Chapter 5

  The next morning, Harren stomped into the forge, squinting at the pile of fresh ingots and rough blades laid out neatly on the workbench.

  He picked up one of the short daggers Elias had shaped from scrap, turning it in his calloused hands. The balance wasn’t perfect—nothing made from junk ever would be—but the forging was clean. No visible warping. Minimal stress marks. Good grain flow.

  Better than he expected from salvaged scrap, that was certain.

  Harren grunted.

  “You’re either a lucky bastard,” he said, tossing the blade back onto the table with a clatter, “or you know what you’re doing.”

  Elias, still wiping sweat from his brow, gave a small shrug. “Bit of both.”

  Harren snorted but didn’t argue. “Keep it up. Might make a real smith of you yet.”

  The old smith didn’t say much else, but from then on, he started checking Elias’s work more carefully. Less like he was babysitting, more like he was evaluating.

  The change didn’t escape Elias’s notice. He said nothing, simply kept hammering, refining, testing the edges of his Quench ability, working steel into sharper, tighter patterns. Night after night, under the warm, steady light of the forge.

  Another two days passed.

  On the morning of the third, Harren wiped his hands on a rag and came over, a serious look pulling at his weathered face.

  “Got something,” he said. “Could be a real job for you. Not just rough iron or sidearms.”

  Elias straightened, setting aside a file.

  Harren crossed his arms. “Cousin of a minor noble came sniffing around. Wants a sword. Something decent but not flashy. He ain’t rich enough for fancy enchantments, but he’s got enough pull that if he likes it, word’ll spread.”

  He hesitated a moment, then added, “I could do it myself. Been doing it for years. But…” He eyed Elias. “You’ve got a touch. Something different. I think you can handle it. If you don’t disappoint me.”

  Elias felt that quiet spark inside again. Pressure. Not fear exactly, but weight.

  He nodded once. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” Harren said. “Use the backstock—whatever mundane metals you need for those fancy alloys-Just don’t go wasting the rare stuff.”

  Elias stayed behind after Harren left, mulling over the task.

  Good, cheap, common alloys.

  On Earth, he’d used plenty: simple medium-carbon steels, low-alloy chromoly blends, basic nickel steels. All tough, durable, easy to work with if you knew the temperatures. Most of those principles still applied here—he just had to adapt to the way mana saturated the base metals.

  He jotted notes on a scrap of parchment, sketching out a plan.

  A base of iron-carbon steel for the spine. Slight addition of nickel if he could find it to improve impact resistance. Maybe a touch of manganese to harden the edges without making it brittle. Nothing fancy. No glowing runes or spell-etched plates. Just solid metallurgy.

  Real strength, hidden inside simplicity.

  Exactly the kind of work he was good at.

  Elias took his time gathering the materials. The forge’s backstock wasn’t extravagant, but it had enough variety to give him options.

  He laid out what he needed:

  A stack of decent-quality iron, a small bar of nickel and a small lump of magnanase harren had in the scrap pile, not knowing its true value.

  The plan was straightforward: a layered spine of iron and nickel for flexibility and shock absorption, then edge steel hardened with just a touch of manganese. No magic tricks. Just smart layering.

  He smelted the first batch carefully, skimming off the slag, watching the color of the molten metal with a practiced eye. The manganese gave the mixture a slightly dusky tint—almost violet in the right light—but it blended well.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He poured the steel into a simple mold, let it set, then reheated the billet for forging.

  That’s when the real work began.

  He drew the metal out slowly, folding it in stages, pressing and hammering it to shape. Not for show—he wasn’t trying to make a fancy pattern-welded blade—but to align the grain and structure. Every pass of the hammer was precise, controlled,his skill and muscle memory guiding his instincts more than his eyes.

  Then came the critical moment: the quench.

  He activated Quench with a breath, feeling that subtle pressure in his hands. Without any liquid, the steel settled into itself—less brittle, slightly tougher. Not bad.

  But with water…

  He plunged the blade into the barrel beside the forge and let the ability trigger again.

  The result was immediate. Steam hissed up violently, and he felt the mana in the steel shift, condensing into tighter, cleaner lines. The structure was better, cleaner than before. Stronger.

  He turned the unfinished blade over in his hands. It had a faint ripple across the edge—not magic, just evidence of the layers—almost like the sword itself was proud of the effort.

  Elias let out a breath. Not done yet. But on its way.

  Elias worked through the final polish with careful hands.

  He wasn’t aiming for a mirror shine—this wasn’t a showpiece—but a clean, consistent finish that would reveal the layers he’d folded into the steel. He cycled through finer abrasives, wiping down the blade between stages, letting the natural grain of the metal show through.

  There was a kind of satisfaction in it. Seeing the ripples along the blade’s surface—subtle, but present—was proof of the work he’d done.

  Once the polishing was finished, Elias set the sword carefully on the workbench. The shape was simple: a sturdy cut-and-thrust blade, a little heavier toward the tip for added chopping power. The edge was clean. The spine was thick. A miner’s sidearm would shatter against it.

  He tilted his head, considering the next step.

  The hilt.

  He frowned slightly. Wrapping grips, fitting guards—that had never been his strength. His focus was the steel itself, not the dressing around it, not to mentioned the fact he only even started learning hilt work after coming to Arlen. Trying to half-heartedly finish it might ruin the work he’d done.

  Better to leave that to someone more experienced.

  He wiped his hands, set the blade down carefully on a cloth, and went looking for Harren.

  Harren was in the main part of the smithy, going over some inventory when Elias approached with the wrapped blade.

  The older man looked up, brow raised. “Finished?”

  Elias nodded and carefully unrolled the cloth, revealing the polished blade beneath.

  For a moment, Harren said nothing. He reached out and turned the sword over, checking the weight, the balance, running a thumb lightly along the edge.

  “This…” Harren said finally, his voice low, “this is damn good work.”

  Elias stayed quiet.

  “You left the hilt?”

  “I’m not good with fittings,” Elias admitted. “Didn’t want to ruin the blade trying to fake it.”

  Harren snorted. “Smart. Most greenhands would’ve slapped something together and called it a day. I’ll get one of the apprentices to fit it properly.”

  He held the sword up again, watching the way the forge light caught the grain.

  “You used some kind of layered steel, didn’t you?”

  “A simple nickel-iron spine with manganese-treated edge steel,” Elias said, almost shyly. “Common technique. Back home.”

  “Maybe where you’re from,” Harren muttered, half to himself. “Here? That kind of forging’s rare outside the cities. This’ll impress ’em.”

  He looked at Elias for a long moment, then cracked a rare, approving grin.

  “You did good, lad. Real good.”

  _______

  The next afternoon, Harren warned Elias to stay sharp.

  “The buyer’s sending someone to pick it up,” he said, cleaning his hands on a rag. “Might even be the noble himself, depending on how much free time he thinks he has.”

  Elias just nodded, keeping busy by triple-checking the blade’s polish one last time. He wasn’t nervous, exactly. But there was a tension in his chest. A quiet pressure. He wanted the sword to be good enough.

  An hour later, the sound of hooves clattered outside the smithy.

  Elias straightened instinctively as a small group entered: three men, dressed simply but finely—leather traveling coats with polished buckles, boots that didn’t have a spot of mud on them. One of them, a tall man with short dark hair and a sharp, easy smile, carried himself like he belonged everywhere he went.

  The noble.

  Harren moved forward first, giving a shallow bow. Nothing dramatic—Harren wasn’t the type—but enough to show respect without groveling.

  “Lord Calder,” Harren said gruffly. “Sword’s ready.”

  Calder glanced around the forge like he was inspecting a horse stable, then his gaze landed on Elias. Something about it made Elias feel like a tool being judged on a rack.

  “And this is the smith?”

  “One of mine,” Harren said, tilting his head toward Elias. “Did the blade himself.”

  Calder stepped forward, motioned with two fingers. Elias brought the wrapped sword over, unrolling it slowly on a nearby workbench.

  The noble picked up the weapon, holding it with surprising familiarity. He tested the balance with a few slow movements, then tilted it into the light to catch the subtle layers rippling through the steel.

  His eyebrows rose slightly.

  “This is good work,” Calder said, almost sounding surprised. He gave a slight nod to Elias. “Not just serviceable. Someone put thought into this.”

  Elias didn’t know how to respond. He settled for a short, professional nod.

  Calder turned the blade again, then looked at Harren. “I’ll be honest. My cousin probably expected some hack job hammered out in a rush.”

  He smiled thinly.

  “I might just tell him he got a better deal than he deserved.”

  He glanced back to Elias. “If you keep turning out blades like this… well. Word travels. Even up the chain.”

  With that, Calder wrapped the sword himself in the cloth and gave a casual wave to his attendants. They turned and left as smoothly as they’d come, their boots barely scuffing the dirt.

  When the forge fell quiet again, Harren gave Elias a heavy clap on the back.

  “Well,” the old smith said, grinning under his beard, “looks like you just made yourself a damn fine first impression.”