"Dad?"
Erob doesn't even glance up from the blade he's tempering.
"Yeah, Lucy?"
I hesitate for a second, fingers tightening around the edge of the workbench.
"I want to forge something. For me. A real sword. Not a toy. Not a stick for drills."
His hands pause. He sets the half-finished blade aside and turns toward me.
"You know how much good steel costs, right?"
"I do," I say, standing straighter. "I'll work double shifts for a week, maybe a month. But I want to do this now. I need to."
He studies me, not like a blacksmith, but like a father. His expression doesn't soften, but something behind his eyes shifts. Recognition, maybe.
"Use the second-grade alloy," he finally says, pointing toward the back shelf. "And you're cleaning the forge when you're done. Every bolt. Every hinge. Got it?"
I open my mouth, pause, and push the line.
"Can I use the good steel instead? The first-grade bar we got from Arwintar, the one you said was for emergencies."
His brow arches. "That's meant for commissions. Paying ones. You're not there yet, Lucien."
I clench my jaw. "But this isn't a test. I want to make something that lasts. Something worthy of all the work I've done."
He turns back to his blade, already shaking his head. "Second-grade. Final word."
Something hot sparks inside me. Not anger, just the long heat of a memory stored too long.
"What about that glass vase Mom loved? The one you broke last winter with the broom handle? You let me take the blame for that. I got grounded for two days. Didn't say a word."
Erob turns slowly, eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in surprise. Maybe even guilt.
"You're bringing that up now?"
"Of course I am," I say evenly. "I didn't say anything back then because I knew you didn't want her to be mad at you. I took the hit so you wouldn't have to. I never asked for anything. Not even thanks. But I'm asking now, Dad. Just this once."
He exhales. Long. Heavy.
Then he nods toward the shelf.
"Bottom left. One bar. And you're still cleaning the forge. Twice. Actually, make it a whole week."
I nod, trying not to grin.
"Deal."
"And if you screw it up," he adds, already smirking as he turns back to work, "I don't care what story you come up with. I'm melting it back down."
Perfect. More or less Dad's blessing.
Victory? Yeah, I'll take it.
Dinner passes quietly, but the weight of what's coming lingers between bites. Afterward, Dad tells Mom he needs my help with a "special job." She doesn't agree, but relents in the end.
We return to the forge.
This time, he doesn't douse the coals.
Instead, he sits on one of the old chairs near the wall, the one he usually shares with Gilo and says nothing.
He just watches.
He doesn't need to speak. His silence says everything.
It's time.
The forge is already warm when I step inside long before dawn.
Embers pulse like slow heartbeats in the belly of the furnace. The anvil waits. Silent. Patient. Familiar.
It smells of coal. Steel. And memory.
Today isn't about routine. It isn't a task. It isn't a lesson.
Today, I'm going to forge my sword.
I select a 3kg bar of mid-carbon steel: iron and carbon. Solid flexibility. Moderate hardness. Retains its edge without being brittle. Not flashy, just reliable.
[Control]
No real need to use it, but why not?
With a low, steady flame, I inspect the grain structure. Carefully, I heat the steel just past its critical temp a deep cherry red, maybe 800°C. I can't measure it, but my eyes have learned enough from Erob. I rotate the bar evenly with the tongs, making sure the heat spreads without creating weak spots.
Then comes the first strike.
The hammer drops. Sparks fly. The grain deforms, carbon spreads, structure aligns. With every blow, the bar shifts from potential to purpose.
I work it into a billet, draw it flat, fold it, not for pattern welding, but to purge impurities. Three folds. That's enough.
Reheat. Quench in oil, not water. Water is too harsh. The oil hisses. The blade darkens. I check for warping and adjust it while the steel is still reactive.
Next: normalization. Three heat cycles at decreasing temps. No hammer. No quench. Just letting the steel realign. Let it settle into itself.
Only then do I shape the edge.
No brute force, just incremental passes. A tapered spine. A single-bevel edge at 25 degrees. The tang curves slightly for better grip anchoring, no rivets needed.
I pause. Then activate a small Ki reinforcement, not for strength, but for precision. Stability. Endurance.
The hammer sings clearer. The metal feels alive. Each vibration echoes up through my arm and spine.
And once it's done, I lay my work on the bench and take a moment to breathe.
Because wherever I go, this blade will remind me where I began.
Who I am.
Who I choose to become.
...Huh. For someone sweaty, half-dead from exhaustion, and working through the night, I'm apparently feeling poetic.
Wait. Night?
I turn.
Dad is asleep.
Seriously? He falls asleep? In the chair?
How long have I been working?
I step outside and the sun nearly blinds me.
"Oh, crap..." I mutter. Only now do I feel the full weight of what my body just went through.
This has to count as child labor.
Let's see... started at 7 PM. Now?
The sun says 4 AM.
Nine hours. Nine unpaid hours... not that I ever got paid before, but damn. Time really flies.
I want to renegotiate my isekai contract. And with that thought, I'm pretty sure the last crumb of sanity I had left just packed its bags and walked out the door.
I turn and look at what I've created.
The blade lies on the workbench, its core still glowing faintly, warmth slowly ebbing from its form. Might as well finish it now, after nine hours, what's another one? At this point, time has lost all meaning.
I turn to the grip.
For the core, I choose a solid length of seasoned tree wood from the nearby grove, simple, but strong. I sand the tang to a rough finish for better grip, then carefully carve the wood to fit. It isn't elegant, but it's snug. I secure it in place using a resin I make from boiled pine sap mixed with fine charcoal dust. No rivets. No pins. Just friction, precise cuts, and trust in the work.
Then comes the wrap.
I use soft, oiled leather from the hide of a wild boar an adventurer party sold last autumn. Thick but pliable. I cut it into long strips and bind the grip tightly, overlapping each turn with precision, pulling until my fingers burn. Once done, I seal it with a wax finish. Durable. Solid. No slipping, even with sweaty hands.
The pommel is simple: a hammered steel disc, rounded and counterbalanced. Just enough weight to shift the center toward the hand. I polish it lightly, not to shine, but to smooth.
The guard is a modest curve of iron. No ornament. Just function. Enough to catch a blade. Never meant for flair.
I stare at it all once more.
This is no toy. No training stick. It's a sword.
Mine.
And it's beautiful.
Not perfect. But that's okay. I could've asked my dad, or gone to a city to buy a better one probably sturdier, definitely prettier. But this? I make this. Every centimeter, every flaw, every choice, mine. And that's exactly what makes it more beautiful than anything I could've bought.
I exhale, let myself fall backward onto the ground, and stare up at the ceiling with another long sigh.
[Ding]
Of course it triggers now. Right when I'm flat on my back, covered in sweat and ash, staring at the ceiling. Perfect timing, System. Really. You couldn't have picked a more dramatic moment if you tried.
I think I'm losing my mind.