The blade felt peculiar in Albert's hand. It wasn't its weight—it was perfectly balanced for a dagger of its size. Rather, it was an almost magical equilibrium, a silent density that seemed to scream of the metal's flawless core.
The flickering candlelight in Borin's dim workshop swept across its surface, revealing patterns—like the flow of a buried river, like the shadows of clouds on a moonless night. It was dark. Far too dark to be called Damascus steel.
"Here," grunted Borin, his voice raspy from smoke and exhilaration. His large, calloused hand placed an ordinary scrap of iron on a pile of old metal. "Try it My Lord."
Albert didn't hesitate. His body moved with muscle memory—not from this life, but from the cold trenches of another, where honing a blade to razor sharpness was a ritual of survival. He swung the dark dagger.
Clang!
The sound wasn't a mere clatter. It was a clean, almost musical, note of separation. The ordinary iron split with minimal resistance, as if a hot knife were parting butter. The cut was smooth, unblemished.
Albert froze. He stared at the edge of his blade. No notch. No dulling. Only a perfect cutting line remained.
"This is impossible," he whispered, but the evidence was in his hand. The metal was stronger, more durable. He grabbed a piece of scrap from a broken tool—low-quality steel typical of Götthain, of course. Another swing. The same result. A clean cut. The dark dagger remained unyielding.
He performed a test he'd seen soldiers of his past life do. He pressed the dagger's tip against Borin's worn wooden workbench, leaning his full weight onto it.
The blade flexed, bending yet refusing to snap. When he released the pressure, it sprang back to true with a soft hiss, as if chastising the indignity.
"Remarkable," Albert murmured. His eyes met Borin's. The blacksmith's gaze shone with a triumphant, almost mad glint.
"It's real," Borin mumbled, taking the dagger back with a near-reverent attitude. "No trick. No nonsense magic. We transformed it. Truly transformed it."
But this wasn't Damascus steel, Albert thought, studying the dark pattern again. True Damascus possessed a silken sheen, patterns of light and dark that danced. This was more like gazing into an abyss—all shadows and depth.
"It's… something else. Strong. Resilient. But dark. Somber."
"And it's ours," Borin cut in, his voice tight with conviction. "Only here. With its stone, with its charcoal, with… with my way of hammering." He said the last part with profound pride, the voice of a man who had rediscovered the pride of his ancestors.
Albert nodded, his mind racing. They needed a name. Something that would sell, that would build a mythos, yet also something honest. Not "magical steel," not "mystic iron." Something solid. Something rooted in this place.
And suddenly, he remembered.
***
The question had arisen week ago while flipping through the tedious pages of family history. Why do we call ourselves Götthain, not Götterbaum? Even the other nobles... and why is the Earl Lancaster, not Lanser?
The answer lay in the distinction between new blood and old blood.
The Götterbaum family were new nobility. His grandfather, Sir Roderick Götterbaum, had been a common knight—a rugged soldier with a sharp sword and blunt courage—who saved a royal prince's life in a fierce battle on the eastern border. His reward was this land, the title of Baron, and the right to give his name to the territory he now ruled.
But the name "Götterbaum" sounded coarse, too rustic, too… new to aristocratic ears. So they adopted the name of their land, Götthain, for their public identity. Götterbaum was reserved for official documents and lineage, a somewhat embarrassing secret of their humble origins.
In contrast, Lancaster was a name of ancient blood. A house from the splendid Central Continent, with a history spanning centuries.
They did not take the name of the Lanser region when they moved to the Kingdom of Helvetia; instead, they brought their name with them and placed it upon the territory, stamping the new land with their old legacy. Lancaster was a symbol of established power, a lineage that needed to prove nothing.
Old houses were known by their family names, while new houses were known by their lands.
And here, in this smoke-filled workshop, with this dark blade that was not Damascus steel, Albert saw an opportunity. Not to hide his origins, but to claim them.
To transform "new" and "coarse" into strength. To make his family's true name a symbol of something valuable.
"We shall call it Götterbaum Black Steel," declared Albert, his voice firm and clear in the smoke-laden air.
Borin blinked. "Götterbaum? But… everyone uses Götthain."
"Precisely the point," Albert said, his eyes alight with new strategy. "Everyone knows Götthain iron is ordinary. Good enough for plowshares, too brittle for swords. But Götterbaum Black Steel… that is something else. It is a family secret. A legacy from my great-grandfather, perhaps… a secret he brought from the battlefields of the northern continent, passed down only to the family's trusted smith." He looked at Borin. "To you. That will be the story. Not a deception, but… a narrative. And the narrative is built upon this." He pointed at the dagger. "Something real."
Borin frowned, processing. He was a practical man, concerned with iron and fire. The politics of names and prestige were noble concerns. But he understood value.
He understood that if this metal became known as "Götterbaum Black Steel," then Götterbaum—and by extension, the Götterbaum smithy—would become famous. His craftsmanship would be recognized not as a village trick, but as a legacy. It was the dream of every true smith.
Then, a rare occurrence: Borin smiled. Not the small grin from before, but a wide smile showing his worn teeth. "Götterbaum Black Steel," he repeated, tasting the words. "It sounds… weighty. Strong. Like the ring of a hammer."
"And it will be yours as well," Albert added swiftly. "Every blade will bear your mark, Borin. The mark of my family's smith. The Götterbaum name will lend prestige, but your mark will be the guarantee of quality. You will be part of that legend."
Now it was the smith's eyes that gleamed. A true craftsman, Albert thought, craves not titles or land. He craves recognition of his skill. Immortality through his work. Borin saw not just iron, but the masterpieces he could forge from it.
"Masterpieces," Borin murmured, as if reading Albert's mind. His rough finger traced the dark pattern on the dagger. "With this steel… I could forge a blade that doesn't just kill. But a blade that… sings. Perfectly balanced. With patterns like night clouds." He looked at Albert, and there was a yearning there, a vision beyond contracts and negotiations. "I could make a sword for a lord. A sword remembered even a hundred years later."
"First," Albert reminded him, though with a warm tone, "we must convince an Earl. We must show him what we possess here is too valuable to be pressed, too unique to be enslaved. Götterbaum Black Steel is our bargaining chip."
The plan formed quickly, with the precision of military strategy. His father's reply to Earl Richard would be sent, of course—a diplomatic document negotiating terms. But it would be accompanied by a package. A simple wooden box.
Inside, laid upon black velvet (which they would have to borrow from Albert's mother), would rest two blades.
The first: an ordinary dagger of Götthain iron, sharp but unremarkable, representing what Lancaster expected.
The second: The Dagger of Götterbaum Black Steel. Polished to a dark mirror sheen, its pattern starkly visible, with a simple leather-wrapped hilt. And at the base of the blade, etched onto the somberly gleaming metal, would be a small mark: a drooping tree (the literal meaning of 'Götterbaum') over an anvil—Borin's mark.
And a note, penned by Albert himself in carefully measured, yet confident language.
To Earl Richard vin Lancaster, with respect.
As a token of goodwill and proof of the potential for an equitable partnership, we present the first exemplar of Götterbaum Black Steel. A long-dormant family secret, awakened by the skill of our loyal master smith.
This metal, born of our land and ancestral secrecy, cannot be duplicated elsewhere. We believe the true value of an alliance lies not in control, but in mutual respect for each party's unique strengths. We possess what you require. And we offer it as partners, not subordinates.
Respectfully,
-Albert vin Götterbaum
It was bold. Audaciously bold. It was almost an insult disguised as a gift. But it was anchored in the undeniable reality within that box. The strength of the dark blade would speak louder than any words.
***
That night, in his room, Albert held the dark dagger once more. He turned it in his hand, feeling its perfect balance. It was a weapon. Literally, but also a political, economic, and social weapon.
He thought of Earl Richard, a man who understood power and value intimately. Would the man be angered by their audacity? Or would he be intrigued, drawn by the prospect of commanding something rare and valuable? Something even he, with all his wealth and history, could not create?
He thought of Alena. She would be the soft voice reinforcing the box's message.
And he thought of Borin, who right now, late into the night, was surely still in his smithy, gazing at cooling metal with a new look—not as a craftsman, but as an artisan. A creator of works that would carry his name—and the name Götterbaum—to the ears of the powerful.
In the silence of his room, Albert realized something. Until now, since awakening in this world, he had been reacting. Reacting to memories, to training, to the threats of taxes and war, to a forced engagement. He had been surviving, planning, training.
But today, by naming this steel, by planning this delivery, for the first time he was acting. He wasn't just leveraging circumstances; he was crafting a new narrative.
He was taking his family's somewhat embarrassing name and turning it into a standard of quality. He was elevating a loyal smith into an irreplaceable master. And he was transforming a desperate plea into a confident offer.
It felt… powerful. Even more so than mastering a sword or a tactic.
He quickly dismissed the thought, as his mother in his first life always warned against getting carried away, lest everything spiral into chaos.
***
The next morning, the box was prepared. Baron Friedrich, after a period of intense anxiety, finally approved the plan after testing the dark dagger himself. His eyes widened as he witnessed its capability. "With this…" he muttered, not finishing the sentence, but Albert knew his thought. With this, we might truly have a chance.
The letter and the box were entrusted to their swiftest rider, with orders to deliver it directly into Earl Richard's own hands.
Then, all that remained was to wait. But this time, the waiting was different. No longer passive, no longer filled with dread. It was the vigilant wait of a soldier who had launched the opening gambit, now watching to see how the opponent would react.
Albert returned to his routine. Training with Gregor grew more intense. He studied harder, delving into contract law and metal trade customs.
And he made time to visit Borin daily, not just to discuss the steel, but to learn. To truly learn.
How to judge the heat of the forge by the color of the flame alone. How the ring of the hammer indicated the metal's density. Borin, now seeing Albert not just as an ordinary noble's son but as a partner in a grand discovery, shared his knowledge more openly.
One afternoon, taking a break from their work, Borin hefted a small, unworked ingot of the black steel. "I've been thinking," he said, his voice gravelly. "This dark pattern… we could control it. Through hammering technique, through temperature control. We could make it look like… waves on a dark lake. Or like tree roots in night soil."
"That would be your signature," Albert said. "Every blade not only strong, but unique. An unrepeatable work of art."
Borin nodded, his eyes distant, already seeing the unborn blades in his mind. "They'll remember my name," he murmured, more to himself. "They'll say, 'Borin of the Götthain territory, who forged the Götterbaum Black Steel.'"
And in that murmur, Albert heard more than pride. He heard a shift. A change from dependence to self-assurance. A foothold.
***
A few days later, as Albert and Alena walked again in the quiet, wintry garden, Alena suddenly said, "My father replied to my letter."
Albert tensed. "And?"
"He didn't say much about his demands. He only said… 'Götterbaum Black Steel. An interesting name. I wonder about the story behind it.'" Alena looked at Albert, a small smile on her lips. "He's curious, Albert. That's better than anger. Better than indifference."
"Curiosity is the beginning of respect," Albert said, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Do you think it will work?" Alena asked, her voice smaller, more vulnerable than usual.
"The black steel is real," Albert answered, confident. "The story behind it—of a family secret, of irreplaceable skill—that's also real, in a sense. But in this world, does anyone truly care about the source, as long as the result is tangible?"
Alena looked at him, and in her gaze, Albert saw a kindred recognition. An acknowledgment that they were both playing the same game now, by the same rules.
"No," she finally said. "They don't care. They only care about what we can provide. And we are providing something no one else has."
They stood there, in the frozen garden, two children forced into adulthood too soon, now conspiring to carve their place in the world with a blade of black steel and a daring story.
Albert looked towards the smithy, where smoke curled from Borin's chimney. He heard the distant clang of a hammer, a steady, confident rhythm.
It was the sound of discovery. The sound of quiet rebellion. The sound of steel being forged, not just in a furnace, but in the minds of all who would hear its name.
He didn't know if it would be enough to change Earl Richard's demands. But he knew one thing: they were no longer merely surviving.
They were on the offensive. And their weapon, for the first time, was truly their own.