Just then, the figure behind the counter noticed Blake standing in the doorway. He hastily turned around and strode over.
"Greetings, honored guest!"
The man was a burly middle-aged fellow, bare-chested with nothing but a leather apron tied around his waist. His powerful arms were chiseled with muscles that would put a bodybuilder to shame, and his bronze skin and rugged features lent him an air of sternness—though his words were enough to make anyone chuckle.
"Welcome to Silver Plate Smithy! Our craft is top-notch, our quality unrivaled. What can I get you today? A pitchfork? A hoe? Or perhaps a kitchen knife?"
"Uh..."
Even Blake was momentarily stunned by this bizarre opening line. But he quickly regained his composure and spoke up.
"I want a sword."
"A sword?"
The words made the middle-aged man blink in surprise. He sized Blake up from head to toe, then straightened his expression—only to say something that caught Blake completely off guard.
"With all due respect, sir, what would you need a sword for? Here in Duskwood Ridge, we've got no bandits, no thieves, and the wild beasts all stick to the deepest parts of the forest. You're not thinking of playing adventurer, are you? We don't sell swords or blades here—not that there's any point to those violent toys. Why not take a look at our kitchen knives instead? See this one? Double-edged, razor-sharp. And this paring knife? Peels fruit like a dream—perfect length, guaranteed not to nick your fingers. Since you're new to Duskwood, I'll let you have both for just two silver coins!"
"..."
Blake pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a long sigh. Then he looked up, fixing the man with a serious gaze.
"I only want a sword. Even a standard-issue one will do. Do you have any?"
"I'm afraid I can't help you there, sir."
The man spread his hands helplessly at Blake's insistence.
"We don't have any swords to sell. As you can see, Duskwood's a tiny town—hardly anyone needs a blade around here. So we rarely bother forging them."
Blake sighed again, a touch of resignation in his voice. How naive he'd been to think things would stay the same. The world, it seemed, was always changing—whether he liked it or not.
"Then would you be willing to forge me a standard longsword? That shouldn't be too difficult, right?"
"Well..."
The man scratched his head awkwardly, a faint flush of embarrassment creeping onto his face—the first time he'd shown such a look.
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know how."
"..."
"A blacksmith who can't forge a sword?"
Blake's expression remained unchanged as he stared at the man, but inside, he was sighing in exasperation.
"Not a single sword in the entire shop?"
"Hmm..."
The man frowned at Blake's persistence. He could tell the young man was genuinely in need, and being a simple, straightforward country folk, he hated turning people away empty-handed. So instead of refusing outright, he wracked his brain for a solution. Finally, his eyes lit up, and he slammed a fist into his palm.
"That's it! My grandfather left behind some old weapons. They might still be usable!"
"Oh?"
Blake's eyes sparkled with interest. The grandfather this man spoke of—could he be the very same blacksmith Blake had done business with decades ago? The old man had been a master craftsman, his work second to none. That was why, after his resurrection, Blake had made a beeline for this town, hoping the old smith's descendants would have inherited his skills. He'd figured even if they only learned seventy or eighty percent of the old man's craft, it would be more than enough for his needs. He just hadn't expected those skills to be wasted on... kitchen knives.
Without another word, the man hurried into the back room. He rummaged through a pile of dusty odds and ends for a good while, then emerged clutching a long, oilcloth-wrapped bundle and presented it to Blake.
"Here you go, sir. See if this fits what you're looking for."
With that, he unwrapped the cloth.
Inside lay a jet-black longsword, sheathed in a plain, unadorned scabbard. At first glance, it looked no different from any other rusted old blade—neglected for so long that the cord wrapping the hilt had frayed almost completely, and the crossguard was caked with thick layers of rust. Blake reached out and took the sword, his brow furrowing slightly. Then he wrapped his fingers around the hilt and drew it with a sharp *shing!*
For all its plain exterior, the blade itself was surprisingly intricate. Along both edges ran a series of strange, ornate grooves, etched with delicate patterns that glinted faintly in the light. But the sword's steel was as black as midnight, dull and lifeless—looking more like a piece of corroded scrap iron than a weapon worthy of use.
The sight made the middle-aged man's face burn with even deeper shame. He'd never paid much attention to this old relic of his grandfather's, but as a blacksmith, it pained him to offer such a shoddy, neglected item to a customer. If only he'd taken the time to clean it up, to polish the blade a little—it would have looked far less pitiful than it did now.
What the man didn't notice, however, was the flicker of pure delight that crossed Blake's face when he saw the patterns on the blade.
He can't believe it—he actually kept it!
The man might have mistaken the black metal for rust, but Blake knew better. The moment he'd laid eyes on the sword, he'd recognized the material: **Nightsteel**. A magic metal that was inextricably linked to Blake himself.
In his past life, Blake had stumbled upon a cache of this rare ore. He'd brought it to this very smithy and had the old blacksmith forge it into a single sword. As for the leftover scraps, he'd given them to the old man as a souvenir—after all, Nightsteel was priceless, a treasure beyond compare. He'd seen how the old smith had fawned over the metal, his eyes lighting up with the passion of a true craftsman, so he'd left the scraps with him as a gift. Now it seemed the old man had used those scraps to forge a second sword—likely as a legacy for his descendants. For a blacksmith, forging a weapon from Nightsteel was the stuff of dreams.
Too bad the old man never could have guessed his grandson would grow up to be a blacksmith who couldn't even forge a simple sword...
Nightsteel was a magic metal found *only* in the depths of the Nightwood Forest—the ancestral homeland of the Elves. What made it so precious wasn't just its inherent ability to nullify magic, but its origin. To the Elves, devout protectors of nature, harming a single tree was sacrilege; mining their land for ore was like carving into their own flesh. Countless prospectors had ventured into the Nightwood in search of Nightsteel, only to vanish without a trace, never to be seen again. And with the Elves being one of the most powerful factions on the continent, no one dared to mount a full-scale invasion to plunder their forests. That was why Nightsteel was so astronomically expensive—Blake himself had only come across his cache by pure luck, swiping a few chunks during a chance passing through the Nightwood all those years ago.
But Nightsteel's true value lay in its unique **Soul Conduction** property. When a wielder grasped a weapon forged from Nightsteel, it acted like a channel, drawing their soul energy into the blade and imbuing it with power. This not only made the weapon lighter and more agile in combat, but also enhanced its durability and sharpness to supernatural levels. Against a Nightsteel blade, ordinary iron was as brittle as glass—utterly defenseless. A warrior clad in Nightsteel armor and wielding a Nightsteel sword was, for all intents and purposes, invincible on the battlefield.
Of course, Nightsteel had its limitations. Without a strong enough soul to fuel it, the metal became a deadly liability. A weak soul couldn't withstand the strain of channeling energy through the blade; in the heat of battle, if the wielder's soul wavered or weakened, the Nightsteel weapon would grow sluggish and heavy—useless, if not outright dangerous. That was why only the most powerful warriors on the continent dared to wield Nightsteel. Even then, weapons forged from this rare metal were few and far between.
"I'll take it. How much?"
Blake's own Nightsteel sword had shattered under the strain of his power during his final battle. To find another one now—this was a stroke of luck he couldn't pass up.
"Well..."
The blacksmith stared in disbelief, clearly shocked that the young man would actually want this rusty old "scrap." He hesitated for a moment, then spoke up.
"I'll charge you thirty silver coins, sir. And if you'd like, I can polish it up for you—free of charge!"
Thirty silver coins for a Nightsteel weapon? It was a steal, by any measure. But Blake had no intention of taking advantage of the man's ignorance. Instead, he paid three gold coins—plus the decorative dagger he'd taken from the boy's belongings, which was worth at least fifty gold coins on the open market—and bought the sword outright. He politely declined the man's "kind offer" to polish it, though; Nightsteel was no ordinary metal. Some things were better left to the experts—and Blake was nothing if not an expert on this particular treasure.
The man was clearly taken aback by the price, but when Blake mentioned the sword was forged from a rare, valuable metal, he didn't press for details. He simply accepted the payment with a grateful nod and went about his business. As far as he was concerned, any metal that couldn't be turned into a kitchen knife wasn't worth worrying about.
After leaving the smithy, Blake didn't head back to the castle right away. He had other business to attend to in town.
"This is indeed an official, sealed document."
Old Clark squinted his eyes, examining the royal crest on the papers carefully, the wrinkles on his face crinkling even more with concentration.
"So that makes you the new lord of the castle, then?"
He looked at Blake with a hint of pity in his eyes. Poor boy—barely seventeen or eighteen years old, and already exiled to this godforsaken place.
"Sigh... I know I'm an old man who talks too much, Mr. Blake, but that castle..."
"Those are just rumors, aren't they?"
Blake cut the old man off, leaning back in his chair with his fingers steepled, a warm, amiable smile playing on his lips.
"I've heard the terrifying stories too, of course. But they're nothing more than coincidences, if you ask me. This land is part of the kingdom's sacred territory—someone has to manage it. To back down just because of a few silly tales would be nothing short of cowardice."
How convincing these words were coming from the very man who'd caused those "coincidences" was anyone's guess. But for the moment, the old mayor fell silent, clearly deciding it was wiser not to argue. He'd already written Blake off as a naive, foolish noble—tricked into coming here, full of grand delusions of turning the cursed land around. But what did it matter? Ever since the Final War, that castle had gone through lord after lord. Every single one of them had arrived with the same lofty ambitions—and every single one of them had died a mysterious death.
This young man would be no different.
"I didn't come here to discuss these pointless rumors, Mr. Clark."
Blake picked up his teacup, watching the old man through the curling wisp of steam rising from the hot liquid.
"I've read the terms of the fief. For years, you've paid your taxes directly to Chuka City. But now that I hold the official title to this land, I assume you understand how things will change from here on out—where your tax obligations lie?"
"Of course, my lord."
The old mayor's expression remained calm and composed—clearly, this wasn't the first time he'd dealt with a new lord taking over the fief.
"We'll deliver this month's tax payment to your castle the day after tomorrow. As for Duskwood's financial records and expenses... I assume you've already reviewed them?"
"I have."
Blake nodded.
"However, I have another favor to ask of you, Mr. Clark. As you can see, I've come here alone. Managing a castle is far too much work for one man to handle. So I'd like you to help me post some hiring notices—recruit townsfolk to work at the castle for me. I don't suppose that would be too much trouble? Rest assured, I'll pay them handsomely for their services."
At this request, the old mayor's stern face broke into a clear, unambiguous grimace.
"I wish I could help you, my lord, but with all due respect—even if I post those notices, I doubt anyone in town will dare to apply."
"Oh?"
Blake raised an eyebrow in feigned curiosity, setting his teacup down on the table.
"Is this because of the rumors?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
The old man nodded gravely in response to Blake's question.
"To be perfectly honest with you, my lord—many families in this town have worked at that castle in the past. Take Old Marfa, for example—her grandmother was a maid there, and she followed in her footsteps. Or Old Benba—he served under two of the previous lords. But whether you believe it or not, every single person who's held the title to that castle has died under... strange circumstances. That cursed place has cast a long shadow over our town, sir. People see it as a den of evil, a place of death. They won't go near it—let alone work there. You might not know this, but that old stablehand who took you up the mountain? He came down with a terrible fever that very night. He's still bedridden, even now..."
*Probably because he ran for his life in the cold night air and caught a chill*, Blake thought dryly.
"I understand your concerns perfectly well, Mr. Clark."
Blake's voice was soft and soothing, yet there was an undeniable firmness beneath it.
"But I've already made up my mind. We won't know if anyone's willing to come until we post the notices, now will we? Giving up before even trying isn't my style. Do what you can, and let fate take its course—that's the way of us humans, don't you think?"
Old Clark opened his mouth, wanting to argue—but in the end, he said nothing. If the young lord was determined to chase this fool's errand, then so be it. After all... no one in their right mind would ever answer those notices anyway.
With that resigned thought, the mayor nodded and agreed to Blake's request.