Forging It Myself

Forging It Himself

By now, night had fallen. Dole had forgotten to bring candles again, so he could only practice the stances of the basic fist technique for a while, then practice the basic fist technique and basic hammer technique before going to sleep.

After Dole fell asleep, Aoduo swiftly climbed up from the ground. He slowly approached Dole, and a mouthful of five-colored light flew toward Dole's forehead before quickly vanishing. Dole slept even more soundly.

Aoduo the dog lazily stretched, then darted out the door and soon vanished into the slums. It was growing faster and more elusive in its movements. Unless one looked carefully, one would not see even its shadow.

Aoduo the dog soon reached the depths of the mines. Sitting atop a mountain peak, it let its immense power seep into the mountain and draw out the magic power within.

As his power rose, he paid little heed to the creatures around him. This place was practically free of danger. On the contrary, wherever he often stayed, not even birds or beasts could be found. No living creature dared approach.

The mountains were silent, without even the chirping of insects. Only the wind sweeping over the peaks and rustling the leaves could be heard.

When Dole woke in the morning and opened his eyes, his mind felt sharp and his entire body brimmed with strength. He touched his skin—rough and tough. Beneath it, his muscles bulged. That was strength. His training of flesh and body was basically complete, and he was already very, very close to becoming an intermediate warrior apprentice.

He was only twelve, so there was no need to rush. Yet he still felt a sense of urgency, one born from his surroundings, and from Aoduo.

He cautiously left the house and cautiously made his way to the blacksmith shop. Only then did Dole breathe a sigh of relief. As long as he was at the blacksmith shop, anything could be discussed. No matter how brazen Aoduo was, he would not dare act up here. In the end, he was merely a small fry. The blacksmith shop had complicated connections; pulling out any one of them would be enough to keep him under a tight lid.

As usual, he tidied the tools and stoked the furnace. By the time he had finished everything, breakfast was ready, and Verek had arrived as well. After eating, they started work early.

There had been little to do at the blacksmith shop these past few days, leaving Verek idle from morning to night. Dole therefore had plenty of time to forge all kinds of farm tools—hoes, sickles, kitchen knives, little hammers—to hone his skills. Practice had made him perfect, and he wielded the number-two hammer with the force of a tiger and the wind of a dragon. But when he picked up the number-three hammer, he still fell short in strength. The number-three hammer was the mark of a level-one blacksmith.

Dole's rapid improvement had long drawn everyone's attention. Even the other apprentices and level-one blacksmiths were greatly surprised.

After eating, Verek patted his stomach and sat in his spot to rest. Watching Dole bustle about, he chuckled. "You can forge on your own now, and you've managed eight folds at most. Have you thought about nine folds?"

Dole stoked the fire higher and grinned. "Of course I have. Once I can do nine folds, I can forge swords."

Being able to forge weapons meant possessing the ability of a level-one blacksmith. As long as he took the blacksmith certification test, he could officially take up the trade. He had been thinking about it for a long time.

Verek leaned forward slightly, his tone faintly tempting. "Want to give it a try? Use my allotment of raw ore?"

Before he possessed the ability of a level-one blacksmith, he could only use scrap. But scrap had severe limitations: it was hard but lacked toughness. It could be used for farm tools and other implements, but it was no good for forging weapons. Verek had a daily allotment for practice. If he did not use it himself, he could give it to Dole.

At those words, Dole's heart stirred.

His strength had increased greatly recently, and he could now lift the number-three hammer. Gritting his teeth, he said, "Give it a try?"

Verek grinned. "Then go get it. Let's forge a thrusting sword. It'll be easier that way."

They had just finished breakfast, it was still early, and there was nothing much to do. Verek was also looking for a little amusement. Someone with learning ability as strong as Dole's would become a level-one blacksmith sooner or later, so they might as well give it a try.

Hearing that Dole was going to forge a sword, the idle blacksmiths and apprentices nearby all swarmed over.

Santis leaned against the outside of Verek's station and egged them on. "Verek, are you trying to slack off? Dole is only twelve, and he's only been here two months, right?"

Mo Lei nodded beside him, his voice deep and muffled. "Yeah. Back then, it took me more than half a year before I grasped the knack of level one."

Santis said, "This guy definitely wants to watch Dole make a fool of himself."

Voices of agreement immediately rose from all around.

Verek chuckled. "There's nothing to do this morning anyway, so why not try? Dole can already manage eight folds, and that's with scrap. If he uses raw ore and is careful enough, nine folds should be possible."

Mo Lei's eyes widened. "Eight folds? How is that possible?"

Several level-one blacksmiths were stunned as well. They did the math—Dole had only been here a little over a month. Even if he had worked in the mines before and had some strength in his arms, this pace was still rather astonishing.

Verek smiled mysteriously. "This kid has pretty good talent. You've all underestimated him."

By then, Dole had brought out a bucket of raw ore from the back.

The iron ore had already been ground into iron sand. The purplish-red grains looked like rapeseeds, each one distinct.

Dole had not expected so many people to gather outside, but he did not think much of it. He simply weighed out the ore he needed, poured it bit by bit into the crucible, then hurried over to the bellows to prepare for heating.

At that moment, Gan Mo, the helper beside him, hurried over and snatched the bellows from Dole, saying with a grin, "I'll do it, I'll do it."

Only then did Dole understand. So these people had come to watch the show.

Everyone was really idle today.

Dole nodded. "Then thank you, Gan Mo."

Gan Mo was a little older than him, but he had only arrived a few months earlier. His body was still somewhat thin and weak, nowhere near as sturdy as Dole's.

Dole took off his shirt, revealing a body with some muscle. He weighed the number-two hammer in his hand and found it a little light, then picked up the number-three hammer. Resting it in his palm, it felt satisfyingly heavy.

He would use this one today.

After weighing it once more, he set it down and hurried to prepare the mold. He had long since become familiar with these tasks, and soon carefully finished the sword mold and set it aside.

The blacksmiths around him did not say much. They were usually rather taciturn and did not like talking. Even when resting, they rarely chatted. As the slums put it, three sticks could not beat a fart out of them.

Gan Mo worked the bellows as though it were about to take flight. Before long, the fire heated the crucible red, and the iron sand inside slowly began to melt, turning into a pool of glowing red, high-temperature liquid that painted Dole's face red as well.

When the contents turned red-white, Dole picked up the tongs, lifted the entire crucible, rushed to the mold, and poured the liquid in.

A burst of choking smoke rose as all the liquid from the crucible flowed into the mold.

Dole set the crucible aside. After waiting a moment, he knocked open the mold, revealing the black sword blank within, slightly cooled.

This was only the freshly formed blank. The blade would need to be repeatedly folded and hammered nine times before it could become a level-one sword. This was merely the beginning.

With one hand, Dole used the tongs to place the sword blank on the anvil. With the other, he raised the number-three hammer, adjusted his stance, and began striking blow after blow in the form of the basic hammer technique.

One strike left a small dent in the recessed part of the blank. Dole checked its depth, and from that, knew how much force he needed to use. Then he began hammering steadily.

Time slowly passed. The first fold, second fold, third fold—even the fourth fold posed no difficulty. Soon, he reached the fifth fold.

Beginning with the fifth fold, the material had gained hardness and was slowly becoming tough. This was when a blacksmith's endurance was truly tested. Dole brought the hammer down again and again; sweat and hammer flew together, his strength did not diminish in the slightest, and even his speed never changed.