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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Furnace Hearth
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"Your palms are all torn up. Even if you push through, they'll heal anyway. Just say the word, and I can open the forge for you. Don't rush it like this."
Seok Jiseung's attitude had become noticeably gentler.
Right now, for him, the results Dang Mujin would produce—and the process of producing them—mattered more than his pride.
"It's fine. Isn't getting cut and burned part of the job for a blacksmith?"
Dang Mujin said this as he shook the blood droplets from his right palm.
A blacksmith's hands could never stay pristine. A skilled blacksmith wasn't someone who avoided minor injuries, but one who had grown accustomed to them.
No exceptions existed, even for those who had spent a lifetime hammering iron amid the clamor of the anvil and the blaze of the furnace hearth. Even veteran smiths would slice their hands sharpening blades or suffer burns from flying sparks.
Yet blacksmiths never felt shame over their scars. They were no mark of inexperience—they were badges of honor etched into a smith's own flesh.
Torn palms fell into the same vein. It was all part of forging rough, sturdy hands. As long as you took care not to damage muscles or tendons, it was enough.
Dang Mujin's grip tightened on the bellows handle, pumping with vigorous force.
The flames in the furnace hearth roared fiercer than when forging the dagger.
A dagger didn't need to bend flexibly. It just had to hold until it broke—that was enough.
But needles were different. Making them extended the process of drawing wire.
Of course, needles didn't need to flex like wire, but they required at least some degree of tempering.
'To fold it, it'll need to get plenty hot first.'
To infuse steel with malleability, it had to undergo folding.
Heat it to a bright yellow glow, hammer it flat, fold it over, then hammer again.
A few times at minimum—four or so. Up to ten or more folds for the toughest steel.
Swords forged through repeated folding wouldn't snap under brute force; they'd bend like a whip and snap back to form. The prized blades of martial arts masters and slender wires alike emerged from this very process.
Dang Mujin thrust the tongs into the furnace hearth and stirred the coals. A blast of scorching heat billowed out.
"Seok, mind grabbing the tongs for me?"
"Y-Yeah, of course."
Dang Mujin casually asked Seok Jiseung to assist him, and Seok Jiseung took the tongs without a hint of reluctance.
The hammer Dang Mujin now wielded was far larger than the one used for the dagger.
Size didn't matter for small items—you had to strike far more times, and harder, so a hefty hammer suited the task.
"You know how to draw wire too?"
"Guess I'll have to give it a shot."
People assumed blacksmiths crafted every metal tool under the sun.
Half right, half wrong. All metal goods passed through a blacksmith's hands, but not every smith could make every kind.
Most everyday smiths churned out over ninety percent farm tools and kitchen knives.
Weapons had their own specialists, called swordsmiths or bladesmiths. Master Seok and Seok Jiseung were among them.
Just as weapon smiths specialized, so did those who drew wire, nails, needles. They went by needle-smiths or wire-smiths.
It might seem like crafting trifles, but a needle-smith's handiwork demanded precision rivaling a bladesmith's. No wonder Seok Jiseung's early attempts at needles had come out crude and thick.
Meeting Seok Jiseung's worried gaze, Dang Mujin swung the hammer down.
Clang!
The sharp ring echoed through the forge. Once more, the hammer struck true without deviation. Proof lay in the even spray of sparks bursting outward.
The red-hot ingot flattened, folded. Flattened again, folded again.
Despite his limited strength, Dang Mujin pressed on at an astonishing pace.
After three folds, his breath rose to his throat.
Hoo—
Dang Mujin furrowed his brow and set the hammer down.
Shortness of breath was no big deal. The issue was his shoulder.
Swinging a heavy hammer with an untrained body had left it stiff, refusing to move right.
The dull ache sharpened into pain, then dulled again—a sign that pushing it further would spell trouble.
'Not drawing full wire, so this much folding should do.'
Seok Jiseung stared at the metal lump, transfixed. Dang Mujin spoke to him.
"Seok, sorry to keep asking, but could you take over hammering for a bit? My shoulder's not holding up."
"Uh—sure thing."
Seok Jiseung slipped the small lump back into the furnace to reheat it.
Dang Mujin clamped the tongs on one end, and Seok Jiseung hammered with practiced ease.
Muscles honed by grueling labor rippled across his frame. Unlike Dang Mujin's scrawny arms, these looked ready to swing all day.
The lump went into the furnace twice more. Heat, hammer, cut. Seok Jiseung coaxed it into the flattest, thinnest wire he could manage.
Dang Mujin plucked the finished wire and flicked it with a finger. The vibration felt satisfying.
Only issue: it was still thick. Like stacking two or three grains of rice.
Too heavy for needles or sewing pins, but a little tip-trimming would make it a fine awl or nail.
Seok Jiseung scratched his head sheepishly.
"A bit thick, huh?"
"This is good enough. Time'll handle the rest. Mind if I borrow your grindstones?"
Dang Mujin snatched up the metal scrap and headed to the forge's darkest corner. Grinding always happened in the most tucked-away spot, and Seok's forge was no exception.
Grindstones of every grit waited there, from coarse and brutal to fine and silky.
Dang Mujin took his time rubbing the scrap against the rough one.
Seok Jiseung shut the forge door and joined him, grinding his own piece.
*
Some things in life defied shortcuts.
The pair threw themselves into the work, skipping even meals. Grinding began before lunch and dragged into the dead of night.
'Been ages since I lost myself in work like this.'
Maybe back when he first learned the trade.
He hadn't focused this hard in over a decade. Hunger never even registered.
Seok Jiseung gazed at the roughly twenty needles. The rice-grain-thick wire had slimmed to something that could thread a soybean.
Compared to these, his old needles might as well have been iron clubs. Now he understood why Dang Mujin had been so picky.
'Amazing.'
Never dreamed steel could get this fine.
This wasn't just from grinding longer or harder.
Crafting needles this slender demanded wire of uniform strength and resilience—or it'd snap or warp before taking shape.
If someone else had made them, he'd chalk it up to prime ore. But no excuses here; it came from the forge's standard stock.
So what bridged the gap between these delicate needles and his old clunkers?
The answer was plain: the folding and forging Dang Mujin had demonstrated. That brief process had forged a world of difference.
Today, Seok Jiseung gained profound insight—one that would reshape his career as a bladesmith.
Just as he thought to thank Dang Mujin, Dang Mujin bowed to him first.
"Thanks to you, Seok, I ended up with something great."
"Nonsense. I just pitched in a little."
"You did more than pitch in—look at me."
Overworking his arms on impulse, Dang Mujin could barely lift them now. Intense soreness awaited for days.
He spoke in a limp drawl.
"Can't thank you enough, but how should I repay the favor?"
"Repay? Forget it. If anything, I'd be the one paying you."
"But—"
"If it really bugs you, drop by the forge now and then. Show me what you're making—that's plenty."
"Got it. See you next time."
Dang Mujin bowed once more and headed back to the clinic.
Seok Jiseung saw him off, then darted back inside and snatched up the dagger Dang Mujin had forged.