Chapter 212
The Blacksmith (4)
Shhh—!
A rapier thrusts with precision, an arrow arcs gracefully through the air.
A dagger slices through the branches, while a trident plunges down in a straight line with unwavering force.
“Requiem of Shadows”
“Dual Step Dispersal”
“Crimson Flame Pillar”
A shadow forms, severing the arrow mid-flight, while a pillar of fire engulfs the trident and dagger.
As the rapier changes direction, a thrown axe intercepts it, and a thick curved sword slices through the fire pillar.
Clang!
Dalen parries the heavy blow with his broken sword.
The sword he received as payment weeks ago was now reduced to less than a third of its original length.
The scabbard, once imbued with power, had long since become nothing more than a sturdy relic.
It was inevitable. Even a relic weapon has its limits.
In a relentless battle like this, where rest is a luxury, how many weapons could withstand such strain?
‘How many days… has it been?’
He tries to count the days unconsciously. It had been long since he lost track of time.
A day, two days, five days, a week.
When it surpassed ten days, he gave up counting. Even a body and mind as resilient as his had limits.
Clang!
An axe swings reflexively, sparks flying before his eyes.
His mind, bleached by exhaustion, still reacts to the attacks, guided by the ingrained memories of countless battles.
“A sword is a child to a blacksmith, but a partner to a swordsman. That’s how Leredonara, the creator of the art of the sword, put it.”
A voice echoes in his mind, the voice of the blacksmith.
“They’re completely different. A child belongs to a different generation, grows up in a different environment, and develops differently. A wall inevitably forms without you realizing it.”
He lets the voice wash over him as he anticipates the next attack. A double-edged sword targets his back, devoid of any killing intent.
The blacksmith’s words about learning through experience weren’t wrong. This battle, which had lasted over ten days, was more than just a fight.
Each sword stroke carried intent, and with every clash, fragments of understanding seeped into his mind.
Initially, they were incomprehensible pieces, but as they accumulated, they formed a clear realization.
’…Leredonara’s art of the sword.’
A technique he had once accepted as a mere skill.
He had mastered vast techniques and visions without years of blood, sweat, and tears.
He reverses his approach, revisiting the process despite having the results. A path of retracing steps, unfamiliar since he arrived in this world.
”…!”
And with it came a new form of exhilaration he had never felt before.
A sensation as if dormant nerves were awakening one by one.
His limbs felt heavy, his mind clouded, yet an inexplicable exhilaration lifted his consciousness higher.
“But there’s no wall between partners. The bond is formed to lower the wall to the ground.”
In his floating consciousness, the blacksmith’s words penetrated deeply.
“Do you know the most significant trait of a partner?”
In what would have seemed like a riddle, he finds the answer and conclusion ahead of time.
‘That they can never be separated.’
“That they can never be separated.”
“Return of the Sword”
The moment he understood, the result was already in his grasp.
His vision returned with clarity, as if doused with cold water.
The first thing he saw was the gleaming blue-white blade.
The holy sword Tortanis, once broken in a duel with the lightning sorcerer Deltarion, had been reborn in the blacksmith’s hands.
The sword, which should have been in the forge, had transcended space and constraints to return to his hand.
“Yes, that’s the first step.”
The blacksmith, watching from afar, smiled with satisfaction. Dalen took a deep breath and raised the holy sword with both hands.
Simply holding it filled his weary body with renewed strength.
The art of Leredonara’s sword, rebuilt from the foundational imagery, invigorated him the moment he grasped the sword.
’…So that’s why the mastery of the art had stalled. I was completely mistaken.’
Dalen chuckled softly, tightening his grip on the sword’s hilt.
A skill classified as mystical, above B-rank.
He hadn’t neglected the effort to refine the powerful and versatile ancient techniques into his own strength.
Not just to ascend to the sixth rank, but to make the art of the sword and dragon blood his unique skills.
Combining the two unique skills, Requiem and Ignition, with the art of the sword was one of those efforts.
‘I was too focused on the functional aspect. The essence of mysticism was far from that.’
Controlling a weapon without touching it, infusing it with the power of spells.
The art of the sword was known for such abilities, but its essence went beyond mere technique.
The core imagery of Leredonara’s art was unity with the weapon.
Despite being physically separate entities, they resonated as one in spirit and will.
This was why Leredonara spent a lifetime with his third holy sword, Leredonatel.
Shhh—!
A long sword flies toward him. This time, he doesn’t parry.
His feet firmly planted on the ground, his hands gripping the holy sword, he extends it forward.
In that moment, the will that rose from his immobile body subtly twisted the sword’s path.
Swoosh!
The long sword grazed past, tearing his clothes and drawing blood, but only for a moment.
Sss…
The long sword, about to embed itself in the ground, halted and slowly rose to hover beside Dalen’s shoulder.
That was the beginning.
Whoosh!
Spears and swords that had been flying relentlessly were suddenly caught, as if snagged on an invisible thread.
The charging empty armors stumbled and collapsed, disassembling into pieces.
The fallen armors reassembled and stood, while the halted weapons began to turn their tips in the opposite direction.
One by one, control shifted. In an instant, over fifty weapons aimed their blades at the countless armaments.
“That’s enough.”
A deep, resonant voice echoed through the clearing, and the remaining weapons vanished into the forge’s chimney as if sucked in.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The blacksmith approached, clapping slowly. Dalen finally exhaled deeply and sank to the ground.
”…Damn it.”
Every breath released hot steam. His muscles and organs screamed in protest.
This type of battle was entirely new to him.
A fight not to defeat an opponent, but to endure endless assaults and learn the hidden techniques beyond them.
The blacksmith sat down beside him, placing a few items on the ground. He stroked his beard and spoke.
“Remarkable potential. Even for the protagonist of a prophecy. Honestly, I thought it would take longer.”
”…How long has it been?”
“A few weeks. In reality, perhaps three or four days have passed.”
“Whew. If it weren’t for the character I created, I’d be asking about my parents. Damn it.”
He clutched his throbbing forehead and lay back in the snow.
The blacksmith scratched his beard at the incomprehensible curses, then handed over two items wrapped in soft cloth.
A staff and armor, unlike anything he’d seen beyond the monitor, and clearly not ordinary judging by their aura.
“A staff made from the spine of an earth dragon, and armor crafted from its scales. They’re not for you, but I thought you’d have good companions to use them.”
“You managed all those weapons while forging these?”
“What’s difficult about it? I’ve been hammering all my life, it’s nothing to worry about.”
”…”
Is that what it takes to reach the pinnacle of craftsmanship?
Dalen inwardly marveled as he accepted the staff and armor, storing them in his subspace.
“Anyway, thank you… but can I take these? They weren’t made in life.”
“They were crafted from the earth dragon’s remains you brought, so it should be fine. Just like the holy sword Tortanis you’re holding.”
The blacksmith chuckled, his bushy beard twitching.
Upon closer inspection, his beard was singed in places, resembling a piece of cheese with holes.
It was likely due to the simultaneous training and crafting over the past few weeks.
Even if he said so, controlling tens of thousands of weapons while crafting dragon relics couldn’t have been easy.
“From what I’ve observed, I can tell.”
“Tell what?”
“That time is running out.”
The blacksmith rubbed his face with his thick palm.
“You seemed to be in a hurry. I figured there was a good reason. With someone like you around, the dark gods wouldn’t just sit idly by. You’ve clearly had a tough journey.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“That’s why I can’t teach you my craft.”
”…What do you mean by that?”
Dalren frowned, and the blacksmith waved his hand dismissively as he replied.
“Do you know the most important virtue of a blacksmith?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s having a heavy seat. The ability to immerse oneself. Or more precisely, to lose track of time in that immersion.”
As he spoke, the blacksmith reached behind his back.
“That’s why I only truly understood the essence of the hidden blade after my death. A great warrior can’t become a blacksmith, and a great blacksmith can’t become a warrior. The price of reaching greater heights is losing the leisure to delve deeper.”
He pulled out a hammer.
The hammer he always held in front of the anvil, worn and battered by decades of use.
“Give this to Reberon.”
The blacksmith gently placed the hammer on a flat stone.
“If he’s a master of mithril, he’ll be able to read the traces in that hammer. He might even revive the lost art of the dragonbone craftsmen.”
”…I appreciate it, but why give it to him?”
“You should know. He helped me a lot during my lifetime.”
Is that how it works? I just did a few quests, raised some affinity, and learned a couple of skills.
The gap between the flat world seen through a monitor and the reality of a person’s life often hit unexpectedly, like now.
Dalren scratched his chin and picked up the hammer. He stored it in his dimensional space and turned back to the blacksmith.
“Anyway, thank you. I’ve learned a lot thanks to you…”
But the blacksmith was already gone.
A snowstorm had started again, leaving only a blanket of white where he had stood.
”…”
The warmth had vanished, but everything else remained in the clearing.
About fifty spears and swords scattered around, the marks of countless battles, and the large forge with its chimney standing ahead.
Those who leave a legacy are bound to disappear.
And those who receive it must rise again in return.
It was time to go back.