Noticing that Julian had been standing at the door, the figure hurriedly turns, heading towards him.
“Hello, customer!”
A burly man in the prime of his life, he works with his entire upper body exposed, a leather jacket tied around his waist his only article of clothing; his robust arms ripple with muscle, and the bronze color of his skin and the determination on his face gives him a measure of gravity. However, the words he utters … are, er, rather bewildering in comparison.
“Welcome to the Silverplate Forge. The products we sell here are of excellent craftsmanship and superb quality. May I ask what you need? A pitchfork, a hoe, or a cooking knife?”
“This …”
The baffling opener dazes even Julian, but he quickly recovers his composure, and speaks.
“I want a sword.”
“Sword?”
Hearing this, the middle-aged man hesitates, sizing up Julian closely before catching himself in composure. The words that follow, however, seem to fly completely out of left field.
“I say, customer, what do you need a sword for? These Sunset Mountains are free from both thieves and bandits, and beasts tuck themselves away in only the deepest wilds. Don’t tell me you’re going to emulate those adventurers and go off to explore! This establishment has no swords of any kind, and what are those murderous instruments good for anyway? How about you consider one of our cooking knives instead? See, this knife is thinly engraved on both sides, and look at that fruit knife, it’s real easy to get peeling done, and the length is just right, so it won’t hurt your fingers. Since you’re new to Sunset Town, I’ll sell them to you for two silver pieces!”
“……”
Julian presses a hand to his forehead, and lets out a long groan. Picking up his head, he resolutely scrutinizes the middle-aged man before him.
“I only want a sword; even a standard-issue one will do. Do you have one here?”
“Then I must apologize, dear customer.”
Faced with the youth, the middle-aged man opens his hands in helplessness.
“We do not have a sword that we can sell you. After all, I’m sure you’ve seen yourself that Sunset Town isn’t big, and there is no one here that buys swords, so we very rarely smith things like that.”
Julian lets out a feeble sigh. It looks like he was still too innocent; he thought he could expect some consistency here, but truly, the world experiences change every single day.
“Then, I wish for you to forge a standard-issue longsword. There should be no problem.”
“That …”
The middle-aged man scratches his head in predicament, and for the first time some embarrassment creeps into his face.
“I apologize, I do not know how.”
“……”
“Because, my old man once said, all those years ago, ‘Nobody would come to this miserable place, so any weapons we forge are only going to be used in the family. Why waste time on learning how to hammer out swords? All that killing is too barbaric anyway.’ … So he didn’t teach me.”
“……”
A blacksmith that doesn’t know how to cast a sword?
Julian keeps a straight face towards the man before him, even as the sighs of frustration in his heart intensify.
“Do you really not have a single sword?”
“Uh …”
The middle-aged man furrows his brow. He could see by now that the youth before him was in real need of a weapon, and the sincerity of country folk carries through; he wants nothing more than to help the young man out. Thus, the middle-aged man does not outright give a rejection, but musters all his strength in recall. Finally, he seems to remember something, and loudly claps his hands together.
“That’s right, my grandpa left behind some weapons; maybe they’re still usable.”
“Oh?”
Julian’s eyes light up. The ‘grandpa’ that the middle-aged man mentions is likely the blacksmith he had met here originally. It must be said that the old smith had some commendable skills, and his work was generally of a high quality; a combination compelling enough for Julian to travel to this town and seek out his descendants. In Julian’s mind, even if the old smith’s posterity was an uninspired bunch, his needs would still be satisfied if they were able to retain seventy or eighty percent of their forefather’s skills. Well, seventy or eighty percent of skill had indeed been passed on … but only in the form of household metalwork and cutlery.
The middle-aged man spares no further words, hurriedly returning behind the counter; he rummages in a large scrapheap awhile before coming before Julian once again, this time carrying a long canvas bag.
“Please take a look, customer; will this suit your needs?”
Saying this, the middle-aged man opens the canvas pouch.
A pitch-black sword appears before them. A simple sheath holds the body of the blade, and there is little unusual about the item from its outward appearance; due to lack of care, the wire upon the hilt had mostly come loose, and even the guard was coated with rust. Julian extends a hand to take the sword, frowning a little, then, gripping on the hilt, draws it with a “ssh”.
Different from its unadorned trappings, the sword’s body is remarkably complex; upon both sides of the blade, a strange groove delineates patterns both marvelous and unfamiliar. Only, the blade itself is dark to the point of lightlessness, and the iron almost appears degraded, with little value in its reuse or recycling.
Upon seeing this, the middle-aged man’s expression is already mildly awkward. Even though he had never held this sword from his grandfather in high regard, he was still a blacksmith; his reputation would be damaged if such a shameful thing was sold from his own hands. If he’d known earlier, he would have done some serious maintenance; even a little polishing would be an improvement to its current state.
The middle-aged man doesn’t notice the hint of pleasant surprise in Julian’s eyes when the blade’s pattern comes into view.
That he would have kept this … is really unexpected.
The fact is lost on the middle-aged man, but Julian is well aware that there is no rust. In fact, as soon as he sees the body of the blade, Julian is certain that the weapon is one crafted of refined nocturnal iron. Speaking of nocturnal iron, that too was intimately connected to Julian himself; in his previous life, he had found a batch of the material, and commissioned a blade out of it from the owner of this store at the time. The remaining portion was given to the blacksmith as a souvenir, since the latter showed unbridled admiration for the rare and valuable material. It seems, now, that the old blacksmith had used that remainder to fashion a new, separate sword – presumably he might have wanted to leave his children a token of commemoration? After all, the opportunity to forge a weapon out of nocturnal iron could be said to be any blacksmith’s dream.
It is unlikely that the old blacksmith had considered the possibility, however, that one of his descendants would become a blacksmith who did not know how to forge a sword…
Nocturnal iron is a kind of magical metal that is only produced within Nocturne Forest. Different from other metals, this particular metal is rare not only because it has excellent anti-magic properties, but also because the place where it is found – Nocturne Forest – is home to the capital of the elves. For those nature-loving fanatics, any act which causes damage to nature is forbidden, not to mention outright mining – an act as painful as gouging the elves’ own flesh. Because of this, many would-be prospectors who venture into Nocturne Forest are granted an eternal stay, and as the elves are a force to be reckoned with even on the continent, very few dare invade the forest for the sole purpose of mining there. Thus, the price of nocturnal iron is always exorbitant; Julian’s “procurement” of the metal all those years ago can only be attributed to a stroke of fortune.
Nocturnal iron is valuable because it possesses the attribute of “soul transference”. When its wielder holds a nocturnal iron weapon, it acts like a channel, filling itself with its owner’s soul. This allows both more flexible usage of the weapon and a reinforcement of its durability and sharpness. Faced with an ensouled weapon, ordinary steel cannot pose a credible threat. It can be said that if someone were to don a suit of armor made with nocturnal iron, and equips a weapon of the same material, then he would be invincible on the battlefield.
But, nocturnal iron has its limitations as well. If its holder’s soul lacks sufficient strength, the material will serve instead as a critical flaw; a weak soul cannot withstand fierce attack. Especially on the battlefield, when the wavelength of one’s soul becomes weak, so too will his nocturnal iron weapon dull, perhaps even to the point of disuse. As a result, it is a metal used in weaponry only by the strongest on the continent, and even so, nocturnal iron weapons are few and far between in the current era.
“I’ll take it, how much?”
Julian’s own longsword had been destroyed in warfare in his previous life, unable to endure the energies applied upon it. He isn’t about to let the opportunity for an identical weapon just pass him by.
“This, er …”
The middle-aged blacksmith is stunned, not having predicted that this customer would actually fancy the piece of scrap metal. He considers it momentarily.
“Then I’ll take thirty silver for it, and if you’d like, I can polish it for free …”
Purchasing a nocturnal iron weapon with thirty silver is a steal no matter what. Julian doesn’t take advantage of the shopkeeper; he spends three gold as well as the ‘protective’ shortsword – according to market prices, it was at least worth fifty gold. Naturally, he politely declines the ‘kind-hearted’ proposal from the middle-aged man; nocturnal iron is no ordinary metal, so it’s better that Julian tend to something like that himself.
The middle-aged man finds it somewhat difficult to accept this new price, but stays quiet after Julian informs him of the exceptionality of the material, readily taking his recompense. He does not ask exactly what type of rare metal it is; in his view, no matter how rare the metal, it is hardly useful if it cannot be used on domestic hardware.
Julian does not immediately return to the castle after leaving the smithy; he has other matters to attend to on this trip.
...
“That’s right, these documents are official.”
Old man Clark squints at the seal on the document, causing his wrinkles to become deeply furrowed.
“Then, you are the master of that castle?”
With a pitiable look, Old Clark ponders the youth before him. How lamentable; he looks only to be seventeen or eighteen. How did he get himself exiled to this kind of remote place?
“Oi … I am not being chatty because of my age, Mr. Julian, but that castle …”
“Those are just legends, are they not?”
Julian interrupts Old Clark’s words. He leans back into the chair, crossing his fingers upon each other; and opens his mouth with a warm smile.
“I, too, have heard of those awful rumors, but I think they are only coincidence. Regardless, even a place like this is part of the kingdom’s sovereign land, and needs someone to manage it. Conceding to rumors of that degree is mere cowardice.”
It is uncertain how convincing the words are, coming from their very cause; but the old mayor, at least, sinks into a lost silence. He sees Julian as a deceived, foolish aristocrat. Clearly, the other man does not believe the rumors, and is ambitious enough to develop upon this land. But what about it? After that war of finality, this castle has already seen several masters; did not all of them share the same thoughts, arrive, and die in the same way?
The youth before his eyes will suffer a similar fate.
“I have not come here, Mr. Clark, to discuss these baseless rumors with you.”
Julian raises his teacup, gazing at the old man through the rising steam.
“I have reviewed the documents. In the past, you’ve directly submitted your taxation to the city of Chuca. Now, since I have received this fiefdom, I am sure you are aware of the change in tax matters going forward.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The old mayor is cool; it’s not his first time dealing with a situation like this.
“We will deliver this month’s taxes to your abode the day after next. The income available from Sunset Town … I think you have seen how it is already.”
“Certainly.”
Julian nods.
“Moreover, I have a few other requests to make of you, Mr. Clark. As you’ve seen, I came here alone, but taking care of a castle is, evidently, not something I can do the same way. Therefore, I hope for your assistance in posting notices of employment, so that I may enjoy the services of the townsfolk … I think this would not be a problem for you. Naturally, I will not be ungenerous with their remuneration.”
At these words, the old mayor’s businesslike face cracks an unmistakably wry smile.
“Even though I really would like to help you, my lord, and I hope you will forgive me for saying this; even if I were to put up those notices, I daresay no one will show up.”
“Oh?”
Casually setting down his teacup, Julian widens his eyes in curiosity.
“Because of those rumors again?”
“That’s right.”
In affirmation of Julian’s query, the old mayor inclines his head.
“To make it plain, my liege, many families within our town have worked at that castle. For example, old Martha … from her grandmother’s time, they’ve customarily been maids in that castle when there was the need. Old Bemba, too, has served two successive terms… Honestly, although your lordship may not believe it, the people that have owned this castle in the past all suffered mysterious deaths. The strangeness of that fact has affected us all; the townsfolk now consider that place to be under a demon’s curse, and dare not approach. Perhaps you were not aware – the old coachman who brought you up the mountain fell sick later that day, and still has not fully recovered …”
That’s because he was in a rush, and was hurt by the chilly night air.
“I understand your thoughts perfectly, Mr. Clark.”
Julian’s voice is delicate, cordial, filled with unquestionable resolve.
“Nevertheless, I have made a decision. Whether there are people willing to come to my castle and work is a matter best seen after the notices are posted. Abandoning a task before even making the attempt is not part of my creed. Putting our utmost effort in before we leave the rest to fate … that’s the kind of attitude us humans should have, no?”
Faced with Julian’s declaration, old Clark opens his mouth to say something, but ultimately delivers only silence. Since this young lord has already made up his mind, he might as well play along … no one will be willing to accept the recruitment anyway.
With thoughts like these, the mayor speaks no further, and nods in acquiescence to Julian’s request.
[0] The complaints about localizing names begin. What kind of name is "Chuca"? "Bemba"? It really makes me reconsider my life choices, but oh well. I will try my best. A closer rendition of "Martha" would have been "Marfa" or "Mafa" but those are stupid. Let's not do that, Martha is close enough.