Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

A piece of iron bar lay quietly in the storeroom, devoid of thought. But if it had any, it surely must have wondered what life it would lead as a certain object.

An agricultural plow for tilling the soil?

Or a sickle for reaping the harvest?

The door opened, light poured in, and the iron bar was taken out of the storeroom by the craftsman.

It was thrown into the furnace, buried deep beneath the glowing charcoals. The bellows huffed and puffed, the fierce flames scorching the body of the iron bar.

After enduring for who knows how long, the iron bar finally escaped the fiery hell. Almost immediately, it was clamped onto the hydraulic forging press by the craftsman, repeatedly hammered.

Soon, the iron bar disappeared, leaving behind a small arm-length, tapering at both ends, and the thickness in the middle about the size of a human grip—a metal spike.

No sooner had the spike taken shape than the blacksmith tossed it at the apprentice's feet. The craftsman had already gone to fetch another iron bar even before the apprentices moved.

The spike was then handed over to the apprentices, its core still harboring astonishing heat.

Its surface was coated by the apprentices with soap: if it turned yellow, back into the forge; if it turned white, buried in hot sand to cool.

The spike was repeatedly adjusted until its color was somewhere between gold and silver, only then did the apprentices toss it into the oil barrel;

The moment the burning hot spike touched the cold oil, it hissed sharply.

In the blink of an eye, it turned from bright yellow to blood red, then the apprentices clamped it out of the oil barrel and hung it in the air;

The color of the spike continued to fade, the blood-red dimmed, and shades of violet slowly emerged.

It was once again immersed in oil for a slow cooling.

While the apprentices were busy with this work, a chubby man, wiping sweat from his brow, his belly protruding, and eyes glaring, patrolled among them, scolding and correcting mistakes.

Quenching and tempering were always the closely guarded secrets of master craftsmen, with the judgment on timing based entirely on eyesight, experience, and secret techniques.

If a master was willing to teach these two skills to an apprentice, he was either drunk, or the apprentice was his illegitimate child.

In all of Iron Peak County, the one most skilled at these two techniques was none other than the swordsmith and municipal council member—Shosha.

Now, Shosha was digging deep into his tricks of the trade. Although the apprentices were scolded, they were secretly overjoyed.

Merely learning to recognize the three colors of steel could sustain them for a lifetime.

After completing quenching and tempering, the spike continued to be passed to the newly initiated apprentices for edging.

In the strict hierarchy of the blacksmiths' guild, young apprentices had no right to learn more advanced skills; they simply had to earnestly grind the metal.

The foot-operated grinding wheel spun rapidly, sparks flying in all directions, sharpening the spike to an extreme point.

Swords were seldom edged with a grinding wheel, as the blade could easily be spoiled without care. But now there was no time for fine work; it was all about speed.

The spike, which had been through burning, forging, quenching, tempering, and edging, was sent to the town hall where the carpenter was waiting for it.

What came next was simple: the spike was hammered into a hefty wooden stick, one end deeply buried in the wood, the other sharp end exposed.

It was hastily secured by the carpenter with nails and ropes, then taken to the town square, joining its kindred spirits.

At this moment, the iron bar understood its destiny—it was a weapon.

...

With the forge aglow and hammers thundering, Forging Village was like a steed being mercilessly whipped by its rider, now running at full capacity.

Nobody was making plows or sickles anymore; whether craftsmen or apprentices, they were all frantically producing weapons.

Swords took too much time, axes and halberds wasted too much material. The simpler the weapon for killing, the better.

The Stinger Hammer became the obvious choice. There was no other reason; it was simply easy to make.

As the name suggests—a club with the capability to stab.

No need for high-quality steel or fine wood. An iron spike and a wooden stick used for farm tools, when put together, made a Stinger Hammer. Not as good as a spear, but at least better than a pointed stick.

The Stinger Hammer itself was one of the most rudimentary of weapons.

The ones hurriedly produced by Forging Village were the most rudimentary even within the Stinger Hammer family, without a doubt.

Using rough wooden sticks, sacrificing weight and maneuverability for structural strength; and the spike not firmly fixed in place, further trading structural strength for time.

There must have been those in Iron Peak County who did not believe the "barbarians are coming to kill," but the blacksmiths had no doubts.

If it were not an emergency, why would Montaigne, the civic protector, order such crudely made weapons?

In such urgent and suffocating circumstances, no one would concern themselves with the transfer of ownership of a forge—except for Gangchalov.

Gangchalov had no idea what had happened.

In any case, young Vinius had made a trip to Revodan, and upon his return, the paperwork was all sorted out.

Without a sound, Vinius' forge had been traded to Shosha, with procedures like public notice and voting drastically streamlined.

Gangchalov got the short end of the stick, after all, the nominal head of the blacksmiths' guild was still Mr. Shosha.

And behind Shosha? Even with his knees, Gangchalov could guess who it was.

At this very moment, that man was standing right in front of him.

"Civic Protector, sir." Gangchalov approached with a careful smile, "Three hundred Stinger Hammers, six hundred spikes, all loaded onto the carts."

"Good," nodded the military civic protector.

The young military civic protector, clad in full armor, holding a riding crop, and wearing a long sword at his side, made Gangchalov feel somewhat breathless for some reason.

"Thank you for the compliment, sir. I'm truly undeserving... undeserving."

"Seven Forge Masters fled, five with their families to Revodan, leaving only you three brothers and young Mr. Vinius willing to stay." The military civic protector revealed a hint of a smile, "You're really quite good, I hope we can still use you in the future."

Gangchalov's forehead was beaded with cold sweat, and his spine felt a chill. Even as he walked away, he hadn't recovered his strength.