Chapter 49: The Blacksmith and the Blade
Haah... Haah...
Rhythmic, slightly tired breathing broke the silence of the cheap inn room. His source is a teenager who looks about seventeen, although in fact he has already turned eighteen. His young body, hardened by travel and pain, did not want to give out this extra year.
In his hands was a simple but deadly sharp training sword. He performed monotonous, automatic swings: up and down, at an angle, from a U-turn. Every move was well—honed, devoid of any frills, aimed at only one goal - effective killing.
Shhhh! Shhhh! Shhhh!
The whistling of the air was the only music in this sparse room.
— Fuhh... Azrael lowered his blade, his chest heaving steadily. He turned his head towards the open window, beyond which the majestic spires of the Academy could be seen. There wasn't much time left before the entrance exams. The thought of it made his blood run a little faster. Not out of excitement, no. From anticipation.
He was currently staying at one of the cheap hotels on the outskirts of the city. More precisely, to say that he "stopped" here would be an exaggeration. He didn't pay. Last night, using shadows and a skill honed in hundreds of skirmishes, he just snuck into an empty room. There was a bed, even some kind of bathroom, and in the kitchen he found leftovers—stale bread, cheese, and an apple. It was enough to satisfy my hunger. He shaved with a blunt razor, washed off the road dust and dirt, and, going to the mirror, cut off his long, tangled hair without regret.
Now they were short and practical. Brown eyes looked at the world with cold detachment. The pale skin that appeared after washing made his face look ordinary, unremarkable, one of hundreds of the same on the streets of the city. "Not a pretty, well, in short, an ordinary face. It's a pity," an ironic thought flashed through his mind. Stealth was his ally.
He had been practicing for three hours without a break. His muscles burned with a pleasant fire, and his mind was crystal clear. — Hmm, maybe we should come up with a new style? He muttered to himself, twirling his wrist and studying the line of the blade. —Or.".. Go to the blacksmith shop? I think this is a good option.
His old sword was a reliable companion, but he felt that it would not be enough for what lay ahead. He needed something more.
---
The streets of the city were bustling with life, in stark contrast to the privacy of his room. Azrael walked, disappearing into the crowd, his ordinary appearance making him invisible. To the right, there were countless stalls and stalls: merchants with loud voices offered vegetables, fruits, fresh juices, spices, fabrics, anything. The air was thick and sweet with the smells of roasting meat, spices, and human sweat.
On the left was what he needed. Kuznechny row. The sound of hammers on anvils created a harsh, industrial symphony. It smelled of coal, hot metal, and the sweat of hard work. The heat of the melting furnaces poured out of the open doors.
Azrael had been walking for about twenty minutes, checking with vague memories and rumors he had heard in the taverns. He wasn't just looking for a blacksmith shop. He was looking for a specific place. The same workshop that Lin had visited in his previous lives. A place where not just iron was forged, but something more.
And then he saw it. An unsightly, leaning wooden house, sandwiched between two stone benches. It looked so old and dilapidated, as if it was about to collapse and turn into a pile of splinters. There was no signboard or identification marks on the door. Exactly as they said.
Without hesitation, Azrael pushed open the creaking door and went inside.
The first thing that caught my eye was not the heat of the furnace or the clang of the hammer, but... silence. And swords. They hung on the walls, lay on the table, stood in the shelves. They weren't just tools for killing. They were works of art. Graceful katanas with an undulating line of hardening on the blade, massive sledgehammers that seemed to shake the earth, clubs and bats covered with intricate carvings, needle-thin daggers with precious stones in the handles. Each object radiated a subtle aura, each kept its own story.
—Wow,— Azrael breathed out in his mind, his habitually cold eyes glancing curiously at the collection.
A woman was sitting behind a counter filled with handles, guards, and grindstones. And her appearance was as striking as her wares. She was a true daughter of fire and metal. Her lush hair, the color of molten gold, was gathered into a careless bun, from which unruly strands escaped. Her eyes, bright and all-seeing, were the same shade of gold as her hair. And... she possessed truly impressive shapes. Azrael, a man of extremely practical mindset, thought with a slight perplexity: "Isn't it hard with such people... hills... work at the anvil?"
The woman looked up at him. Her eyes expressed neither surprise nor greeting. They just sized him up from head to toe in a split second, lingering on the practice sword in his hand.
—Well, a boy with a dubious past and an even more dubious future," her voice was low, husky, like the creak of leather. "Did you come to buy a blade or just to stare?"
***
The blacksmith's golden eyes seemed to see more than just a teenager in shabby clothes with a cheap sword. They saw traces of dust on his shoes from distant lands, dried mud on the soles, which may have contained blood. They could see the cold calculation in his brown eyes, uncharacteristic of his age. They saw that strange, barely perceptible aura that swirled around him like a haze—not magic, something else, ancient and unknown.
—Well, a boy with a dubious past and an even more dubious future," she repeated, slowly tracing her lips with the moist tip of her tongue. "Did you come to buy a blade or just to stare?" Or maybe scrap this piece of iron? She nodded at his practice sword.
Azrael was not embarrassed. His gaze was just as appraising and cold. "My past is none of your business,— he retorted flatly. — And the future... it will become what I make it. And this "piece of iron" served me faithfully. But he's a little weak for future things.
— Upcoming business? She chuckled, and her chest heaved with laughter. — It sounds pretentious. Are you going to the Academy for exams? Another self-taught genius who thinks he's the messiah?
—Something like that,— Azrael replied evasively, his gaze sliding over the walls, studying the blades. "I need something.".. It's special. Not just a sharp piece of metal.
"Special?" She raised a golden eyebrow, and her eyes flashed with the interest of a businessman who sensed a serious order. — All my creations are "special", dear. Each is one of a kind. But "special" implies a special price. And I'm not just talking about gold.
She came out from behind the counter, and Azrael was able to appreciate her full height. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, and her figure, hidden under a simple leather apron, was powerful and at the same time graceful — the muscles of a blacksmith, accustomed to hard work, smoothly turned into seductive curves.
"I'm not poor,— Azrael said, although his wallet was frankly thin. But he knew he could get anything. Strength gave him such confidence.
—Oh, I believe," she waved her hand at her workshop. — But I don't always demand money. Sometimes... information. Sometimes it's a service. And sometimes... She came very close to him, and he felt the heat coming from her, as if from a furnace. — Sometimes I demand a piece of the customer's soul. To put it in the blade. This is how truly legendary things are born.
She looked at him carefully. — Are you ready for such a price, the boy with empty eyes?
Azrael held her gaze. — My soul has been pledged for a long time. Take what you want. But I have to make sure that the blade is worth it.
—Heh," she grinned. "I like you." Impudent. Resolute. What's your name?
— Azrael.
— Azrael... She held out his name, as if tasting it.—It's a good name for someone who brings the end. Okay, Azrael. Show me how you hold your old sword." Let me feel your grip.
Azrael handed her the training blade without hesitation. She took it casually, but her fingers rested on the hilt with the perfect, precise precision of a craftsman. She made a few tentative swings, her movements fast, sharp, deadly. She wasn't studying the sword, but its owner through the lens of the weapon.
"I see.".. "What is it?" she whispered. — Strength, speed, minimalism. No frills. Only efficiency. You don't fence, you kill. You don't need a sword, but an extension of your arm. Straight, heavy, with perfect balance... It's a cross between a long sword and a claymore... but with a point capable of piercing dragon scales...
She was talking more to herself, already immersed in the creative process. She threw his old sword into a corner like a piece of junk.
—Wait here,— she ordered, and disappeared into the depths of the workshop, behind a thick leather curtain, from where thick smoke billowed and the furious clang of a hammer could be heard.
Azrael waited. He did not sit down, but continued to stand, studying the blades on the walls. His gaze fell on one of the katanas. On her dark steel, he saw a barely noticeable pattern— not runes, but a kind of natural, undulating pattern, similar to the flow of water or... the consequence of manipulating the Will itself. He felt a quiet, concentrated power emanating from her.
He didn't wait long. Soon the blacksmith returned. In her hands was a blade wrapped in a black coarse cloth. She unwrapped it.
The sword was magnificent. Straight, long, with a wide blade tapering to a point. It was dark and opaque, reflecting almost no light, as if it absorbed it. The hilt was simple, unadorned, wrapped in black leather for a secure grip. But the whole product exuded such incredible, concentrated power that the air around seemed thicker.
—Here," she handed it to him. "Try it." He hasn't given a name yet. He's waiting for him.
Azrael took the sword. The hilt fit perfectly into his palm. The weight was impeccable, the balance so perfect that the blade seemed like an extension of his arm. He made one swing.