The Artisan's Trial

Peturabo's forging continued.

He melted two pieces of iron into a single, golden-white mass, then wrapped it in two pieces of soft steel. He threaded them onto a long spiral iron rod and placed it on the anvil. His work was unhurried, rhythmic, and skillful, less a labor of strength and more an art where the very act of swinging his hammer was part of the piece.

Under high heat and the hammer, the hard iron became soft and malleable, transforming from its original form into a fused, unified, and gradually elongated shape. The tyrant Dameks saw a rectangular outline, about ten inches long, with a sharpened tip and a thick, stable base.

A knife, he told himself, a surge of joy rising in his heart from satisfaction. He saw the nascent form of a sharp blade, revealed to all eyes through forging.

Mors watched Peturabo's every move with intense focus. Dameks thought the craftsman might be observing the boy's specific expressions through some inhuman means. Mors was reading Peturabo.

Peturabo's movements were more precise and swift than any boy of his age Dameks knew, even surpassing most craftsmen within the kingdom; the remaining craftsmen only bested him due to the natural advantages of age and physical strength.

As the previous hammer blow landed, Peturabo had already decided the force, balance, and impact point of the next. His hammer was as precise as the factory's machinery, with no room for sluggishness or uncertainty.

The blade emerged from the incandescent heat with crimson edges, the rhythm of cooling and blade formation unified. Peturabo placed the iron into the furnace a second time, increasing the heat to allow more high temperatures to alter the iron's structure.

Then he looked around, confident and bold.

"Give me a wooden club," he said.

The assembled courtiers, craftsmen, and priests looked at each other, none prepared for such a request.

Dameks immediately raised his voice, full of authority, "Putrocles, give him your weapon!"

The soldier named Putrocles jolted, looked at the giant wooden club in his hand used for smashing heads, and dazedly handed it to a scurrying messenger. The messenger then passed it to a priest, who ran to Peturabo's side. Peturabo lowered his head, disappointment evident in his brow.

Mors shook his head, a gust of wind swept onto the platform, and the wooden club's shape was refined and smoothed, making it easier to grip. Peturabo looked up at him, then took the tool.

"A hammer can easily damage the blade's shape," Mors murmured.

The steel under Peturabo's hands was more obedient than anyone had anticipated. The once-unyielding iron was meekly taking on new forms as Peturabo willed, silent, hot, honest, reacting optimally to every strike. And Peturabo made no secret of his affection for the steel.

The boy's heart beat with the steel's submission. For the first time, he openly displayed joy on his face. The flames in his eyes burned not with anger, but with pure satisfaction and enjoyment.

Dameks couldn't see clearly, but even from such a distance, it was enough for him to grasp Peturabo's feelings.

He contentedly gripped the handle of his golden scepter, beginning to imagine the transformative changes his army would undergo with the addition of these two extraordinary blacksmiths.

Across the entire planet of Olympia, the wars between the twelve tyrants and other smaller nations never ceased.

They merely observed occasional truces, spending precious time in peace and preparation, before resuming their struggle for land and power. A tyrant had to do so, lest their land be ravaged and their subjects plundered.

He still remembered the record from a century ago when Axos had stolen Lokos's women as wives. In fact, this was the origin of a well-known nursery rhyme in the kingdom. Any child could sing a couple of lines about the shepherdess who wandered into battle.

A blacksmith dedicated to war would always add a certain edge to his Lokos.

As for the Olympic Games, which had led the world to agree on maintaining a brief peace, with any aggressor being jointly attacked, they were as ancient as a legend.

"Your child will forge the most perfect weapons," Dameks said to Mors. Even though Mors had never acknowledged his relationship with Peturabo, the king felt this address was fitting.

Mors, standing nearby, had an inscrutable expression as he watched Peturabo work. After hearing Dameks's words, he smiled and continued his unfinished story: "Be careful, my child. If your wings are heavy, they are soaked by the sea; if your wings are light, they are burned by the sun. But do not fear, my child, if the tide carries you away, I will find you."

Dameks savored Mors's riddle. Having interacted with the priests of the Divine Church, who found it harder to speak plainly than to die, he knew not to dismiss any riddle presented to him.

Then, he frowned, and not because of the overly ancient noun "sea" in the words.

Dameks confirmed that Mors had given him a warning.

He then reflected: What had he said wrong?

On the raised platform, the blade was quenched for the fifth time, then the sixth. Hammering, cooling. The golden-red fire clinging to the blade burned on the water's surface, alternating with thin white mist. Peturabo wore invisible gloves, and the flames seemed to erupt from his hands, leaping into the air.

Dameks was captivated, as was everyone else below. Whether it was the craftsmen present or the courtiers who had no prior interest in forging and were only there to witness by royal command, all unconsciously focused their entire attention on the spectacle.

For the last time, the sharp blade entered the ice-cold water. The boy moved with the flames; if the fire god of Olympian mythology were to descend upon the world, this might be his form.

Then, he raised the completed short sword. The cold light on its edge gleamed brightly. Though not yet sharpened, it already possessed a formidable sharpness.

Bright lights illuminated Peturabo from head to toe. The boy wiped away the black char from the blade with his finger. The surface was smooth and flat, reflecting the faces of everyone present.

The priest immediately knelt in reverence, forgetting even the tyrant Dameks whom he was supposed to worship. "Son of a god!" His excitement brought tears to his eyes. "Your skill is perfect!"

Dameks also stood joyfully by the wooden railing, opening his arms wide, displaying his welcome as the king of a nation without reservation.

"Peturabo, Lokos will be honored by your forging. Your craftsmanship will bring new life to the entire kingdom."

Dameks held back a little, his words both exaggerated and cautious. He remembered that Mors had not been encouraging when he mentioned "weapons."

Peturabo's calmness was astonishing. He showed no joy at the king's praise, nor anger at the priest's words. He simply looked up at the second floor, his gaze directed with extreme clarity.

Then, he threw the entire finished product into the flames. To everyone's astonishment, he ruthlessly allowed the newly completed blade to melt under the intense heat of the fire.

"Your praise is premature," Peturabo announced bluntly.

Dameks heard a soft exhale and looked beside him. From Mors's finally revealed smile, he confirmed it was a chuckle.