Chapter 68: New Material and Techniques

  As the steam cleared around the barrel where he’d dunked his fifth practice attempt, Tristan prayed to all the gods, both among and forgotten, that this time the blend of the two metals would work better. This would be the fifth shortsword he’d made, trying to integrate the white and black mithril into one cohesive--and sturdy--whole. And while technically he had already succeeded once, he barely counted it... given that the outcome was on par with a tier 1 sword.

  Tristan wanted more than that. He wanted this sword to truly blend both of the mithrils. It wasn’t that he exactly had a vision in his mind of what he wanted, but the concept of it was in there so firmly he couldn’t shake it.

  He held the tongs underwater a bit longer, dreading the next failure of whichever mistake he wasn’t seeming to learn from. But he couldn’t wait forever, so he eventually lifted the tongs and shook the sword dry. It looked...

  Awful, Tristan thought immediately. The two metals hadn’t incorporated nearly as well as he’d hoped, and there were stark lines around the outside of the blade where the black edge ended and the white core began. But maybe it’s just visual, he hoped, and the blade will maintain the white mithril’s magical conductivity without compromising the black mithril’s physical advantages.

  The goal of this “jacketing” technique was to use less of the higher tier material, because it was markedly harder for him to shape and work. Of course, given that the black mithril was by far the strongest material he’d ever worked with, he wasn’t surprised. By constructing only the blade’s edge from the tier 3 material, he’d hoped to make it sharper and sturdier, while minimizing the overall difficulty.

  The moment he lifted it, though, he could tell it wasn’t quite right. The balance was way off, for one, and he quickly saw that it was at least partially because the blade had warped slightly. Apparently he hadn’t managed to keep the ratios or jacket as symmetrical as he’d hoped. He held the small one-handed sword out directly in front of him and could feel it pulling to one side. With a swing or two, he knew it would never be acceptable in combat. And this was only a small little shortsword! What’s going to happen when I try scaling this all the way up to a greatsword?

  With a heavy sigh, he put the blade back on his workbench. He had to learn from it, as with all his mistakes, if he was going to improve. So, what went wrong?

  He went through his usual checklist for evaluating a sword, and by the end, he reinforced the conclusions he’d come to with his two most recent attempts: the heavier side was where there was more of the lighter color. The black, tier 3 metal, despite being more durable, was also lighter once forged.

  He’d hoped this technique would minimize the imbalance, but clearly he wasn’t yet skilled enough to compensate for the weight differences. While frustrating, it was still good to know.

  “It’s a shame that one didn’t work,” a vaguely familiar voice said from a few paces away.

  Tristan looked up and saw the old elf man he’d met with Sophie on the first day of their voyage. It took a moment to remember his name. “Spiro, I, uh, didn’t hear you approach.”

  “You were quite focused on your evaluation of that hopeful blade,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Tristan grunted. “New material and techniques. I’m just not sure how to integrate it properly.”

  Spiro looked toward the bin where Tristan had deposited the other four failures. “Ah, yes, I see that. May I?” Spiro held out a hand.

  Tristan flipped the blade around, holding it out to the elf handle first.

  Strangely enough, as the old elf took the blade--the very second the handle met his fingers--he closed his eyes. “I have seen this technique work, though usually it is accomplished by those working with same-tier materials.”

  “Yeah, I knew blending tiers would make the process more difficult, but I also couldn’t help myself. I enjoy the challenge, and it helps me grow more,” Tristan acknowledged.

  “I see, so that’s why it feels like two merely pretending to be one. Have you considered going to ask other crafters what they think? If you pool your ideas together, you might surprise yourself with what you come up with.”

  Tristan squinted slightly as he thought back to the different steps of the process. It might be nice to get another perspective. Maybe combine their expertise into what I alr--! “Wait a second, Spiro, that’s exactly it! I’ve been trying to only integrate the metals during the shaping, but if I fold them together from the start, all the way in the billet, they’ll basically be one material!”

  Spiro bowed, placing the sword on the workbench. “That definitely sounds like a workable hypothesis.”

  Tristan looked over at where he’d stacked his materials separately, one stack of midnight black billets, the other of pristine white. He’d seen his father do something like that before.

  Two materials. Folded, and folded, and folded, into one billet. Black and white together instead of separate.

  “Yeah, that just might work!” he said, returning to the present moment. “Thanks, Spiro!” He moved to shake the elf’s hand, but Spiro was already gone.

  Tempy chuckled from the next anvil over. “He does that, just so you know. He pops in and out with just the right nudge or insight. You should be glad he came to visit; it means he saw some promise in you.”

  Tristan nodded to the runesmith. She’d been completely hands-off once he’d begun working with unenchanted materials, and he supposed that made sense. She’d only agreed to training him as an enchanter, and he had yet to incorporate any of that into these test blades. He had wondered if she might be disappointed in him for that, until a quick look at her station revealed that she was elbow-deep in one of her own projects.

  For now, Tristan would leave her to it. He had another test blade to craft. And something told him that this time, his sixth attempt, would be the one!

  - - - - -

  As he pulled the sixth new shortsword from the quenching barrel, Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off of its beautiful blade. The repeated layering had left it with visible swirls and waves of black and white that practically rippled down its entire length.

  It was breathtaking.

  The moment he’d raised the sword, he’d heard the rhythm of Tempy’s hammer swings stop, accompanied by the tiniest of gasps. His eyes drifted subtly over to catch the runesmith looking at his new sword, and he knew she agreed.

  This was exactly the look he wanted for his next sword. Now to see if it was well balanced.

  He almost hated to check for fear of a negative outcome, but he had to know. If it was, then all the ridiculous folding, refolding, and reheatings that it had taken to forge the shortsword would have been worth it.

  Moment of truth, he thought.

  He held the blade before him, and it was beyond perfect. It was almost a shame this was just a shortsword, and he’d have to start the whole process over again with a bigger billet to make his greatsword.

  Looking down at the blade in his hand, however, Tristan felt the warmth of accomplishment.

  “And next time,” he whispered, lowering the blade into the bin beside all the others, “I’m going to enchant it, too. It’ll be the greatest tanking weapon any tier 2 smith has ever created.”

  He was pulled from his reverie by Tempy’s voice. “Tristan, don’t you dare set that beautiful piece of smithing beside your failures! Pull it out right now and set it on display as art with a bloody high price tag!”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Tristan did exactly as she said, only faltering at the end. “What kind of--? I mean, just, how high should I go?”

  “Hold it up again,” Tempy commanded, and Tristan complied. “It’s a mix of tier 2 and 3 metal, and it’s bloody beautiful, so you could easily get tier 3 art prices. 200 gold, I’d say.”

  Tristan’s mouth dropped open. “But it’s Soulbound. Whoever bought it wouldn’t even be able to use it.”

  “So? Who uses art?”

  “It’s a sword,” Tristan countered.

  “Look at it.”

  Tristan did, and though a part of him understood, the price just seemed much too high for any sane person to pay. “There’s no way it’s worth that much!"

  Tempy silenced him with a wide-eyed stare by slamming both hands down on her anvil and leaning aggressively toward him. “Two. Hundred. Gold. And don’t you dare take a single coin less, do you hear me?”

  “Y-yeah,” Tristan stuttered, not believing anything he’d made could possibly be worth so much. He pulled a sheet of paper and wrote “ART ONLY” as clearly as he could, in big bold letters, beside the price.

  - - - - -

  Tristan went back to his room that night with a heavier coin purse than he’d ever had in his life. It was so much wealth he actually felt uncomfortable just wandering around the halls, even if this was the Crafting Ark. He knew the rules as well as anyone, but 200 gold pieces still felt like a lot to just carry! The buyer hadn’t even haggled on the price. I bet I could have gotten more.

  He had to pass by Sophie’s door on the way to his room. For a brief moment he paused, considering whether or not he should knock. He hadn’t seen her in a while--days, actually. Had it been a week yet? It was long enough he wasn’t actually sure. Unfortunately, he also wasn’t exactly sure what time it currently was, so he didn’t want to risk disturbing his friend.

  Fate had other plans, however, and as soon as he moved on, her door swung open. Sophie barely missed colliding with him as she rushed out.

  Clearly startled, she began nervously stroking Poof, who was nestled firmly in her arms. “Oh, Tristan, hey! Are you going out, too?” She scanned him quickly and her eyes narrowed. “Or... just coming in?”

  Tristan chuckled. “The latter, actually. But it was a very productive... uh what time is it again?”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “Gods, Tristan, you’ve got to get the [Clock] skill at least. You’re not living in Woodsedge any more; precise time matters in the real world. I’m sure someone down at the Market will sell you the scroll, probably [Calendar] too. If I have time..." But her eyes glazed over slightly, and she didn’t finish her thought before moving on. “Well, definitely not today. Maybe tomorrow--"

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tristan said, considering once again just how much his life had truly changed. His father had always said the only clock he needed was the sun. But as Tristan raised one hand to pet Poof gently, and the furry mage meeped adorably at his fingers’ scritches, he figured this was another of those instances where change could really be good. “I can go just as easily as you can. And I’ll be able to afford it now, no matter what it costs.” He hefted his coin purse, which made a wonderful, jingling sound.

  Sophie only gave it a cursory glance before nodding. “Alright, well, I’ve got meetings lined up absolutely all day with suppliers and decorators! Then I’ve got to start the advertising campaign, because absolutely everyone needs to know about it! We’ll catch up another day, and you can tell me all about it.”

  But before Tristan could ask what she was talking about, Sophie said, “See you!” and just like that, she was running on her way with Poof beginning to meep angrily at her. Then she was gone.

  Tristan wondered what all those meetings were for. He supposed she would tell him eventually--if not in person, then through whatever “advertising campaign” she was about to start. And honestly I should try to spend more time with her, he thought. She got us here, and I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful for that. Though she also seems busy herself, and she realizes how valuable our time here is...

  That thought reminded him just how tired he was. He’d been pushing himself hard, and despite his ridiculously high Endurance stat, he still needed sleep. He wondered if there would ever be a time when that wasn’t true. How high would his Endurance need to go before he could just power through a week on end? Over 100, surely.

  Shaking his head, Tristan unlocked his room and walked in. He could spend time thinking about that when he got off the Crafting Ark, and his time wasn’t quite so precious.

  He quickly pulled off his dirty clothes, set them aside, and splashed some water on his face. The moment his head hit the bed, he fell asleep.

  - - - - -

  “That’s good,” Tempy was whispering in his ear. “Nice and slow. Keep your mind focused on the magic flowing from your Source into that beautiful billet. Don’t try to push too fast, or [Infuse] will get away from you.”

  Tristan was struggling to keep his mind focused on the task at hand, with Tempy practically pushed right against his back. It was hard. At least her constant reminders to slow down were useful. In truth, he wasn’t sure he could go faster anyway, not if he wanted to hit the material’s full magical capacity. Apparently, white mithril could absorb a ridiculous amount of magic, even for a tier 2 material.

  “The slower you go, the more you can be sure you’ve saturated the metal, and then the stronger your blade will eventually be,” Tempy encouraged him. “Assuming you don’t screw it all up in the shaping.”

  Tristan tried to put that doubt out of mind. He had enough to deal with already. It was the strangest feeling to pull the magic straight out of a [Lesser Magic Essence], but he was now nearly done with his fifth, so had gotten fairly accustomed to it. The strangest part was when he siphoned off the very last of it, and the essence just popped out of existence.

  He could feel that his [Infuse] skill was trying to bathe the metal evenly, spreading and dispersing the magic throughout it. It kind of reminded Tristan of when he’d filled measuring cups with liquid for his mother while baking, except this time he wasn’t using his eyes to see where the figurative “water level” was. He could feel that the sword could hold more, but not quite how much. Definitely not with the degree of certainty that Tempy seemed to have.

  “Don’t use another essence when you finish that one,” she said. “You’re almost done. Can you feel how near to capacity you’ve gotten? Just pull from some dust to top the last bit off.” She patted his shoulder gently. “That way you’re less likely to over-fill. Reduces waste, too.”

  Tristan couldn’t feel whatever she was talking about, but he tried to go even slower than he already had been. It didn’t help that his head had begun pounding, telling him that this wasn’t a good idea. Even his arms, which were usually so strong and stable, were beginning to tire, and all they were doing was holding still!

  As soon as the fifth essence popped out of being, Tristan released his hold on the magic of the metal that would soon become his next greatsword. A wave of relief washed over him.

  “Don’t stop for too long or it’ll seal itself off to any additional magical essence,” Tempy warned for what felt like the twentieth time. “Even though you used white mithril, it still has its limits.”

  Tristan flexed his fingers. “I’m just--If I overfill it, could that damage the material?”

  “Not unless you really overfill it, and then the only damage will be from the resulting explosion.” She squeezed his shoulder. “So don’t do that, okay?”

  Tristan gulped as he repositioned the bowl of [Arcane Dust], pulling it a bit closer so the reach wouldn’t be such a stretch. He knew she was helping him, but he hadn’t wanted to add yet another worry to his list. He took a moment to flex his hand and get it totally under control again before resuming the transfer of magic from the bowl on his left into the mithril on his right.

  Within a minute, Tempy began softly speaking into his ear again. “Gently. Not too much. Only give her what she wants. No more, and no less.”

  Tristan could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead, until Tempy wiped it away with a cloth.

  “That’s good, Tristan. You’re so close! Just a little more!”

  As a fledgling enchanter, Tristan slowed the flow of magic down as much as he could manage, but he was still worried it wouldn’t be enough. What if he went too far and exploded it?

  But he didn’t. The moment when the metal was “full” was practically impossible to miss. He felt a sudden prickly numbness in his fingers, which he guessed was the backflow of leftover magic.

  He also got another Secondary Class level-up, which earned him the [Will Up I] passive skill. It was the typical 10% boost, but in a stat he hadn’t really gained much in before. It made sense though. Will was the magic control stat, and more of it would help him control the flow of magic from Sources better during enchanting.

  With a loud exhale, he dropped into his chair--only to find that his fingertips were literally glowing.

  “Well done!” Tempy said, straightening up and moving back to her own station. “You made the hard part look easy. Now the biggest challenge for you will be to leave it alone for a day or two to let all that magic truly settle into the billet.”

  Tristan sighed, not minding the idea of a break. “Thank the gods! I’m freaking spent. Is it always going to be so draining?”

  With a laugh, the runesmith picked up several of her tools, clearly ready to get back to her own work. “Not even close, Tristan. You’ll get better with experience, though, and then it won’t be quite so awkward and exhausting.” Then she looked up and winked at him. “But you’ll always remember your first time.”

  Tristan groaned at the insinuation, but then that led him to imagining working with Tempy in other ways, and an undeniable blush took him. He immediately tried to hide his face by turning towards his workbench and the fully saturated billet, beginning the cleaning process.

  And the sword’s only halfway done, he thought. I’ve still gotta forge it, anneal it, grind it, temper it, and then [Imbue] it. He wondered if that final process would be as draining as when he’d used [Infuse] on the metal before.

  Regardless, he had a really good feeling about this sword. Even if it was only a billet so far, it was a beautiful one. Soon enough he’d get to work it into something he could truly be proud of.