The Master's Trial
Morning broke over Xu Province city. I opened my eyes to the dazzling sunlight filtering through the bars of the window.
Rising from the simple cot, I took a deep breath. Last night in the Subspace Forge, I'd smelted two scraps of junk iron into a dagger, and my stamina had risen from 51 to 52. It was just a difference of 1, but after a good night's sleep, my body felt firmer and lighter than yesterday. I twisted my neck side to side and rolled my shoulders. The chronic creaks from the bones of this porter Aman's malnourished frame were gone. For the first time, it truly felt like my body—a normal person's body—fully under my control.
I pushed open the side room door and stepped into the main courtyard of the Mi Merchant Guild. The morning air was crisp, but the guild was already bustling with workers repairing wagons and checking goods against ledgers.
I headed straight for Master Yeom Cheol's dedicated forge area. He was already stuffing charcoal into the furnace, examining a glowing blue ingot on the anvil with a grave expression under the early dawn light.
"Morning, Master."
He glanced over at my calm greeting.
"Up early, eh? Figures a porter'd be used to haulin' his ass around. Get over here."
Master Yeom tossed me a crude pair of iron tongs.
"Your job from today is simple. Clear the ash from the furnace, keep the bellows pumpin' steady so the charcoal burns even. And sort the scrap metal scraps on the floor—decent stuff from the rusted junk."
"Got it."
"Hammerin' ingots comes later. You can't grasp the fire's breath or tell iron's quality, you'll just make more scrap no matter how you swing. Watch with your eyes, feel the grain with your body."
His teachings were rough, but they cut straight to the core. I nodded silently and got right to work, sweeping the furnace front and helping with the bellows.
Sure, the Subspace Forge system instinctively corrected my hammer swings and strike points, but a real master's decades of hands-on experience was living knowledge no system text could convey.
I keenly observed how he handled the fire, which ingots he chose and which he discarded, committing every detail to memory. We'd been sweating in the forge's heat for a good while when—
"Master! Sharpen my ring-pommel sword—the edge got chipped in yesterday's fight."
Heavy footsteps strode into the forge area. I paused the bellows and turned. It was one of the guild's elite guards from yesterday's bandit skirmish—the brutal captain who'd held a blade to my throat while I lay on the corpse cart.
The guard captain yanked a scarred ring-pommel sword from his belt and slapped it onto Master Yeom's anvil.
"Bashed so many Yellow Turban rat skulls the blade's wrecked. Got guard duty the day after tomorrow—make it razor-sharp by end of day."
"Leave it. I'll fix it this afternoon."
Master Yeom shoved it aside nonchalantly and returned to his work. The captain scratched his head and wandered around the forge.
Then his eyes locked on the sleek blue dagger I'd left on the workbench beside the furnace while cutting stiff leather straps. The very F-rank iron dagger I'd forged last night in the Subspace Forge from an awl and bandit scrap. His thick brows twitched. Without asking, he snatched it up.
"Huh? What's this blade? Doesn't look like the standard issue for guild guards."
Master Yeom turned irritably at the question.
"What're you—"
His words cut off. His eyes flickered at the jet-black dagger in the captain's hand. The captain clicked his tongue and ran his callused thumb lightly along the edge.
"Plain as dirt, no frills... but the balance is perfect in my grip. And feel this chill on the edge. The iron's packed so dense, it'd chop bone like an axe without chipping. Worlds apart from the crude junk those bandits swung yesterday. You whip this up for fun, Master?"
The captain lived by the sword. Even at F-rank crudeness, my dagger—refined by the system's perfect tempering and purged of impurities—was a battle-ready compressed weapon. It was no surprise a battle-hardened warrior spotted its sharpness and utility.
Master Yeom ran his rough fingers delicately along the blade to the hilt, like caressing a precious jade bead. Deep furrows creased his bushy brow.
"I didn't make it."
His low, heavy voice echoed through the forge.
"What? You didn't? Then why's a piece like this rollin' around our guild forge? Can't be some other apprentice's work."
The captain looked baffled. Master Yeom didn't answer. Instead, his sharp, gleaming eyes slowly, heavily fixed on me as I quietly cleared ash by the furnace.
"Aman."
"Yes, Master."
I stopped and looked up. He approached, thrusting the dagger's tip right in my face.
"This yours?"
A suffocating silence filled the forge. The captain crossed his arms, watching with interest. I met their gazes steadily.
"Yes, it's mine."
"Where'd you get it? Can't be looted from bandits—those rags wouldn't carry something this dense. You steal from the guild warehouse and swap the hilt?"
Anger and deeper suspicion laced his voice. A lifetime smith's eye. He'd already seen that this blade—made from yesterday's bandit dagger shard and awl—wasn't a tweak on an old weapon but forged anew from molten scrap.
I answered flatly, voice steady without a tremor.
"I made it."
"What?"
Master Yeom's eyes widened like they might tear. The captain beside him barked a disbelieving laugh.
"Hah! Listen to this guy. Draggin' wagons and wearin' out straw sandals till yesterday, now he pops out a gem dagger first thing this mornin'? Master, he ain't had enough beatings yet—spoutin' nonsense."
But Master Yeom didn't laugh. Ignoring the captain, he gripped the dagger so hard veins bulged, staring into my eyes like piercing my soul.
"You made it? That crude awl that saved my neck yesterday, and the chipped dagger you snatched from the bandit's belt. You melted those two scraps into this?"
"Yes."
"Don't lie! A greenhorn who's never touched iron, can't even gauge furnace heat overnight, forges a pure blade like this? Look at the grain—folded and hammered dozens of times, dense as hell. Impossible without flawless hammer arcs. Who taught you?!"
His shout was less a bellow, more the shock of a lifetime's common sense shattered before his eyes. I steadied my breath. I couldn't explain the Subspace Forge system perfectly adjusting my muscles. But I had my own logic to convince them of my "talent."
"No one taught me."
"What?"
"But... after nearly dyin' from that bandit gut-stab yesterday, my eyes and hands feel strangely opened."
The instincts honed hauling cement and rebar through Korea's brutal labor sites, fused with the system's Blacksmith job sense, had miraculously awakened my feel for metal. I pointed to the dagger's surface in his hand and continued.
"When I hold iron, I see its grain woven inside. Where it's weak and prone to snap, where to strike to purge the black impurities—it just comes to me. Grip the hammer, and my hands move like they've always worked metal. Sounds crazy to you, Master, but fusing those two scraps? I just followed instinct so the grains aligned."
"...!"
Master Yeom's breathing grew ragged. The captain shut his mouth at my eerie words. Only the crackle of burning logs filled the forge. It sounded insane—surviving death and suddenly seeing metal grains, hands swinging on their own. Any normal smith would've slapped me for bullshit. But Master Yeom was different. His gaze darted wildly between my face and the dagger, like an earthquake.
"Survived death... sees the iron's grain... hands move themselves...."
He muttered my words like a monk struck by enlightenment. A heaven-sent gift, genius defying his sweat-drenched decades of trial and error.
"Master, you think a ghost possessed him when that bandit stabbed him?"
The captain rubbed his arms like he had chills. Master Yeom shot him a fierce glare.
"Shut it! Ghost or heaven's blessing, this blade from his hands'll slice bone ten times cleaner than that cheap ring-sword on your hip!"
The captain shrank back, speechless. Master Yeom turned to me, exhaling roughly.
His eyes burned not with morning indifference, but the mad gleam of a miner unearthing buried treasure.
"Aman."
"Yes."
"Gotta see if that freakish talk's real with my own eyes."
He strode to the forge's deep storage. Unlocking a heavy oak chest, he emerged cradling a massive, hefty gray metal lump the size of two adult fists combined.
Thud! He slammed it on the anvil; a dull, heavy vibration shook the forge floor.
"This here's premium refined iron billet—few even in our guild. Density and weight leagues beyond roadside scrap."
He jabbed a finger into my chest.
"Use that 'grain-sight' instinct. Hammer this. If your dagger from last night ain't dumb luck, you can forge a longer, sharper sword from it. Prove your skill right here!"
My heart sank. An ingot. Prime material I'd never even glimpsed scavenging junk. Forging from this would explode my experience gain. But fatal flaw:
Can't do it right now, not in front of them.
My skill stemmed from the Subspace Forge's perfect corrections and solitary focus. Under watching eyes at this open furnace, my pitiful strength 10 body would tire instantly and expose me. I stroked the ingot calmly, feigning poise.
"Master. One condition."
"Condition? You darin' to bargain my test?"
"This weird sense for reading grain and shaping needs total focus. People around, I can't hear the blade's breath. Call it nonsense. But I can only unleash my full skill isolated in pitch darkness alone."
"What?"
He scoffed in disbelief. I held his gaze unyielding.
"Let me take this ingot to my room. Tonight, no interruptions, I'll commune with it alone and finish the dagger—no, sword. By dawn tomorrow, I'll present the new blade forged from it. Fail... demote me back to wagon-pulling slave, gladly."
Silence. An apprentice demanding to work premium iron alone in his room? Arrogant—easy to flee with it or botch it. The captain lunged for my collar, but Master Yeom blocked him with a thick arm. He eyed my resolute gaze and the flawless dagger alternately, long and hard. He knew better than anyone: true masters had their odd rituals others couldn't grasp.
"Fine."
He finally nodded his heavy head.
"Artisans got their rituals. I'll watch if your quirks are madness or real skill. Bring the sword at first light tomorrow. Fail or ruin the ingot... won't end at demotion. I'll smash both your wrists with a hammer—know that."
Despite his brutal warning, irrepressible joy curved my lips.
"Understood."
I carefully cradled the heavy ingot from the anvil.