Northern took a deep breath and stepped forward towards one of the forges in the workshop, the weight of all the eyes in the room pressing down on him.
He glanced at the hamr lying on the anvil—a simple tool compared to the intricate one Eleina carried.
He wrapped his fingers around the handle and easily lifted it, turning to Elena, whose sharp gaze was fixed on him with a mixture of interest and curiosity.
"At the very least... would you tell what to do?" Northern spoke calmly, despite the tension hanging in the atmosphere.
Everything about it was indifferently poised, unaffected by what was happening right now in the forge.
Eleina was silent for a couple of seconds, gazing deeply into Northern’s eyes. Then she stepped forward, her tone uncharacteristically patient.
"See that lump of steel? You’re going to heat it until it glows, then shape it into a blade. Focus on the rhythm. A forge is like a heartbeat—steady and relentless. Let the fire guide you, and don’t overthink it."
Northern nodded, his Chaos Eyes flickering briefly as he analyzed the tools, the steel, and even the forge itself.
The process seed daunting, but he believed he could use his Chaos Eyes and knowledge about ligatures to see it through.
He picked up the steel with a pair of tongs and thrust it into the roaring flas of the forge.
The heat was blistering, and although he had gained so resistance to heat, cold, and other natural conditions, he could still feel a few pearls of sweat pooling on his brow a couple of minutes later.
But he ignored the discomfort, focusing instead on the glowing tal as it began to soften.
Eleina stood behind him, her gaze following every one of his movents. What she was most interested in was seeing his striking power.
The true potential of blacksmithing was observed in the striking power.
Striking was not just hitting the steel. Eleina had a special ability that allowed her to strike the steel according to the will of its owner.
She believed that the strikes when molding the steel are what make the sword’s will. And these strikes carry a proportion according to what the user wants the sword to be like, or her vision for the sword.
A sword that would one day overco several trials and save its master’s life is known from the striking. A sword that would one day kill its master is known from the striking.
A sword that will betray, a sword that will die prematurely—she believes it’s all known from the striking, and this is what makes her a different breed of blacksmith.
Because others consider this to be childish and an absolute waste of ti.
But her eyes slowly widened as she heard the sound of Northern’s strike.
Northern pulled the glowing steel from the forge, placed it on the anvil, and raised the hamr.
The weight of it was reassuring in his hand, and he brought it down with a resounding clang that echoed through the workshop.
The impact sent vibrations up his arm, and he realized just how precise he needed to be. His second strike was more deliberate, the third even more so. Slowly, the shapeless steel began to take form.
The forgemasters watched in silence, their skepticism giving way to quiet murmurs of surprise.
Eleina, anwhile, had a nasty grin plastered to her face, her widened eyes trembling.
’How? How? How? That should be impossible for a first-tir. This rhythm, it’s giving way to the accuracy of each form. He is not just striking...’
Eleina observed him again.
’It’s asured. It’s definitely asured. His focus, the breathing space between each strike—he sees sothing, he is trying to form sothing specific!’
She was beyond amazed. This was the first ti that she had seen anyone take a dicated approach to striking.
Of course, every blacksmith, especially the forgemaster, understood it was a delicate process, but not with the asure and realistic approach she has for it. No, they don’t have that.
Northern handled things a bit differently from others, like he was seeing sothing.
Well, he was seeing sothing. Even steels have ligatures. And his Chaos Eyes had evolved from being able to see ligatures and Chaos constructs to being able to predict the best reforming structure for them.
In all things, there exist a sequence of Chaos structure that will bring about the best in that particular existence.
For example, now, with Chaos Eyes, Northern could handle the ligature of a biotic existence, and his Chaos Eyes would predict the best rging sequence in which he could get a certain expected result.
But not without a cost.
Most especially with a biotic existence. Their natural ligatures are sequenced the way they are for a certain reason, and the cost for ssing with it could be the biotic inexistence.
But for sothing like this steel, it was still possible. Steels are from mineral ores, which have ligatures and Chaos constructs in a particular sequence.
However, Northern saw that during heating, the sequences were being scattered and the ligatures were being weakened, reduced by the degree of heat to an almost inactive state.
This state makes it dormant enough for striking to reform its sequence; this is why the sword begins to take shape.
The only thing is, blacksmiths probably strike the steel according to what they were taught. But Northern could see how he needed to strike in order to produce the best sword.
This was him rearranging the sequence of the ligatures, even down to the structure of each atomic-level Chaos construct.
This was what gave birth to the asured, sweet, lodious rhythm of his strike.
Everyone stood in the forge dazed. The sound of Northern hitting the strike was solemn, peaceful, and interesting.
In fact, one guy had begun to tap his leg in the flow of the rhythm without even realizing, prompting a stern warning from his senior.
All the while, Northern was absorbed in what he was doing. Focused.
His strikes beca more confident, the rhythm of the hamr and the hiss of cooling steel lding into a strange harmony.
It reminded him of battles, the flow of combat, the way each move had to be precise and purposeful.
Minutes turned into what felt like hours, and by the ti Northern stepped back, his arms ached, and his body was soaked with sweat.
But on the anvil before him lay the rough shape of a blade—imperfect, but undeniably a blade.
Elena stepped forward, picking up the still-hot steel with a gloved hand.
She inspected it closely, her expression unreadable. After a long mont, she turned to the burly forgemaster and raised an eyebrow.
"Well?" she asked, her tone smug.
"Hmph," Santhik cleared his throat and looked away, "I guess he does have a thing or two in him. But he has a long way to go before creating a sword that will rival ours."
She shifted her gaze to the second forgemaster, inquiring of him with her sharp eyes.
"It’s a pass. We will back off from him for now and let you teach him."
Both of them shafully walked away.
"Go back to your stations! Stop staring, you goddamn wobbly heads!" Ironwill yelled.
Eleina watched as they both threw shaful tantrums of losing. Then she took one last look at the blade and at Northern.
"Mind if I have this?"
Northern shrugged.
"Alright then, follow . I will be teaching you all you need to beco a Master in this forge."
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