It’s commonly said that forging a refined, excellent sword takes at least half a year. But Aitri had shortened that time.

It wasn’t a miracle—just the result of good “preparation.”

There were other reasons too, of course, but if one had to pick the biggest factor beyond preparation, it would be the recent visits from a certain dwarf.

A familiar dwarf, whose intentions were clear.

“Say a few good words for me later, will you? Hm? I’m not a bad dwarf. It’s just the nature of us Ironfolk—we tend to act without thinking things through.”

He mostly came to ask for favors, but in the process, he taught Aitri a few smelting techniques. He also shared his philosophy as a craftsman.

“Is tradition always superior just because it’s old? What really matters is taking the best parts of tradition and transforming them into something new!”

Dwarves always dreamed of progress. They were unhesitating when it came to learning, accepting, and using new techniques. They truly hungered for craftsmanship in its purest form.

And perhaps because of that, dwarves were the most easily swindled among all intelligent species.

“New technology, huh? Sounds great! Teach me.”

Even Aitri could easily imagine the dwarf speaking those exact words.

If asked which race humans had conned the most, dwarves would undoubtedly top the list.

And when dwarves got too close to humans, they sometimes ended up pulling the same tricks themselves.

At any rate, Aitri had learned new forging techniques and benefited from the dwarf’s ideology as well.

“Innovation means adding everything I know to what’s new.”

He also gained experience working with precious metals—something no other blacksmith on the continent could boast.

The experience of freely handling such rare materials... it was something else.

On top of that, Enkrid occasionally brought him engraved weapons. Every single one had become part of his study. Aitri looked at everything, learned it all, absorbed it.

Research and study. Day after day, the same routine.

In the midst of that, he began to sketch an image in his mind.

“Layer the three irons together.”

The technique was called pattern welding.

So, what kind of iron would he use? The continent’s three most famous were:

Valerian Blue Steel, Rewisian Silver Steel, and Uberian Gold Steel.

They were commonly called Bluesteel, Silversteel, and Goldsteel. And in the mines where these veins were found, rare metals sometimes appeared alongside them—True Iron, True Silver, and Black Gold.

Aitri had acquired a small amount of all three rare metals, and some meteoric iron to boot.

That’s how the Three Iron Sword was born.

There were also a few gems and special metals added.

“Cursed metals are excluded.”

They didn’t suit an engraved weapon. He’d once melted down armor obtained after killing a cultist, which had yielded cursed metal.

Even while Enkrid was away, Aitri kept swinging his hammer.

He polished and refined True Iron, True Silver, and Black Gold again and again. Then, through a trade guild, he received an unusual type of iron.

The metal itself wasn’t very hard or flexible. But the moment he saw it, he had a feeling. His instincts stirred. From there, he moved as if possessed.

He added innovation to the layering of irons.

“Mystery.”

He didn’t know the principle behind it. If told to repeat it, he couldn’t. It felt like he’d walked a tightrope over a cliff without knowing how. And he was still walking it.

In truth, even as he processed what he was doing, Aitri seemed to step back and observe himself.

The focused version of him simply hammered, adding True Iron, hammering again, layering True Silver, hammering again, then Black Gold.

“That’ll ruin everything.”

Normally, yes. The external version of himself felt alarm. The way to harmonize those three metals was to keep each in its proper place.

The Three Iron Sword had been the result of that study. And now, he was ignoring even that. Mixing them. Merging them with heat.

“It won’t work.”

That worry only lasted a moment. Even that, he soon forgot.

He lost track of time. Even the times he met Enkrid felt blurred.

When he received Enkrid’s Will and poured it into the steel, when he listened to him speak—he seemed focused again. But once Enkrid left, it all felt like a memory from months ago.

Aitri’s apprentice watched with concern, afraid his master might collapse at any moment.

His wasting body was alarming.

“Will he be okay?”

It was during those watchful days—

Shhhhhhhh.

The wind howled, rattling the wooden shutters. The hinges on the door creaked, and then—thump—it opened.

“Was the latch not secured properly?”

The Border Guard’s public order was excellent lately. Especially here—four soldiers patrolled the forge regularly. There was no chance of a burglar breaking in.

The apprentice grabbed a lantern and rubbed his sleepy eyes as he stepped outside.

Though it was early summer, he felt an unnatural chill and goosebumps ran down his skin.

He walked toward the outer door to shut it, but suddenly froze.

Beyond the open door, it was black—pitch black.

Even for night, it was too dark.

And then a dread crept up his spine. He felt it—something was there in that darkness.

It wasn’t just his imagination. A white hand shot out of the dark.

Too shocked to scream, the apprentice realized for the first time in his life that humans can be so startled they make no sound at all.

The white hand rose and held up a single index finger, stopping where a face should’ve been.

Then two blue glints appeared in the darkness, followed by a voice:

“Shh.”

Only then did the apprentice realize he’d been holding his breath, and exhaled with a sharp gasp. Someone stepped out of the darkness and entered the forge.

“Quiet.”

A witch.

Anyone could tell she was a witch. With a pointed hat and a pitch-black robe that seemed to suck in the light of the lantern.

Wherever she walked, shadows scattered.

The Black Flower—nickname of the Captain’s woman.

“I’ve been waiting.”

It was the master speaking, suddenly behind the apprentice. He hadn’t noticed his presence.

When he turned in surprise, he saw his teacher’s gaunt cheeks and eyes glowing fiercely.

Exactly the way he’d looked for the past several days.

“I thought you might need my help.”

The witch said as she walked inside.

The apprentice didn’t understand what was happening, and by the time he blinked again, it was morning—and he had no memory of how he fell asleep.

In a dream, he thought he saw not just the Black Flower, but also the Golden Witch visiting the forge.

It left him unsure if it was dream or reality.

He didn’t dare ask his master.

Especially not when he woke to the sound of hammering again.

His teacher, once he picked up the hammer, became vacant-eyed like a ghost—just bellowing and striking the anvil over and over.

Like a man drunk on the glow of the furnace.

The apprentice did what he always did—set aside drinking water and food, then stepped outside.

Escaping the heat, cold air rushed into his nostrils and down into his lungs.

“Was it a dream?”

Too vivid for a dream, though.

And that afternoon, the apprentice visited the Mad Order’s training ground to deliver his master’s words.

“It’s done.”

***

Enkrid walked slowly to the forge.

Slower than usual. If asked whether he was excited, he’d nod, of course. But it wasn’t like his heart was pounding.

It simply felt natural.

Aitri had promised—and he would keep that promise. Enkrid had never doubted it.

It was a belief as heavy as a knight’s oath.

“You’ve come.”

Aitri greeted him. He looked like he had lost half his body weight. Gaunt cheeks, bony hands.

The forge was quiet and calm. Not hot—just mildly warm. There was no heat that could dry out sweat. The furnace had long since cooled.

“It’s finished?”

Enkrid stepped inside casually. Aitri just as calmly handed him the sword.

No scabbard. The grip was simple. It looked like the Three Iron Sword, but something was different.

“It looks the same, but...”

It was subtly different. Impossible to explain exactly where.

Would there be a shiver of electricity when he gripped it? No. That kind of thing didn’t happen just because one hoped for it.

He grabbed the sword anyway, giving it a few swings in the air.

Whoosh. Shing.

Enkrid was honest—he felt no awe.

“Nothing special.”

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

“It’s duller than True Silver, not heavier than Black Gold, and probably less tough than Three Iron. I’ve held better swords. Even Penna was sharper than this.”

If there was one advantage—

“The balance is exquisite.”

He held it upright, tilted it sideways. The feel in his hand was exceptional.

“It might not be lacking, but it’s not exactly an engraved weapon either.”

“A name, please.”

Oara had named her engraved weapon Smile. Her smile was as beautiful as that blade.

“Duskforge.”

The name meant a sword forged at dawn—a blade that opened the day. Gaebyeok.

Why had he wanted to become a knight?

Because he dreamed of a world not filled with monsters and beasts, but something different.

That was the meaning behind the name.

During the forging process, Shinar had once suggested the name Kirheis.

Esther had asked if he’d name it something like Night Sky or Star.

The others didn’t say much—but Rem had earnestly proposed:

“How about Urquiola, the Dusksky?”

It had some appeal, but Enkrid didn’t change the name.

“Duskforge is nice. It’ll take time to bond with it.”

Aitri said—then collapsed.

The startled apprentice rushed over and caught him.

“Master!”

Did an engraved weapon need to be majestic the moment it was held? Who knows.

But one thing was certain.

Enkrid saw a smile on Aitri’s face.

“I entrusted it to Aitri, and Aitri was satisfied.”

That’s all that mattered.

Did he pour his soul into every strike of the hammer? Maybe.

And so, now that everything was done, Aitri—

“Is he dead?”

Enkrid asked. Was this blade his final work? It might be. It had taken everything from him. Maybe only such sacrifice could yield that kind of smile.

“No, why would he die?!”

The apprentice cried.

Looking closely, his breath was still faintly present. He had collapsed from exhaustion—but he wasn’t dead.

Enkrid had kind of known. He’d asked just to add a little drama.

In reality, it was rather plain.

The engraved weapon didn’t speak upon being held, didn’t glow, and Aitri hadn’t burned «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» his soul to complete it.

“The scabbard’s over there.”

It was ordinary. So were the pommel and guard. The blade had a faint bluish sheen.

Not the same color as Valerian steel—closer to the sky.

“Should’ve named it Skyblade, maybe?”

It would’ve suited it. The blade had a subtle scent—like a cloudless sky. Crisp and pure.

“Or rather—”

It was the scent of the night sky, mixed with flowers and trees. Combined, they gave off the aroma of a clear, open sky.

“Anyway, I’ll use it well, Aitri.”

Aitri, briefly unconscious, murmured,

“Yes.”

Leaving the forge, Enkrid began showing the sword to those he met.

“Aitri’s not the type to hoard rare stuff, right? Just feels like it.”

That was Kraiss, speaking without any real insight. The others didn’t comment much.

“That your new weapon, Captain?”

“Yeah.”

That was the entire exchange with Rem.

Even though there was nothing obviously special about the sword, Enkrid kept noticing how perfectly it fit in his hand.

After that day, Enkrid immediately set out.

He had already finished preparing for departure while waiting for the weapon.

“Travel safely.”

Kraiss saw him off. Shinar walked quietly by his side.

After a few steps, Enkrid began to murmur to himself.

“Yeah, I’m walking the path. Hoping something fun happens? So do I.”

That was all he said.

Rem, noticing Shinar was silent beside him, asked,

“Who’s he talking to?”

Enkrid answered, calmly and plainly.

“My baby.”

Rem blinked a few times.

He rubbed his ear and glanced at Shinar’s face. She looked anything but happy.

Of course, that wasn’t something one said to a fairy. She was several times older than Enkrid.

So who...?

Even Ragna was listening intently. Jaxon, who’d joined them silently, said nothing but paid attention.

Snort.

Odd-Eye, the wild horse that followed along, snorted and shook his head like he understood.

“...No way.”

Rem muttered. Enkrid formally introduced it, as if nothing were strange.

“Didn’t greet yet? Say hello. This is Duskforge.”

Rem didn’t curse. This was within expectations.

“May peace dwell within your skull, brother.”

Audin simply muttered a prayer.