge entrance stood Mi So-jeo, impeccably dressed in pale jade silk, flanked by her escort guards and maids. A deeply satisfied, gentle smile played on her lips.
"Ah, Miss! Why have you graced this filthy, smoke-filled hovel with your precious steps?!"
Old man Yeom startled like a shot, flinging down his tongs and scrambling out to drop to one knee on the dirt floor. I let go of the bellows too, bowing my head deeply and stepping back behind him.
"Rise, Old Forge Master. This is an informal visit—no need for such formalities."
Mi So-jeo's clear voice rang through the forge. She lightly fanned herself, half-covering her face, and nodded toward old man Yeom.
"I've come to the forge myself to deliver very important news for our guild."
"Important news... you say?"
Old man Yeom asked cautiously. Mi So-jeo snapped her fan shut, her eyes gleaming.
"I just returned from Governor Do Geom's residence this morning. Yesterday, at the banquet, his wife happened to ride in my carriage briefly."
Governor Do Geom of Xu Province. The de facto supreme warlord and ruler of that vast land. No matter how rich the Mi merchant guild, they supplied military provisions under his shadow, holding power thereby. At the name, old man Yeom's shoulders stiffened.
"His wife usually gets terribly carsick, but after trying my carriage, she marveled at how it glided like floating on clouds."
Mi So-jeo's red lips curved smoothly.
"So Governor Do Geom himself commanded my brother and the guild: attach the same ingenious 'iron cartilage lump' from my carriage to his wife's old one, immediately."
"G-Governor Do Geom himself?!"
Old man Yeom's voice cracked in panic.
"Yes. This is no mere forge job. It's a golden chance to win his favor and solidify our guild's position. So, Old Forge Master, you must perfectly replicate on his wife's carriage the splendid work you did on mine."
Her words were clear, but they were an ironclad order tied to the guild's fate. Yet old man Yeom's face didn't fill with joy or honor—it paled as if facing the grim reaper. No surprise. The 'tempering' technique to make rigid iron springy like cartilage. The ingenious design stacking leaf springs to disperse load. He'd only heard the principles from me days ago in words; he'd never done the delicate temperature control or quenching himself.
"M-Miss... th-that is... touching Governor Do Geom's carriage is..."
Old man Yeom stammered, wiping cold sweat from his brow. Watching his distress, Mi So-jeo's fine brows twitched faintly.
"Why so pale, Old Forge Master? You don't look pleased at all for this chance at great merit. Surely..."
Her clear, sharp eyes skimmed past him, locking precisely on me—Aman—standing silently by the furnace, shirtless.
"Surely the one who made that magical iron lump... isn't you yourself?"
A piercing question hitting the mark. Old man Yeom's shoulders trembled like aspen leaves. Her footsteps passed the kneeling man, approaching me slowly and gracefully.
"Come to think of it, that dawn when we left on patrol, there was a man under my carriage, covered in dirt, fiddling with suspicious iron bits. I thought him just a worthless apprentice running errands for you then."
Her gaze held no noble's disdain for porters as vermin.
"Governor Do Geom's request concerns our Mi guild's very destiny. I'll ask plainly, no lies."
Mi So-jeo's red lips parted slowly.
"The true craftsman who crawled under my carriage axle and fitted that ingenious 'iron cartilage lump'... wasn't the prostrated Old Forge Master, but you?"
The guards and maids gaped at her in shock, as if she'd spouted nonsense. Old man Yeom couldn't lift his head, his lips quivering. I slowly raised my downcast eyes, meeting her keen gaze steadily, without a flicker.