Gifts (1)

"How is he learning?"

"Very well." Fulgrim answered with a smile. "Actually, Ferrus, exceptionally well!"

"Is that so?"

Ferrus Manus took a moment from his work to look up, casting a glance at the man from Chemos.

The latter's violet eyes were shimmering, clearly delighted by the matter. The Gorgon shook his head helplessly, unable to understand how his emotions could fluctuate so wildly within a single day.

"Of course, of course!" Fulgrim finally couldn't help but burst into laughter. "I would love to tell you just how clever he is, but—"

He shrugged and stood up cheerfully. "—please forgive me, I must go prepare my lesson, Ferrus."

"I have some objections to you using the word 'clever' to describe him." Ferrus Manus said, keeping his head down.

He was hunched over, working on a project at his workbench. The preliminary forging was complete; what remained was quite simple—he only needed to engrave some patterns onto the blade and craft a suitable hilt.

However, he was not entirely certain if the owner of this sword would like it.

"How can you say that!"

Hearing his words, Fulgrim, who had been about to leave, turned with a graceful spin, his silver hair dancing in the air with the elegance of a dance.

There was a hint of mischief on his face—it was obvious he knew Ferrus hadn't meant it that way, but he was determined to steer the conversation in that direction.

"I just don't think you should describe him that way. 'Clever' is a word used for children, and Konrad Curze is clearly not a child." Ferrus replied slowly.

He didn't need to look up to guess the expression on Fulgrim's face—to say he didn't care would be a lie, but Ferrus knew something else even better.

It was best not to let Fulgrim know what he was thinking right now; this had been proven many times in the past.

"How is he not?"

Fulgrim leaned against the workbench and asked in an exaggerated tone. "He is only a year and a half old, Ferrus. What were you doing when you were a year and a half old?"

"Killing great beasts." Ferrus Manus replied flatly. "Killing many great beasts."

"I really shouldn't have asked you that question."

"You should have just left."

Ferrus looked up and said. "Going to prepare your lesson for Konrad, or finding Lorgar to talk and asking him why he has locked himself in his room for the past two days, would both be better than disturbing my smithing here."

"Lorgar? What is wrong with him?" Fulgrim frowned.

"He went on a trip to Nostramo, right on the heels of Dorn."

Ferrus shook his head; this single sentence was enough to explain many things—what could Lorgar Aurelian possibly do in Nostramo?

Upon hearing this, Fulgrim couldn't help but sigh. When he spoke again, his voice had turned somber.

"I truly do not understand the reason." The man from Chemos said. "Those arguments. They make no sense at all, and besides, he was..."

"Beaten quite badly."

Ferrus finished the sentence calmly. "But I am surprised by the self-control of that Kael Lohars. If someone were to speak such nonsense about my father or my Legion in front of me, I would dismantle him with my warhammer."

"It is the warhammer I gave you." Fulgrim corrected, laughing.

He laughed as he repeated it. "It is the warhammer I gave you—don't you forget that, Ferrus."

"..."

The giant with silver arms sighed, a rare occurrence. He straightened up, moved the sword awaiting engraving to the back, and then folded his arms, shaking his head solemnly at Fulgrim.

"If you mention that again so frequently, I will have to consider renaming Forgebreaker."

"Hm? Oh—alright."

The corners of the Chemosian's mouth turned downward. "It is your weapon now anyway, so if you want to rename it, I have nothing to say."

Ferrus shook his head and spoke slowly: "Do you know what I would call it?"

"What?"

"Fulgrim is a Nagging Nuisance."

"You call that a weapon's name?!"

Fulgrim shouted. "And—my name shouldn't appear on a weapon! Besides, how am I nagging?!"

Ferrus said nothing, merely staring at him and shaking his head again. This silent response left the man from Chemos speechless; he pointed a finger in annoyance: "Fine, Ferrus, so that is how you see me!"

Ferrus Manus finally sighed.

He tilted his head back, letting his gaze drift past Fulgrim to the giant who had just walked in through the sliding door. Then, he nodded slightly and offered a brief greeting.

"Dorn."

"Ferrus—and Fulgrim."

Rogal Dorn walked in expressionless. He had changed into a long-sleeved shirt, but he still had every button fastened, his demeanor as serious as ever.

"Ah, Rogal! Come and be the judge of this!"

"No." Rogal Dorn shook his head.

"What? I haven't even told you what it's about yet!"

"I don't want to get involved in your bickering." Rogal Dorn said, his expression blank.

"I won't do it again. You two are always arguing over the most inexplicable things, and if someone actually tries to mediate as you asked, you just start defending each other. In any case, I won't be a part of it."

He shook his head, repeating himself with a tone of finality. "I won't do it, Fulgrim."

"How can you be like this?" Fulgrim asked in disbelief.

However, neither the man he addressed nor Ferrus Manus paid any heed to the Chemosian at that moment.

Dorn turned his head to glance at the blade resting behind Ferrus. His gaze swept carefully over the silver edge before he gave a nod.

"A fine blade. Have you installed the Displacer Field?"

"I have."

"Then it only needs some ornamentation."

Dorn nodded, making no effort to hide his satisfaction with the sword. "Your craftsmanship remains as superb as ever, Ferrus."

"It is merely a hobby for my leisure time," Ferrus Manus said noncommittally. "At the very least, it is far inferior to Vulkan's work."

"What he does cannot be called forging."

Dorn replied calmly. "His definition of smithing challenges my very understanding of the craft."

A fleeting smile crossed Ferrus's face; he agreed with Dorn—it was true. Why would he deny it?

Although their brother Vulkan was skilled at the forge, his artistry surpassed everyone else's. Ferrus felt that perhaps only their father could claim to rival Vulkan in this regard.

"Then, Ferrus, when do you intend to present this sword to our brother?" Rogal Dorn asked.

He stood before the workbench, his back straight as a rod. This posture made him look less like he was inquiring about a thoughtful gesture and more like an official interrogating a prisoner.

"I am still hesitating."

Ferrus shook his head, unbothered by his brother's rigid demeanor. "In truth, I am not even sure now if I should give him a sword at all."

Rogal Dorn frowned sharply.

"You have nearly finished the blade; why have you decided against it?"

"Because I do not know if he will like it," Ferrus said. "It is quite clear that our brother is imitating his foster father—"

"—or partner," Fulgrim interjected, his expression disgruntled, though not directed at the "partner" of Konrad Curze.

He crossed his arms and snorted. "I cannot believe you two have left me standing here for five whole minutes."

Dorn glanced at him before turning his head back. "I agree with your assessment, but if you do not ask him, how will you know if he likes it?"

"Because, quite clearly, he is imitating his foster father—or partner."

Ferrus frowned, repeating his words once more.

For a craftsman such as him, he had to be fastidious about every piece of work. Without such an attitude, he would never have reached his current level of mastery.

If he were to make a sword, he would account for the weight distribution, the height and arm length of the user, and every other factor.

While this Power Sword was not yet complete, it had already been adjusted based on the data he had requested from Fulgrim.

Ferrus Manus desperately wanted to create a weapon his new brother would enjoy, but there was a problem far more serious than the balance of the blade currently before him.

Konrad Curze was clearly imitating Kael Lohars.

Although Ferrus did not know much about the latter, he could discern this from the subtle clues.

And Kael Lohars was certainly not a man skilled in wielding a blade.

Every movement he made when approaching Lorgar that day was laced with the distinct hallmarks of close-quarters combat: swift, sharp, and lethal. In just a few exchanges, Lorgar had been beaten to the ground.

Kael Lohars had even instinctively moved to deliver a follow-up strike to the throat after Lorgar had fallen—Ferrus had seen it clearly; there was no mistaking it.

"Ahem."

"Since that is the case, we might as well ask him," Dorn said calmly. "Speculation only yields half-truths, or perhaps answers that are miles from the mark."

"Ahem!"

"You are right." Ferrus Manus nodded and stepped away from the workbench. "Asking him directly is indeed far better than standing here and guessing."

"Ahem, ahem, ahem!"

"Is your throat uncomfortable, Fulgrim?" Rogal Dorn asked.

"I am uncomfortable in my entirety!"

Fulgrim roared, turned on his heel, and stormed off. Behind him, Ferrus Manus slowly extended his right hand toward Rogal Dorn.

A moment later, the two hands clasped firmly.

"An ancient custom," Dorn said calmly.

"Ancient, but effective," Ferrus nodded calmly as well. "Let us go, Rogal."

Seeing that many readers are still asking about the release date, the book will be published on July 1st; I am currently stockpiling chapters.

Requests for votes, comments, and by the way, does anyone have any ergonomic chair recommendations?