The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal rang nonstop through the forge, hot air thick with the smell of steel and coal.
Noel was bent over a glowing billet. In the brief moment he lifted his head to wipe sweat, he spotted Shane and the others walking in.
A delighted grin broke across his face. He set the hammer down and came over.
"Shane! You're back?"
"Got something to do. I was hoping to borrow your forge for a bit," Shane said, gaze drifting over the familiar layout as he went straight to the point.
He could manifest tools and a furnace with the class card—but having a real, fully stocked forge was still much more convenient.
Noel looked uneasy. He glanced toward the back and lowered his voice. "My master's working on a rush order. I don't think he has time to deal with you. And, uh, he's pretty old-fashioned. I doubt he'll let a kid this age borrow his tools—"
He didn't get to finish.
"Let him! If your friend wants to use it, he can!"
Heavy footsteps boomed as the massive blacksmith—muscles on his arms thicker than Shane's thigh—pushed aside the back curtain and stepped out.
He glared at Noel first. "I was just about to check if you were slacking off again—"
Then he turned to Shane, and a surprisingly friendly smile broke through the fire-reddened face. "But if it's this friend, he can use it as long as he likes! Noel, clear the best spot for him!"
Noel's jaw dropped—he could've fit an egg in there—but he still reflexively answered, "Y-yes, Master!"
The smith didn't waste more words. He led Shane toward the inner work area.
He jabbed a thick finger toward a side wall, unable to hide his admiration. "Noel told me… These on the wall are your work, right?"
Shane followed his finger and froze—then scratched his cheek, embarrassed.
The entire wall was lined with his old test pieces from Noel's delivery wagon. From daggers to rapiers—every last one.
Those were all made before he'd understood Muramasa's True Name, using [Arrow Construction] as a cheat. In his eyes now, they were plain, clumsy, structurally crude—pure, unfiltered black history.
Seeing them displayed like a shrine felt less like praise and more like public execution.
"Uh… something like that," he hedged.
But the smith only grew more excited. He stepped up to a spiral-bladed sword and stroked the ridged pattern like it was treasure. "Brilliant! That twist—doesn't hamper the swing at all, actually gives it an extra bite…
"And the weight distribution— I've been forging for decades and never seen something this clever and solid. Son, what technique did you use? How did you even—"
He fired off questions like a barrage—then stopped short, chagrin twisting his face. He waved both hands quickly. "Forgive me. I got carried away. That was rude!"
Every blacksmith had their own closely guarded tricks—the secret fruits of long years at the forge. Asking directly was like a challenge; even close friends might fall out over it. The man knew the rule well and felt like he'd just lost his head.
The more he praised those pieces, the stiffer Shane's smile became.
It felt exactly like some office worker being grabbed at a reunion and having his ten-year-old cringey social media posts read aloud, line by line.
His toes curled involuntarily. He wanted to dig a three-bedroom apartment in the floor and move into it.
"Master," he cut in quickly, pointing at the "wall of shame," "I'm already grateful you're willing to lend me the forge. How about this—you help me as an assistant. Ask anything you want; if I know it, I'll answer."
He wasn't stingy. In fact, in his view, the last thing he wanted was for the spirits who answered his call to have their legends and craft buried in this world.
If circumstances allowed, he was more than happy to pass those skills on.
"R-really?!" the smith gasped, eyes as round as copper coins. He looked almost disbelieving.
He whirled around and bellowed at Noel and the other apprentices, who were still frozen. "You hear that? We're closing for the day! Cancel all orders! Shut the door! Nobody is allowed to bother the master!"
He'd even upgraded Shane's title without realizing.
Shane, ever easygoing, added, "If anyone here's interested, feel free to watch. There's nothing you can't learn."
At that, Noel and the others broke into obvious delight. The way they looked at Shane practically sparkled with gratitude.
The bald-headed smith grew solemn. Someone that generous about teaching… His respect only deepened.
And the first thing Shane did—
Was take down every single piece on that "honor wall" and throw them into the roaring furnace one by one, under the master's anguished, almost tearful stare.
Watching them twist and melt in the heat, Shane finally let out a long breath.
Then came the familiar steps.
He picked suitable ores and ingots, fed them into the furnace, smelted them into specific alloys, hauled out glowing masses with tongs, and brought the hammer down again and again—purging impurities and shaping the metal into a desired form.
Clang after clang rang in a steady rhythm; sparks flew at each strike.
Between hammer blows, he answered questions from the blacksmiths. Now and then he paused, pulled Erza closer, and quietly asked about her wrist size, how her waist moved when she swung, or traced a curve in the air to ask how it felt to her.
She watched just as seriously—stretching or shifting as needed for measurements, occasionally offering her own impressions in a soft voice.
The master watched every move Shane made. From grip to angle, from heat to timing the quench. Every so often he'd nod hard with sudden understanding.
His intent stare actually made Shane a bit uncomfortable.
If the man had been slimmer and less muscle-bound, Shane might have suspected he planned to propose on the spot.
In sharp contrast to the blazing focus inside the workshop, Gray was slumped miserably in a corner.
The forge was hot—waves of heat rolled off the flames, making the ice mage squirm.
"Hey, I'm just saying—" he finally burst out, "how long are we going to sit around here?"
Nobody answered. Only Noel brought him a cup of water out of pity.
Gray drained it in one go, but the heat and boredom only felt worse.
"Forget it, I'm going outside. It's way too hot in here," he muttered, jumping up.
Just then, Shane poked his head out, still holding a glowing iron brand.
He eyed Gray's disgruntled face and said, "If you've got nothing to do, help me out. Go down to the shore and scout where the winter-tail fish are."
It was a side quest they'd picked up on the notice board before coming here—a rare fish that only came into the shallows during a narrow winter window.
Its tail was as beautiful as ice sculpture, making it top-tier fare prized by high-class restaurants. The pay was 3,000 J per fish.
Seeing Shane apparently settle in at the forge, fully focused on crafting gear for Erza and seemingly tossing the Ultear problem aside, Gray scuffed his boot against the floor, unhappy.
But he had promised to follow orders.
"…Got it," he grumbled, and pushed the door open to leave.
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 100 Chapters Ahead of Others!