34: Chapter 34 Learning Forging

After leaving the bank, Richard intended to go to the blacksmith shop with Cecilia to get some things sorted out; he was still carrying a rolled-up bundle of Petrified Lizard skin.

The blacksmith shop was steaming with heat, the clanging of the anvil ringing from the entrance all the way to the backyard, and the air was filled with the mixed scent of charcoal and quenching oil.

The furnace fire illuminated the entire shop in a reddish glow. A dwarf, whose height only reached Richard's chest, was swinging a hammer while shirtless, his thick orange beard soaked with sweat and braided into several small pigtails hanging over his chest.

The ends of his beard had been singed by the furnace fire, but he clearly didn't care.

Hearing footsteps, the dwarf plunged the sword blank he was forging into the quenching trough, causing a cloud of white steam to explode from the tank.

He wiped his hands with a rag that had lost its original color and turned around to look Richard up and down.

His gaze lingered on the Petrified Lizard skin, and he reached out to feel the texture of the hide, scraping the hardness of the scales with his fingernails.

The dwarf spoke, "One Petrified Lizard skin. It was skinned decently; you didn't scratch up the scales."

"I want to make a set of leather armor. See if there's enough to make a complete torso piece and leggings."

Richard placed the hide on the workbench next to the anvil.

The dwarf stroked his thick beard and nodded, "To make a set of leather armor, I'll charge you ten gold coins. The turnaround time is one week."

After speaking, the dwarf shook out the lizard skin, measured the dimensions, pulled a tape measure from under the workbench, and his thick, short fingers slid rapidly along the ruler.

"The toughness of Petrified Lizard skin is a grade higher than cowhide. The hardness of the scales themselves can withstand the slashing of ordinary swords, and it has a natural resistance to petrification-type magic."

"Although it won't make you immune to Petrifying Gaze, at least it can let you hold on for a few more seconds when you get hit."

"Don't underestimate those few seconds; it's enough for you to rush up and stab it in the eyes," the dwarf muttered.

Richard scanned the shelves of the blacksmith shop and found a corner filled with various weapon maintenance supplies.

"Also, help me with a set of equipment maintenance: the halberd, the battle axe, plus her longsword and the spare dagger. How much?"

"Five silver coins. Maintenance work like this isn't usually worth that much, but that halberd of yours has been affected by corrosion and needs to be reground and oiled. It's a hassle."

The dwarf grumbled, grabbing a few oil bottles and a whetstone from the shelf.

However, Richard didn't leave after paying.

The dwarf looked up, his thick orange eyebrows furrowing, "Human lad, anything else?"

"Master, I would like to learn blacksmithing from you," Richard said.

This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea for Richard, but rather something he had been considering for a long time.

If he became a blacksmith, would he be recognized by the system? If so, he would be able to craft and repair equipment himself in the future, which would not only allow him to make money but also improve his own strength.

The dwarf was stunned for a moment, then let out a hearty, rough laugh that made his beard shake:

"Lad, this isn't a job you can learn in a day or two!"

"I started working the bellows at seven and didn't touch a hammer until I was fifteen. What do you want to learn? Making nails? Making farm tools? Or forging a divine sword capable of slaying a dragon?"

Richard replied very solemnly, "Farm tools are fine. I'll learn what I can. I can pay tuition... five gold coins for one week of teaching."

The dwarf's loud laughter stopped.

He sized Richard up again, feeling that this human lad must be serious.

"Five gold coins isn't a small amount. Do you really want to learn?"

Richard nodded. The dwarf was silent for a moment, then turned around, picked up a spare forging hammer from the workbench, and tossed it to Richard.

The hammer drew an arc in the air, and Richard caught it easily with one hand.

Watching his arm remain steady as he caught the iron hammer, which weighed at least ten pounds, a hint of a smile appeared at the corner of the dwarf's mouth.

"Try it for three days first. If you can't forge a decent iron nail in three days, you can take your five gold coins and get lost."

After taking Cecilia back to her lodging, Richard went to the blacksmith shop early the next morning.

It wasn't light out yet, but smoke was already rising from the blacksmith shop's chimney.

The dwarf blacksmith guiding Richard, whose name was Baron Grayhammer, was already working the bellows in front of the furnace.

Seeing Richard push the door open, he pointed to the largest forging hammer in the corner and said, "First, straighten that pile of scrap iron," before ignoring him completely.

The scrap iron was a pile of bent and deformed old iron bars and discarded horseshoes, each one rusted and tossed casually into the corner by the previous owner.

Richard picked up the forging hammer and struck the first iron bar. It didn't straighten; instead, it became even more distorted, bending into a ridiculous arc.

Baron glanced over from behind the bellows, said nothing, but the beard at the corner of his mouth twitched upward before he continued working the bellows.

The entire first day was just repeating this one thing: straightening scrap iron.

Baron would occasionally come over to take a look and point out that his grip on the hammer was wrong; holding the handle too tightly would absorb the shock, making his wrist ache after just a few strikes.

The correct way to hold it was a loose grip, leaving a slight gap between the fingers to allow space for the hammer to cushion when it rebounded.

Then he pointed out that his stance was wrong; his legs were too close together, making his center of gravity unstable, and by the third hour, Richard's waist began to ache.

Then came the rhythm of breathing; every strike required exhaling the moment the hammerhead fell, rather than holding his breath.

He said this was the first lesson for a dwarf blacksmith apprentice; a blacksmith who couldn't even manage their breathing would definitely produce failures.

Richard followed all of Baron's instructions.

He knew that the foundation of any craft wasn't technique, but habit.

Once bad habits are formed, they are hard to change, so the initial foundation is actually the most important thing.

He hammered scrap iron for an entire day, from morning until dark; even after the furnace fire went out, he was still hammering.

Baron was eating and drinking on the side, and after he finished his meal in a few bites, Richard only stopped once he had straightened all the scrap iron.

When he finished for the evening, the webbing between his thumbs and forefingers on both hands had split, and the seeping blood had congealed into a dark red layer on the hammer handle, but all the iron bars were straight.

Baron sat in the corner with a wine glass, watching for a moment, then tossed him a small bottle of black ointment that smelled like a mixture of coal tar and some kind of herb.

"Rub it on your hands. Keep hammering tomorrow."

The next day, the dwarf Baron had him light the furnace.

Richard needed to use the bellows to bring the furnace temperature up to the point where iron could melt.

The blacksmith furnace made by the dwarves was different from human ones; the bellows required the full range of motion of the arms to operate.

Each pull had to be even and forceful; too fast, and the furnace temperature would be pushed too high; too slow, and the temperature wouldn't rise enough to heat the iron through.

Richard worked the bellows for the whole morning, his right arm aching from shoulder to wrist, while Baron stood by for the entire morning, pointing out his rhythm at any moment.

The iron was heated to over a thousand degrees in the furnace, and even from several steps away, one could feel the heat wave capable of curling the fine hairs on a person's face.

Baron had him use tongs to clamp the thoroughly heated iron and place it on the anvil, then he demonstrated by swinging the hammer himself.

This was the most basic method of forging.

The hammer struck the anvil with three short, rapid hits, followed by a very brief pause, and then another three rapid hits.

The rhythm was distinct, as steady as a drumbeat.

The landing point and angle of every hammer strike were so precise that it didn't look like a human hand at work, but rather a machine.

The iron was flattened and shaped during the three rapid strikes, flipped during the pause, and then further extended during the next set of three strikes.

After thirty strikes, a piece of iron that was originally irregular had become a roughly shaped sickle blade.

Baron clamped it up and threw it into the quenching trough; white steam rose, and the trough hissed.

Then he handed the tongs to Richard, "You do it."