"Why?"
"Because a kitchen knife... ultimately isn't a proper blade." Xize sighed from the bottom of his heart.
"A kitchen knife is a knife! And I will become a true blacksmith!" Francis repeated with unusual seriousness, sounding more like he was convincing himself than Xize.
"Oh?" Xize suddenly understood,keenly detecting there was more to this story.
Francis hesitated for a moment, finally finding someone to share his long-buried thoughts with. Children always made people let their guard down, didn't they?
He crouched down to meet Xize's eye level, his gaze growing distant.
"My teacher was an exceptional blacksmith, though he had more prestigious titles. But I've always believed blacksmith was his most important identity... When I was ten, my father sent me to the royal capital to learn a trade, hoping I could make a living. My teacher happened to pass by and took a liking to me, asking if I'd become his apprentice and inherit everything he knew."
"So you were tricked into coming here?"
Lost in memory, Francis didn't respond to the jab.
"My teacher wasn't just skilled in smithing - he was also an extraordinary warrior. The first lesson he taught me was forging kitchen knives."
"So that's why you keep making everyone's blades into kitchen knives?"
Francis stared at him silently.
"Please, continue."
"Back then, my teacher placed a kitchen knife on the workbench and told me to replicate it, then left. I quickly mastered kitchen knife forging, but my teacher said this was just the beginning. He still had me forge kitchen knives day after day."
"After some time, I asked my teacher: 'Why do I always have to make kitchen knives? When can I learn other skills?'"
"My teacher solemnly replied: 'To learn smithing, you must first master kitchen knives. This is the foundation for honing your technique and skill. To become a true blacksmith, you must observe carefully and master various forging methods.' So I spent my days studying how to forge what appeared to be an ordinary kitchen knife."
"Then you..."
"That's right. My teacher only taught me how to forge kitchen knives, and that's still all I know how to make!" Francis confirmed his suspicion, looking at Xize with a mix of embarrassment and hidden expectation as he asked softly: "Tell me... do you think I'm a blacksmith?"
Xize seemed deeply shocked, finally murmuring after a long pause:
"Your teacher... was his name perhaps Da Vinci?"
The fiery gleam in Francis's eyes softened Heith's heart, making him reluctant to extinguish the blacksmith's dreams for the future. Gently stroking the rune-pouch at his waist, Heith spoke slowly: "Let me tell you a story from the past."
"Did that Master Da Vinci truly become the head court painter?" Francis pressed eagerly, his calloused fingers unconsciously tracing the magical patterns on the anvil.
"Indeed he did." Heith nodded, the silver threads embroidered on his sleeves shimmering faintly in the forge light.
"Then I shall become the royal master blacksmith!"
"Not likely." Heith chuckled, sparks trailing from his fingertips as he waved dismissively.
"Why?" Francis's voice dropped low.
"Perhaps such a position never existed in the royal court."
Silence fell over the smithy, broken only by the crackling flames in the furnace.
Heith steered the conversation back: "Have you considered why they left that kitchen knife behind?"
"Because it's not a real blade?" Francis ventured hesitantly.
"Wrong." Heith shook his head, stardust drifting from his hair.
Francis shot him an accusing look. You said otherwise earlier.
"Never mind the details." Heith coughed, a faint blue aura shimmering around him. "Do you realize the trouble you've invited by letting them go? Leaving the knife means this isn't over—they'll return for vengeance."
"I fear nothing."
Heith sighed inwardly. If you fear nothing, how am I to obtain that enchanted blade?
"Think—why would they bring rare materials to a country blacksmith like you?"
"Perhaps they're fools?" Francis laughed heartily, his booming voice rattling tools on the walls.
Heith gave him an exasperated glance before stating bluntly: "If you weren't the target, then it must be someone connected to you."
"Master!" Francis blurted out.
"Your master is remarkable?" Curiosity flickered in Heith's eyes.
"Extremely."
"How so?"
"He passed down this smithy through three generations." Francis scratched his singed apron. "From my master's master's master."
"Then," Heith cut off the tedious lineage, "you shouldn't cause trouble for him. What you should do now is redirect the danger."
"How?"
"Give me the knife. Then I'll be their only target." Heith spoke earnestly, contract runes glowing in his palm.
Francis shot up, his towering frame casting deep shadows: "Do you take me for a fool?"
"Don't I?"
"I'll be back!" Heith shouted as he was shoved out the door.
"Ungrateful wretch!" Heith kicked the rune-carved door, smoke curling from his boot tip.
"Heith?" came young Marlen's voice from nearby.
"Never mind. Let's go." Heith spun around, his cloak snapping in the night air.
At dawn, Francis had just pushed open the heavy oak door when he spotted Heith waiting in the morning mist. "You again?" he frowned.
"Great master, accept this disciple's three bows!
"First bow! Second bow! Thir—"
"Stop!" Francis grabbed his arm, eyes full of suspicion. "What nonsense is this?"
"A disciple's ritual." Heith maintained ceremonial solemnity.
"Go home. I've no time for games." Francis waved impatiently and retreated to the back, retrieving a meteorite ingot from the enchanted icebox.
As he raised his rune-etched hammer, Heith suddenly thrust his head toward the anvil, making Francis nearly miss his strike.
"Seeking death?!" Francis roared, the hammer's runes blazing dangerously.
"I want to learn smithing." Heith's gaze was steely.
"Never!" Francis hauled him out by the collar and activated the ward at the entrance.
Returning to the forge, he glanced around cautiously, a smug grin spreading across his rugged face. But as he prepared to strike, he froze—
The meteorite ingot was gone.
Heith's face peeked from behind the door, wearing the same pitiful expression. "Uncle Francis..."
"Tell me your thoughts on smithing. If they make sense, I'll take you as apprentice." Francis finally said after a long silence, planning to dismiss him with any excuse.
"That's all?" Heith looked surprised, then relieved. "I thought I'd have to lift that hundred-pound hammer..."
Francis smacked his forehead, cursing himself for not thinking of that test. But with Heith watching, he gruffly added: "Simple? If your answer disappoints, never return."
Heith's lips curved, his expression turning solemn: "In my view, every blacksmith alive is nothing but a brute—a disgrace to the craft."
"Say that again!" Francis's eyes bulged, the hammer's runes glowing crimson.
Unfazed, Heith continued: "Ironworking changed continental warfare ten millennia ago. A thousand years ago, smelting revolutions created weapons for all classes. During the Arcane Renaissance, enchantment-forging birthed new eras. But now—" he paused dramatically, "what innovation have you brutes contributed? Are you not disgracing your ancestors?"
Seeing Francis stunned, Heith smiled inwardly. During his earlier studies of continental mysteries, he'd mastered metallurgical and philosophical history—the very foundations of civilization.
But Francis's reaction was unexpected—instead of anger, he leaned forward with gleaming eyes: "Repeat what you just said."
"You're a brute." Heith obliged, though puzzled.
"Not that part! The earlier words!" Francis gripped his shoulders urgently.
"You're a brute." Heith repeated deliberately.
"I said not that part!"
"I know," Heith smiled sheepishly, "I just wanted to say it again."
Under Francis' stubborn insistence, Xize had no choice but to recount the story for the third time.
This time, the blacksmith absorbed every word, his gray-brown eyes glimmering faintly as the tale unfolded. When the final syllable faded, his calloused fingers unconsciously stroked his chin, and he sank into deep contemplation.
"Uncle Francis—"
"What is it?" The blacksmith's tone was sharp, his thoughts clearly interrupted.
The boy blinked his amber eyes, his voice tinged with cautious hope. "Could I learn blacksmithing from you?"
"No."
Before the word had fully left the blacksmith's lips, Xize felt his collar tighten. The next moment, he was unceremoniously lifted and tossed onto the cobblestone street outside.
After seeing off his uninvited guest, Francis rummaged through the piles of clothes on his bed and pulled out two relatively clean linen shirts. He threw them on hastily, not even bothering to lock up the shop, and leaped onto the roof. In a few swift movements, his figure vanished behind the jagged rooflines, leaving only fragmented whispers carried away by the wind.
Xize didn't press further this time. After a few attempts, he'd already sensed there was more to this blacksmith than met the eye. Since the man had refused so firmly, there must be a hidden reason. It reminded him of the legends he'd heard in adventurer taverns—if you couldn't trigger a hidden quest, it meant certain conditions hadn't been met yet.
"What a waste of talent..." The boy's heart ached as he recalled the exquisite craftsmanship of that kitchen knife. Maybe...
But he quickly dismissed the thought. Trickery was one thing, but outright theft was another. Still, now that the idea had taken root, he couldn't help but entertain it further.
"Fantasy, tonight you..." He trailed off as a large shadow fell over him. Xize looked up to see a dark figure streaking across the sky. He stared thoughtfully at the rooftops, his gaze following the direction the shadow had disappeared.
Meanwhile, the trio of mercenaries who had crossed the Misty Forest finally reached the bronze gates of Jacob's City.
They headed straight for the Mercenary Guild's outpost, relayed their intelligence to their employer through encrypted channels, and then took a breather at the "Drunken Wyrm's Breath" tavern in the west district.
In the Tax Office, Herman's bloated body jolted upright from his chair. The gold-threaded robe he wore rippled with the sudden movement, and his voice trembled with disbelief. "Are you certain the information is accurate?"
A flicker of delight crossed his face, only to be swallowed by the quivering of his fleshy cheeks. Before his subordinate could look up, Herman had already replaced it with a mask of shock and anger.
"Why was such critical intelligence delayed until now?" he hissed, each word grinding through his teeth. "Do you even recognize my authority?"
"Lord MacLaine commissioned an external mercenary group for the task. We only learned of it today," the subordinate stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.
Herman sneered inwardly. That fool thought he could claim all the credit, not realizing he was digging his own grave.
"Send an encrypted message to His Highness at once—" He cut himself off abruptly. After a long pause, he spoke slowly, "Since Lord MacLaine is so eager to take charge, let him handle it. Destroy all related records. We know nothing of this matter."
Once the subordinate had left, Herman carefully locked the door. He retrieved a roll of magically infused parchment and began writing furiously. After sealing the letter, he approached the obsidian-inlaid bookshelf and pressed his palm against the spine of *Ancient Rune Studies* on the ninth row.
With a soft click, the entire bookshelf slid silently aside, revealing a hidden door embedded in the wall.
The secret chamber was lined with froststone, and at its center stood a waist-high altar. Intricate magical patterns were carved across its surface—any mage skilled in enchantments would recognize it as an expensive one-way teleportation array, reserved for transmitting top-secret intelligence.
The four recessed corners of the altar were coated in dust. Herman brushed it away, placed the letter at the center, and reluctantly inserted four glowing mana crystals into the slots.
The moment the crystals settled into place, a blinding white light flooded the chamber. The radiance converged on the parchment like a living thing, then shot upward in a brilliant pillar. As the light faded, the altar had crumbled to dust, and the letter was gone.
"That was too close..." Herman exhaled in relief, muttering to himself as he turned to leave.
Xize hadn't walked far along the cobblestone path when a wooden cottage draped in moonvine came into view. This was the home of Ijona, the village priestess.
As an acolyte of the Church of Light, Ijona had served Spruce Village for three years. According to church doctrine, all divine practitioners were required to spend five years in grassroots service before promotion.
Though not a stunning beauty, her gentle demeanor and healing miracles had earned her the villagers' affection. As the only healer for miles around, she never charged for her services, and locals came to her with every manner of ailment.