Chapter 310
Chapter 310
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 310
Chapter Title: Great Golden Iron Forge
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Dang Mujin took the money and went to find Elder Tae.
Elder Tae's reaction didn't deviate even slightly from what Dang Mujin had expected.
Elder Tae spoke in an unnecessarily meaningful tone.
"I figured you'd come around now."
"...Yes. I've come for the Millennial Cold Iron."
Elder Tae opened the box containing the single ingot, and Dang Mujin picked up the lump of metal from the bottom. It was a bit short of true Millennial Cold Iron, but it emanated a chilling aura.
Dang Mujin held out the pouch stuffed full of gold coins.
Elder Tae didn't bother checking the coins inside the pouch. It wouldn't have been very elegant to do so.
At the same time, though, he showed no intention of lowering the price.
"..."
For a fleeting moment, a strong urge welled up to say this wasn't Millennial Cold Iron but just regular iron. Maybe that would knock the price down.
But Dang Mujin decided against it. Mentioning something like that might provoke Elder Tae into raising the price or refusing the deal altogether.
Truth be told, even this price was a bargain considering the value of Cold Iron.
Instead, Dang Mujin gave Elder Tae a meaningful look. A gaze that said he was forgoing haggling, so at least throw in a bonus.
But Elder Tae simply turned his head away.
"It's a precious item, so use it well."
"...Yes."
He couldn't even snag a bonus. Dang Mujin trudged out of Elder Tae's place.
Suddenly, a nagging unease tugged at his chest.
When he thought about it, this looked an awful lot like using the money Hong Geolgae had earned at the martial tournament to forge a sword for Namgung Myeong.
He knew Hong Geolgae wasn't the type to feel slighted over something like this, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.
'I want to give Hong Geolgae something too.'
But he had no idea what to give him.
Hong Geolgae's martial arts involved fist techniques and staff methods. Fists needed no weapon, and he already had a staff—the Azure Green Bamboo Staff.
Of course, Dang Mujin could craft a staff superior in form to the Azure Green Bamboo Staff. The problem was the material.
Dang Mujin didn't even know exactly what the Azure Green Bamboo Staff was made of. It wasn't wood or metal. He privately suspected it might be some exotic gemstone.
In the end, Dang Mujin scratched the back of his head vigorously.
'Namgung Myeong will give him something, at least.'
Dang Mujin headed to the inn with the Cold Iron.
*
As soon as Dang Mujin entered the inn, he said to Namgung Myeong,
"Namgung Myeong. Hand over your sword."
"Huh? Got it."
If an ordinary person had asked for his sword, Namgung Myeong wouldn't have given them the time of day. But when Dang Mujin asked, it was a different story. He willingly surrendered the sword he'd cherished so dearly.
Dang Mujin holed up in his room. He didn't allow anyone else inside.
The only person permitted to come and go from Dang Mujin's room was Hyeon-gong.
As if he could sense exactly when Dang Mujin got hungry, Hyeon-gong would occasionally bring food to the room.
In this undisturbed space, what Dang Mujin did was very simple.
From sunrise to sunset, he simply stared at the sword, felt it with his fingertips, and committed it to memory.
Dang Mujin meticulously memorized every trace left on the sword.
Where the blade was particularly worn. Where the nicks and scratches were on the blade. The shape of the handprints left on the wooden hilt.
He didn't just examine the exterior. Dang Mujin split the hilt in half to check what marks the tang had left inside.
Any ordinary smith would find these actions incomprehensible. But Dang Mujin had clear reasons for doing so.
Martial artists know that a sword bears the imprint of its owner's habits.
But knowing that doesn't mean they can do anything with it.
Conversely, smiths produce the results but can't read the habits imprinted on the sword.
However, Dang Mujin was the world's greatest smith and an unparalleled sword appraiser.
He knew how to read the traces on a sword and exactly how to utilize them.
Moreover, Dang Mujin knew how Namgung Myeong wielded and maintained the sword. This was a sword he'd forged himself, after all.
Dang Mujin examined how his own creation had changed over seven years in Namgung Myeong's hands.
He imagined the paths it had taken to reach its current state, recalled them, and memorized them one by one.
Three days passed, and on the morning of the fourth day.
Dang Mujin left the room.
Namgung Myeong, abruptly evicted, had collapsed over a table in the inn and fallen asleep.
Dang Mujin nudged the leg of the chair Namgung Myeong was sitting in to wake him.
"Namgung Myeong."
"Uh... oh, you're out?"
"Come on. We're going to the forge."
"Now? Me too?"
"Yeah."
Namgung Myeong yawned hugely, stretched, and followed behind Dang Mujin.
He'd once picked out a sword in front of a forge, but he'd rarely entered the actual workspace where smiths hammered metal.
Soon, the sign for Great Golden Iron Forge came into view.
As the two approached the forge, a smith who had been sitting on a small chair out front, rubbing his shoulders, jumped to his feet.
The smith bowed deeply to Dang Mujin, then shouted something toward the interior of the forge.
The deafening clamor inside, loud enough to split ears, fell silent in an instant.
As Dang Mujin and Namgung Myeong entered the now-quiet forge, a young smith dashed out and shut the doors.
As long as Dang Mujin was there, any customers visiting Great Golden Iron Forge would leave empty-handed.
The smiths bowed their heads to Dang Mujin.
"We've been waiting."
"Mind if I borrow your furnace for a few days?"
"Take as long as you need."
They seemed thrilled by the phrase "a few days," their faces lighting up.
Dang Mujin looked accustomed to such situations, but everything inside the forge was alien to Namgung Myeong. He glanced around incessantly.
The thick heat wafting through the forge, the still-glowing red-hot metal that hadn't cooled, the smell of burning charcoal—it was all so unfamiliar. Namgung Myeong still couldn't guess why he'd been brought here.
"Why'd you bring me?"
"To watch your sword take shape."
Dang Mujin gave a curt reply and approached the furnace.
In the midst of everyone silently watching Dang Mujin, the only one moving was an old man working the bellows. The bellows creaked relentlessly, spewing fierce gusts of air.
Dang Mujin took out the Cold Iron and placed it before the furnace. Most of the smiths were seeing it for the first time, but they immediately recognized it wasn't ordinary iron. They'd spent their lives working metal, after all.
However, to the smiths' eyes, there wasn't quite enough Cold Iron.
"You'll use this?"
The eldest smith in the forge approached Dang Mujin and handed him a long iron rod.
Dang Mujin's eyes gleamed. It was Hundred Refinements Pure Steel.
Hundred Refinements Pure Steel wasn't special iron like Cloud Iron, Ink Iron, or Cold Iron by birth. It was simply high-quality iron refined meticulously a hundred times.
Yet it was far too precious for an ordinary sword and embodied the very essence of a smith's life.
"We prepared it with utmost care. I hope it helps."
Dang Mujin lowered his gaze to the old smith's hand.
A rough hand, its nails worn away long ago. It probably wouldn't even register sparks from the fire.
But the old man's hand was slightly swollen. This wasn't Hundred Refinements Pure Steel he'd had on hand—it was clearly prepared after meeting Dang Mujin.
While the people of Muchang were distracted by the martial tournament, this old man had quietly holed up in Great Golden Iron Forge, hammering away.
"I'll put it to good use."
The old man smiled faintly at Dang Mujin's response. He might not forge masterpieces himself, but he could leave his trace on one.
Unlike the old smith's concern that there wouldn't be enough iron, though, Dang Mujin had one more material.
He unrolled a bundled cloth. The blade of the sword Namgung Myeong had used until now was revealed. Without a scabbard or hilt, it looked rather plain.
Dang Mujin tossed the Cold Iron, Hundred Refinements Pure Steel, and Namgung Myeong's blade into the furnace together.
Though not widely known, a sword numbering among the world's finest was about to be melted down with other metals into mere scrap.
Namgung Myeong knew how valuable his sword was, so he couldn't shake his regret. He couldn't help questioning why such a treasure had to become mere material. Even though this was the process of forging his new sword.
That's why Namgung Myeong looked around at the smiths. But they showed no hint of regret.
Namgung Myeong asked the smith beside him.
"...Isn't it a waste?"
But the smith answered curtly.
"Not at all."
"Do you know how precious that sword is? Once it's mixed in, what's the difference from ordinary scrap?"
"Smiths know that the effort and toil poured into iron never vanishes."
The sword's form might disappear, but the effort and toil infused in the metal endures. That was the smiths' way of thinking. Namgung Myeong tried to understand the smiths' mindset, and Dang Mujin's.
Thud, thud, thud—
Dang Mujin placed the glowing-hot metal on the anvil and hammered it. The three materials melded into one.
When the metal cooled and darkened, Dang Mujin returned it to the furnace.
Once it glowed red-hot again and time had passed, he pulled it out and hammered repeatedly.
Even the world's greatest famed swords aren't forged in serene elegance. The process of creating a masterwork sword is noisier, more chaotic, and messier than for an ordinary blade.
The smiths watched the clamor and bustle in rapt fascination.
Unlike the smiths, Namgung Myeong couldn't grasp the depth in those hammer strikes. And he knew he'd never comprehend it, not for eternity. That realization left him wistful.
The shape of the metal ingot gradually changed.
But Dang Mujin didn't carelessly shape it. Even working by lamplight late into the night, he held back.
After staying up all night and reaching lunchtime the next day, the old smith who had given him the Hundred Refinements Pure Steel stepped forward and gripped the tongs. The crude iron tongs clamped the red-hot metal.
Dang Mujin swung the hammer with force.
Clang—
A clear, resounding crash echoed as sparks exploded outward like a burst.
The sword began to take shape bit by bit.
It was a scene of utmost dynamism, yet agonizingly slow. Counting the customers who'd turned away from Great Golden Iron Forge was impossible.
'...Dang Mujin usually forged a whole sword in less than a day.'
The ingot flattened gradually, then lengthened into a metal rod. The rod thinned further, gradually assuming a sword's form.
Namgung Myeong realized at some point that he too was entranced like the smiths, staring at the work. Was this the return to the commonplace of all things?
When the sword had nearly taken full form, Namgung Myeong realized he needed to do something himself.
But he knew nothing about metal.
So Namgung Myeong approached the vat of water prepared for quenching. The smiths' eyes turned to him.
Namgung Myeong drew a small knife and sliced his palm. Blood droplets flowed down his fingers into the vat. There was quite a bit of blood.
He thought Dang Mujin might scold him for ruining the sword. But neither Dang Mujin nor the other smiths stopped him. Just as the effort in metal doesn't vanish, neither does such sincerity.
Finally, as the sun of the third day dipped below the ridge, Dang Mujin plunged the sword into the vat.
Ssssss—
Water sprayed amid a deafening hiss. That was the end. The hammer strikes echoing through Great Golden Iron Forge finally ceased.
Of course, the work wasn't finished.
Dang Mujin settled in a corner of the forge and began grinding the sword on a whetstone. He didn't start with coarse stones to shape it and move to fine ones—he began with the finest whetstone from the outset.
Grinding the blade took a full four more days.
At last, the blade was complete. After seven days, Dang Mujin spoke.
"Namgung Myeong."
"Yeah?"
"Thank the elder. Thanks to his Hundred Refinements Pure Steel, I could make your hilt out of metal too."
Without hesitation, Namgung Myeong bowed deeply to the old man and the other smiths.
The smiths, if anything, looked embarrassed.
They weren't martial artists, but they knew the lofty reputation of the Namgung family. They knew how proud those bearing the Namgung name stood.
Crafting the hilt took another full day, and the scabbard yet another.
Only then did Dang Mujin, leaning back against the wall, hand the sword to Namgung Myeong. For the moment when the world's finest sword found its master, it was underwhelmingly plain. But Namgung Myeong knew how exhausted Dang Mujin was.
Unthinkingly, Namgung Myeong accepted it with both hands.
Without even drawing it from the scabbard, he gripped the hilt.
'Huh...?'
Gripping a new sword should feel unfamiliar.
But it felt utterly familiar. Like the sword he'd wielded for years. The sensation of its wooden hilt was astonishingly similar.
Namgung Myeong raised the sword to eye level and examined the hilt closely.
The handprints worn into his old sword's hilt were perfectly replicated on this one.
'....'
Namgung Myeong gripped the sword and stepped outside. A bright full moon hung in the sky before he knew it.
The smiths followed him out. But Dang Mujin remained slumped in the forge, leaning against the wall. He didn't even glance outside.
Namgung Myeong slowly drew the sword.
A well-crafted sword typically rings clearly as the blade slides against the scabbard.
But this sword made no sound even as it left the scabbard. Even though the blade clearly touched the oxhorn mouth.
Namgung Myeong didn't notice. The sword emerging from the scabbard had completely captivated him.
A chillingly beautiful blade, bearing the faintest streamlined curve, shimmered ethereally in the moonlight.
An indescribable emotion surged in Namgung Myeong's chest. But it needed no description. Any martial artist would feel the same upon seeing this sword.
The smiths thought he might break into a sword dance.
But Namgung Myeong simply raised the sword slowly and swung it down languidly once. That was all. The night remained still. None of the smiths grasped the profound subtlety within Namgung Myeong's sword.
Namgung Myeong drew a deep breath, then tremblingly sheathed it. He turned back toward the forge.
He didn't know what to say to Dang Mujin.
Should he say thanks, that he didn't know how to repay the favor? Or brush it off casually like always?
But there was no need to agonize. Dang Mujin was already fast asleep.
Namgung Myeong grinned at the sight, then sat outside the forge gazing at the moon.
He didn't know what exactly he regretted losing, but it felt so profoundly precious that Namgung Myeong couldn't draw the sword again until the night had passed.