35: Chapter 35 The Story of the Old Blacksmith

Richard tried to imitate the dwarf's three-hammer rhythm, but his hammer fell on the iron like a chicken pecking at rice—sometimes light, sometimes heavy, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Two out of the three hammer blows didn't even land on the same spot, and the piece of iron was beaten into a distorted mess on the anvil.

Baron watched from the side for a long time without saying a word, only speaking after Richard had ruined three pieces of iron:

"You're too impatient. These three hammer blows are all about rhythm. Every strike must land in the same area, not just smashed randomly."

"After taking the iron out of the furnace, you only have a thirty-second window. Before the temperature drops below the forgeable range within those thirty seconds, you have to finish all the necessary strikes."

"That's why rhythm is important. It's not about speed; it's about precision."

Richard didn't say anything. He clamped the ruined iron back into the furnace to heat it up again, then continued hammering.

Every hint from Baron helped reduce his mistakes a little bit.

The third piece of scrap was slightly better than the second; the spacing of the hammer marks was more even, and the curvature of the sickle blade he made wasn't as ugly.

He still wasn't very satisfied after finishing, but Baron picked up the finished product, took a look, and said:

"Barely passable. You've finally started to get the hang of it." Then he tossed the sickle blade into the quenching trough.

The next day, Baron didn't let him continue making farm tools.

He clamped a piece of iron larger than yesterday's into the furnace, heated it until it was glowing red, and then beckoned Richard to stand in front of the anvil.

"Today we're making something real: a short sword. Do it well."

Richard imitated the dwarf's stance, placed the thoroughly heated iron on the anvil, and gripped the forging hammer tightly.

The first set of blows pressed the iron into a long bar; the second set pressed out the prototype of the hilt at one end; the third set extended the other end into the shape of a blade.

His rhythm was still not as even as Baron's. There were still gaps between the hammer marks, the transitions between movements required longer pauses to adjust the angle, and every time he flipped the iron, he would misplace the tongs.

Baron corrected him constantly from the side, his voice low and brief, never repeating himself.

Towards the end, he said one more thing: "When quenching, the angle must be vertical. If you enter the water at an angle, the blade will bend."

Then he let Richard complete the final step on his own.

The water in the quenching trough churned endlessly, scalded by the red-hot iron. After the white mist dissipated, a short sword, as rough as scrap metal, lay on his fire tongs.

The edge was thin in some places and thick in others, the hilt was crooked, one side of the crossguard was nearly twice as wide as the other, and the whole sword looked like it had been stepped on by some monster.

Baron took it, glanced at it, tested the edge with his thumb, and then handed Richard a whetstone: "Sharpen it. We'll talk after you're done."

The quality of this sword couldn't even compare to the cheapest stock in a blacksmith shop.

But Richard placed it on the table and stared at it for a moment. A very strong feeling welled up inside him, and he was quite happy, because this was something he had forged with his own hands.

At this moment, new information appeared on Richard's Adventure Scroll.

[Through learning and hands-on practice, you have gained Basic Forging ability. Sub-class unlocked: Blacksmith.]

[Current Level: Level 1 Blacksmith (15/100). This profession can only gain experience points through forging.]

[New skill obtained: Dwarven Forging lv0 (5/50) — Can forge various weapons and armor. As the Blacksmith level increases, the quality of the equipment forged will be higher.]

He closed the panel, a smile appearing unconsciously at the corners of his mouth.

This new sub-class didn't provide any immediate boost to his combat ability, but once his level was higher, he would be able to craft various powerful pieces of equipment. It was definitely worth it.

After finishing a day of learning to forge, the old dwarf Baron asked him to stay for a meal.

Baron took out three silver coins and had the fat landlady from the tavern next door send over a clay pot of ale, several large loaves of long bread, two bowls of bean soup, and half a roasted lamb leg.

After work, the blacksmith shop quieted down, with only the occasional crackle of the remaining charcoal in the furnace.

Baron gnawed the lamb leg bone clean and tossed it into the corner. His old hunting dog, named "Iron Scraps," immediately snatched it up.

The old dwarf downed his third cup of ale, wiped his greasy beard, and his eyes suddenly lit up.

He let out a loud burp and said: "In the Furnace Mountains, real ale is brewed from core-mushrooms. It's as black as volcanic glass, and one gulp can make your throat spit fire."

"My grandfather, Bagnar Steelbeard—human boy, remember that name. It'll come in handy when you're bragging to others in the future, haha!"

"The old man lived to be two hundred and eighty years old. Every morning on an empty stomach, he'd down a liter of mushroom spirits, then swing his hammer until sunset."

"Two hundred and eighty years old! Not a single tooth missing, hair as white as mithril, and arms thicker than my thighs."

Richard took a bite of the lamb and mumbled in response: "Mm, quite impressive."

"Impressive?" Baron looked as if he had suffered a great insult and jumped off the wooden crate with a start.

"You human boy have no idea what 'impressive' means! Bagnar Steelbeard was the only blacksmith in the Furnace Mountains in the last hundred years to have touched star-iron! Do you know what star-iron is?"

"It's not that rusty junk you dig out of a mine. It's something that fell from the sky, carrying the fire of the stars, landing on the frozen ice plains of the far north and creating a fourteen-meter-deep crater."

"My grandfather traveled for three years before finding that piece of star-iron. Three years! Two brothers and five cousins died on the way, and he was chased across eight mountain peaks by frost giants."

"When he carried that piece of star-iron back, half the dwarves in the mountain range came out to see it. Even the King of Deeprock City sent envoys..."

He downed another gulp of ale, foam hanging from the tip of his beard, giving Richard absolutely no room to interject.

"He used that piece of star-iron to forge a legendary-grade battle axe!"

"'Meteor Scale-Splitter'—that's the name my grandfather gave it. The axe blade was quenched in dragon blood, and the handle was twisted from volcanic glass and obsidian."

"With this legendary weapon, he split the scales of an adult red dragon with a single axe blow, cutting from the left shoulder blade all the way to the right ribs. The fracture on the dragon bone was so smooth it could be used as a mirror."

"That dragon had been wreaking havoc on the eastern foothills of the Furnace Mountains for sixty years and had burned down two dwarven fortresses. In the end, it didn't last four strikes under my grandfather's hands—four strikes!"

"Afterwards, he pulled out the dragon's teeth and embedded them in the axe handle as decoration, and he peeled off the dragon wing membrane to make me a kite."

The lamb in Richard's mouth nearly sprayed out. This guy could really brag after a few drinks!

"Dragon wing membrane used to make a kite? Really?"

Baron glared at him, his beard bristling as he retorted: "What's wrong with that? I needed toys when I was a kid. You think dwarven children are born knowing how to smith? We fly kites too."

He sat down and suddenly fell silent for a moment.

The furnace fire cast his face in half-light and shadow. His expression gradually became calm, looking filled with unwillingness.

Richard thought he was finally tired of talking and was just about to take the opportunity to finish off the remaining lamb when Baron spoke again.