Chapter 111: Forge of War
In the woods outside Brugge, a makeshift camp rapidly sprung up.
Invisible hands of pure force lifted rocks and hammered them down, driving the wooden stakes deep into the earth. Mousesack raised his short staff, chanting ancient runes. Trees bent their trunks, intertwining their branches around the stakes, forming a solid defensive palisade. In just a few moments, the outline of a formidable camp had taken shape.
"By the gods, I have to say, you're the most genius mage I've ever seen!" Zoltan squatted on a stone, frying rabbit meat in his pan, his mouth practically stretching to his ears. "Sometimes I really want to crack open your skull and see what sort of structure is inside—look at those trenches you dug, beautiful!"
The 'trenches' the dwarf spoke of were actually light-blocking, smokeless fire pits. Whether they were an original invention in this world was debatable, but before Arthur's transmigration, they were at best obscure survival knowledge.
Of course, the dwarf wasn't just praising the pits, but Arthur's speed in setting up camp.
"If you ask me, you ought to be like those sorcerers and name the spell—let's call it 'Arthur Dayne's Quick-Build Sign'!"
Arthur chuckled softly. His right hand reached toward the wagon bed, and the captured swords and blades of the Night Crows hummed as they flew toward the outer perimeter, digging bowl-sized, half-foot-deep horse-pits outside the barrier.
"If I actually did that, I'd be called shameless—the spell models are all pre-existing. I just made some minor adjustments according to my needs."
The transparent hands were called 'Mage's Hands' in the Book of Illusions, capable of performing simple actions for the caster within a ten-meter radius. Triss often summoned multiple hands simultaneously to practice her magical control. All Arthur had done was strengthen the spell's framework so it could lift heavier objects.
Anticipating that the night would not be peaceful, they divided the camp into two sections: inner and outer. The inner camp was deep within the trees to house non-combat personnel. The others would take turns standing watch in the outer camp to guard against attack.
"I'm sorry, but I must impose on you tonight." Arthur held The Temerian Edge, its surface riddled with cracks, his eyes full of complex emotion.
With his current forging level, he couldn't perfectly repair the greatsword. He had originally planned to find a professional blacksmith for a complete reforging in a major city. But now, he had to rearm himself to the teeth, even if it meant a drop in the quality of The Temerian Edge. In small-scale combat, the sheer pressure and dominance of a greatsword were unmatched by any light, one-handed blade.
Behind a one-way acoustic shield, Arthur placed a thick iron plate on a tree stump to serve as an anvil. He raised his left hand, uttered a short chant, and a bright electric arc spat from his palm. It coiled around the sword like a snake, and the metal instantly began to glow red and heat up.
"That… that's the spell you used to boil tea?!" Dandelion's gasp drew everyone's attention. Kolgrim muttered:
"I never thought there was a method of fireless forging in this world, aside from a magical forge."
Zoltan couldn't even bother with his cooking, handing his beloved frying pan to Maria, focusing intently on Arthur's smithing, his eyes practically screaming 'Teach me.'
"Whew, it's that spell, just requires a bit more magical power." Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow and began to hammer the blade.
He spoke lightly, but the matter was far from simply expending more magic. Though both involved heating, the power required to boil water and the power required for metallurgy were clearly not on the same scale.
Re-forging and solidifying the blade wasn't difficult for Arthur, but when the final strike landed, he looked at the dark-red blade before him, feeling a moment of hesitation.
Even the observing Zoltan couldn't help but feel tense: "The water for the quench is ready. Is this… is this rushed job really going to hold?"
The dwarf held Dandelion's teapot, which was filled with cool, boiled water. Controlled by a magical field, the water squeezed out of the spout like a blob of Slime, trembling as it floated before Arthur.
Questioned by Zoltan, Arthur felt a moment of uncertainty, but the process was too far along to turn back. Besides, his forging proficiency was at the apprentice level at least; even if he botched the quench, the sword should still achieve ordinary quality.
Ssssssssssssh.
Accompanied by a piercing hiss, white steam billowed up, and the dark-red blade rapidly turned black.
"Well? Well? How is it?" Zoltan, the spectator, was more anxious than Arthur, pressing him for details.
"I think it worked," Arthur said with cautious optimism.
The quenched blade remained perfectly straight, and water droplets evaporated quickly from the residual heat before they could slide off. This indicated that there was enough internal temperature left in the steel. All that remained was to wait for the natural tempering process, and he would have a good sword, balancing both resilience and sharpness!
Then, familiar text floated into the dark night sky, and Arthur couldn't suppress the smile on his face:
[Forging Proficiency has increased. Current Level: Expert]
[You can now craft and refine Fine Quality Weapons]
This was essentially a quality endorsement given by the system itself, making all the effort spent calculating the timing and monitoring the temperature with spells completely worthwhile!
Dinner that evening, though plentiful, was eaten distractedly by Arthur. Zoltan, on the other hand, barely ate two mouthfuls before checking the greatsword's residual heat. The moment it cooled down, he urged Arthur to test the blade.
"Back in Mahakam, I once saw a fellow slice a falling towel in two." Zoltan's eyes shone with fanatic zeal. He untied a sweat rag from his neck, preparing to toss it into the air: "Are you ready?"
Arthur was amused and resigned as he raised the greatsword, but then his head snapped towards the edge of the forest.
"Hey, as a swordsmith, how can you lose focus at a time like this? In Mahakam, to forge a good sword, we wouldn't even drink—!" Zoltan was complaining loudly, then suddenly fell silent.
The sound of hoofbeats was growing distinct; even ordinary people could hear it clearly now.
"Can they find us here?" Dandelion clutched his lute, his expression somewhat strained.
Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. I set up several illusionary disguises outside the forest. Theoretically, ordinary bandits shouldn't be able to find us."
The poet sighed, relief mixed with worry, and headed toward the inner camp. As agreed upon beforehand, if the enemy actually tracked them down, Mousesack and Geralt would guard the inner camp, and Dandelion would be responsible for soothing Ciri.
"The veins on the back of your hand are bulging." Kolgrim stepped beside Arthur, reminding him softly.
The sound of hoofbeats circled the edge of the woods again and again, and Arthur's gaze followed the sound. When they set up camp, he had used illusions to create large trees, concealing the entrance to their site; they shouldn't be easy to spot.
But remembering Corvo's dazzling smile, Arthur felt heavy in his heart again. He always felt this man was dangerous, harboring unknown intentions.
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