Chapter 9 : Chapter 9
Chapter 9.
Grinding his teeth, Nawellon looked as though he hated to admit that he had lost.
His words were a little slurred because of it, but I let that pass for now.
“...What do you want?”
“There we go. Now we are finally getting somewhere.”
Grinning like a mischievous brat, I pulled the letter away from in front of Nawellon’s face.
“If word gets out that you were spying, House Isentic’s reputation will sink even further. For now, I am confiscating this letter.”
“I asked you what you want.”
“Hmm.... I do happen to need a decent sword, but whether a magical house like Isentic can produce a blade that satisfies me is another matter.”
“You need a sword? Nordiar should have more than enough decent blades lying around.”
Perhaps my words puzzled him, because Nawellon tilted his head.
“Decent, yes. But I could not find one that truly suited my taste. And whenever I tried to make do with one that seemed usable for the moment, the servants would start threatening me that I was not allowed.”
“...So?”
“What I want is a masterwork sword. A true masterpiece, the sort only one century might produce. Do you happen to know a skilled blacksmith? The finest blacksmith you know.”
***
And so I entered Isentic territory and followed Nawellon down the road.
“He is the blacksmith who supplies staves to our house. He specializes in staves, but... as far as I know, he is still the best blacksmith there is.”
“Hmm.”
“For now, I will at least take a look.”
The moment I flung the door open, the bell hanging from it rang out in a clear tone.
“Welcome.... Lord Nawellon? The delivery deadline is still far off, is it not? What brings you here...?”
“Well..., this brat says he wants a decent sword.”
“Huh? And who might this gentleman be...?”
At the blacksmith’s questioning tone, I answered as though I could hardly be bothered.
Perhaps the irritation in my voice was too obvious, because the blacksmith’s face immediately darkened.
“Kairun Nordiar, fourth son of House Nordiar. I was told you were a capable blacksmith, so I came to see for myself....”
“So you are a young nobleman. If it is a sword you want, then every blade in that display case is for sale.”
“...No good. All of them. Every last one.”
“What?”
Perhaps he had some pride in his craft after all.
The instant I dismissed every sword in his display as worthless, the blacksmith’s expression went beyond displeasure and turned positively rotten.
“No matter that you are from House Nordiar, the Northern Grand Duke’s family—these are not blades that would be looked down upon anywhere.”
“No, I need a masterwork sword that would make blades like these seem beneath notice.”
The blacksmith let out a long sigh.
“...If you want something that is fine, then your only option is to look for a dwarf in the North. They are called the race of craftsmen for a reason.”
“Hmm, but I need it right away.”
“...There may be a way. Perhaps.”
“Oh?”
As I raised my brows in interest, the blacksmith continued.
“There is a street called Singing Quench.”
“Singing Quench, yes? I know of it as well. A place lined with master craftsmen.... But it is far away, deep in the southern reaches of the Empire. Far too far.”
Nawellon spoke with open reluctance.
I answered him at once.
“Far? This is the territory of Isentic, the great magical house.”
“...Ah? Surely you do not mean—!”
“You have a teleportation device, do you not?”
“Do you have any idea how much it costs to use that even once—!”
“Watch your language.”
“...Tch!”
“Come. Every moment counts.”
“Damn it!”
As he watched me decide on our destination and move at once, the blacksmith muttered under his breath.
His voice was loud enough that it was clearly meant for me to hear.
“Tsk, tsk. Even if he is from Nordiar.... He has already gotten ideas above his station. He thinks a masterwork sword is everything. He will not last long.”
Well, whatever that blacksmith thought of me did not matter.
What I needed was a masterwork sword. That was all.
***
Using Isentic’s long-range teleportation device, we arrived at Singing Quench.
“Even so, this place is more prosperous than I expected. To think it has a long-range teleportation device as well.”
“Oh, enough. I am done with this. Do as you please.”
Leaving my uncle behind with that hollow sigh, I turned my eyes toward the blades set out along the street.
“There are quite a few fine swords here.”
The quality was certainly high.
But there was nothing that struck me at once, nothing that made me think, This is it—the kind of sword one might call truly to one’s liking.
“...This will not do. I suppose I will have to commission one after all.”
“And do you even have the money for that?”
“My uncle will pay, naturally.”
“You really are wringing every last drop out of me. First the teleportation device, and now a commission as well.”
“I am the sort who makes sure to obtain whatever I need.”
Perhaps he had truly attained enlightenment by now, because my uncle only laughed hollowly.
“Of course you are. But tell me this—how exactly do you plan to find another blacksmith here?”
“Hmm. There is a way. Let us go over there.”
And so one hour passed, then two, and then evening began to fall.
The time we spent at Singing Quench grew longer and longer, but I never once thought it wasted.
Then I chose a forge.
On the surface it looked no different from any of the other shops, and yet,
“You cannot fool my eyes. Here. Let us go in here.”
“What is special about this one? To my eyes, they are all the same swords and staves.”
“That is exactly why you are hopeless, Uncle.”
“......”
I strode into the forge with complete confidence.
“Is anyone there?”
Perhaps it was strange for Nawellon to see someone as much of a delinquent as me showing courtesy, because he tilted his head slightly.
“...Who is it?”
An old blacksmith’s voice rang out from within.
His voice was rough and metallic, carrying even a faint sense of pressure.
“My name is Kairun Nordiar. If it would please you, I would like to take a look at your swords.”
“...I no longer do business. I closed this shop a long time ago.”
“That is a lie.”
“...How rude.”
“If that were true, then the swords outside would not look nearly so impressive. You left them there to be seen, did you not?”
“I was cleaning out the shop and put some cumbersome junk outside, that is all.”
“Oh dear, another lie. I know that blade is extraordinary. And I know you left it outside because you desperately wanted someone to recognize it.”
“......”
Perhaps he had nothing to say to that, because the ringing of metal from inside suddenly ceased.
A moment later, the blacksmith drew back the curtain and revealed himself.
He was an old man with gray hair, but the powerful physique unique to a blacksmith could not be hidden.
Scars from molten iron. Calluses earned from the hammer.
His body was covered in countless such traces.
“...What made you judge it to be such an extraordinary blade?”
“This one.”
“Mistrustful old man,” I muttered under my breath, then drew a single sword from the display.
“...And what of it?”
“You cannot fool my eyes. This is an Ego Sword, is it not?”
An Ego Sword.
A weapon in which the sword chooses its master, rather than the master choosing the sword.
The old me would never have recognized it, but perhaps because I had awakened to the realm of Grand Master, I heard the voice of mana the moment I first laid eyes on it.
The ego dwelling within the sword had called out to me.
“...How?”
“I am a little unusual. In any case, this one is too light. I would like to commission the sword I truly want.”
“I told you, I have closed my shop.”
“How much do you want?”
“I do not want money. The master craftsmen of Singing Quench all have convictions of their own.”
“Then what is it that you do want?”
“Nothing. It is impressive that you recognized an Ego Sword, but that is all. Leave. I am no longer a blacksmith.”
“...Why?”
Why would a blacksmith of his caliber give up forging swords?
“...I no longer wish for the weapons I make to become instruments of death. There was a time when I took joy in striking steel with my hammer, in working while molten iron splashed around me. But the first time one of the weapons I supplied was hailed in a victory report, I saw it with my own eyes. The Empire’s horrific slaughter of other races.”
As though he were vomiting up an old grudge that had festered for years, the old craftsman spoke.
“......”
“I am unfit to be called a blacksmith. This is no shining talent. It is a curse. Someone like you could never understand.”
“That is troublesome. I need a sword forged by you.”
“Go to another master. There are many great craftsmen here.”
“No. Another craftsman will not do. It has to be you.”
“You are stubborn. Have you not heard a word I said?”
“That is how desperately I need it. Your sword. Your talent.”
“...Why do you seek such a great masterwork blade? What is it that makes you so desperate?”
As if to say he might as well hear me out, the craftsman folded his arms and gave me a sidelong look.
Leaning one shoulder against the wall, I answered in a single word.
“To protect.”
“...To protect?”
He repeated the words as though puzzled, so I said them once more.
“I need your sword so that I do not lose what is precious to me. I did not know it before.”
Father.
If the last words you spoke to me just before I died in my previous life were true, then in this life...
“The sword you forge does not have to become the spearhead of a massacre. It can also become a blade that protects what is precious to someone.”
“Are you saying the Empire’s massacre was righteous?”
“No. What I wish to speak of is the swordsman’s will.”
“...Very well. If you are willing to say that much.”
The craftsman picked up his hammer.
There was no way I could fail to understand what that meant.
“I will forge you a sword. But how it is used will depend on the resolve of the one who wields it. On a path you know to be right, it will become the finest blade, one sharp enough to cleave even a great mountain. But on a path you know to be wrong, it will grow duller than the wretched blades rolling about a marketplace.”
“How interesting. Very well.”
“What your resolve truly is... you should know that better than anyone.”
***
When Kairun returned to Nordiar afterward, the first person to greet him was the eldest son, Philion.
“Where have you been wandering off to? Father has been deeply worried.”
His voice was as hollow as ever.
“I went out for a stroll with Uncle and commissioned a sword. At Singing Quench.”
“...A sword? There should be piles of them in the family armory already.”
“They were all little more than trash, as far as I could tell.”
Perhaps he found it absurd that Kairun was treating Nordiar’s swords as trash, because Philion let out a derisive snort.
“Hah. So that is how you judge the family’s swords. I see you have already been swept away by lofty notions. Do you think that merely holding a masterwork sword will make you some great swordsman?”
“Whether they are lofty notions or not... Well, the results will speak for themselves.”
“You still do not know your place. I heard about your spar with Cannon. Awakening aura already is certainly remarkable, but the world is far too vast for you to take pride in something as trivial as aura.”
“That is an awfully long lecture from someone like you. Do you really think I do not know that much?”
“To lead Nordiar. That is the calling of the eldest son. In other words, it means that even a scoundrel like you falls under my care. ...Singing Quench, was it? I remember the place from when I was young. Father had his sword commissioned there as well.”
“Well, it is a gathering place for master craftsmen. For a Grand Master as exalted as Father, anything less would hardly do. I wonder which craftsman made Father’s sword.”
“...I heard he retired. Let that be enough. Use your masterwork sword well.”
Philion turned away and left.
“Pitiful. My eldest brother has shackled himself with rules and with his own sense of duty.”
The nickname people gave him was the Puppet of Nordiar.
“If my eldest brother cannot break the chains he has fastened around himself, then that will be as far as he ever goes.”