The next morning, I headed for the forge, dragging along the NEET goddess, who once again wore an expression that said she did not want to work.
Today, I intended to move on to the second stage: shaping the basic form of the hilt and engraving the distinctive vertical patterns of the [Greatsword of the Firelinking Rite] into the blade.
I urged Lady Hestia on once more, and she breathed life into the furnace.
As if welcoming us, the furnace kindled its flames and let out a vigorous roar.
Whoosh.
"I'll begin."
Gripping the unsharpened section of the blade, I pushed the hilt portion—which I had not touched yesterday—into the furnace. Just as yesterday, I poured [Fantasy] into the flames blazing with Arcanum.
Crackle, crackle.
Red lightning flared up, but having already experienced this phenomenon and its resistance yesterday, I was incomparably more at ease.
Once the red lightning subsided and [Fantasy] and Arcanum had fully fused, I gripped the center of the blade anew, pulled it out in one swift motion, and placed it on the anvil.
Clang!
The hammer met resistance no less fierce than yesterday's, but there was less surface area to strike this time, and today I had brought an especially sturdy hammer!
Using even the force that sent my arm flying upward as an ally, I brought it down again with all my strength.
How long had I been hammering the hilt with a hammer tinged in red?
When the time was right, I pushed it directly into the oil vat prepared beside me. As always, flames weakly rose over the oil, and once the bubbling began to die down, I took it out. I checked for cracks or flaws, then put it back into the furnace and continued tempering it.
This tempering process was extremely important. In ordinary traditional smithies, rather than using modern alloy steel, most smiths started with anything from raw iron ore at worst to personally made iron ingots at best.
Because the materials differed, the number of forging and quenching cycles could differ by dozens of times. Furthermore, after quenching, the balance between toughness and brittleness could become unstable, and the metal could grow so hard that it simply shattered. That was why reheating a quenched workpiece in the furnace to an appropriate temperature and cooling it again was such a crucial process: it stabilized its toughness and brittleness and gave the iron enough spring that it would not break.
Even back in the modern world, clients who visited my forge to watch me work would always ask:
"Why do you quench it so many times? On that TV show, they said doing it repeatedly makes it break, so you should only do it once."
But... the materials used on those TV programs were commercial steel ingots that came out after already undergoing every kind of heat treatment—quenching and tempering—and forging process. Naturally, once was enough for those materials. No, if you repeatedly worked a material that had already been refined to its limit, wasn't it only natural that it would break?
And if one truly intended to quench only once, then doing so immediately before sharpening the edge, as those programs did, was correct. But if I did that in my forge, where I used traditional methods, I would go out of business.
Working iron that way meant endlessly repeating the process of heating it, hammering it, air-cooling it, heating it again, hammering it again, and air-cooling it again, then quenching it only at the very, very end...
That method was not for cold weapons in the first place. It was used to make bronze statues or ornaments.
The technical terms for it were annealing and normalizing.
Annealing is the process of heating a metal material appropriately to remove the thermal history and processing effects remaining in its internal structure. It is one form of heat treatment in which the metal is heated to a certain temperature and then slowly cooled to correct distortions within it. It is generally performed to lower the metal's hardness and strength, improve its formability—how easily it bends, in other words—and obtain a uniform structure. It refers to heating iron or steel to an appropriate temperature and then slowly cooling it to soften it, regulate its crystalline structure, or remove internal stress.
Normalizing is a heat treatment that brings steel to a standard state. After forging the steel, it is heated within the temperature range where it becomes single-phase austenite, then left exposed to the air to cool naturally.
This produces a pearlite structure, which is generally far weaker than the martensitic steel used for cold weapons and is more prone to breaking or bending.
Simply put, if you only quenched and tempered a heavy cold weapon once while making it through traditional methods, you might see it bend beneath its own weight after one powerful swing.
In any case, after going through quenching, tempering, and forging countless times, the hilt that had once been nothing more than a thick rod now had a recessed section where the crossguard would sit. The grip itself had lengthened slightly, while where the blade and crossguard joined, there was a somewhat thick rod—thinner than the grip, but thicker than a ricasso—in place of one.
Now it was time to engrave the blade's patterns. In Dark Souls, the [Greatsword of the Firelinking Rite] was an ancient weapon that witnessed both the beginning and end of a world. It had stood watch at the bonfire throughout countless years, and had once left its proper place to seal away a hero, but its essence had always remained with the bonfire.
To honor those years, I had deliberately bought old weapons as materials. This time, I intended to use a method once employed during the Middle Ages when old iron objects were recycled.
On the upper face of the anvil, I placed a thick chunk of iron covered in straight lines. I also took out another hammer, one densely engraved with horizontal straight lines like a meat tenderizer.
This was a method used long ago. When old iron products such as iron gates, bells, or rails were recycled in the Middle Ages, simple straight patterns were engraved in a fixed direction to conceal their signs of age.
It was such an old method that I never would have known about it if I had not searched YouTube for foreign crafting videos.
I put the blade into the furnace again, slowly allowing [Fantasy] and Arcanum to seep into it. Perhaps because it was already filled to the brim, both the heating and fusion proceeded more slowly than before.
The red lightning had now surpassed the level of static electricity, growing large enough that its tips could be seen outside the furnace.
Crack-crack-crackle!
After enduring that grueling stretch of time, I took out the blade, glowing bright red once again, and carefully placed it upon the anvil.
Then, after a brief silent prayer offered to the great incarnations...
I swung the hammer down once more.
Kwang!
Resistance beyond anything so far lifted Smith's arm into the air.
But the instant it rose, he struck again.
Rather than the sound of hammering, it sounded as though he were battering a Hard Armored monster, renowned in the Dungeon for its toughness.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Had it been ordinary metal, the excessive force behind the hammer blows would have flattened it outright.
But this was not ordinary metal.
Rather than spreading, the faint pattern of vertical lines was only barely—then barely again—being engraved into it.
But that did not matter. All he could do was bring down the hammer with all his strength, a hammer that glowed red from smithing until it looked bright scarlet.
.
.
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.
.
.
After dozens, then hundreds of hammer blows, flames began to rise from Smith's hammer. This was not merely sparks flying, nor was it the red aura characteristic of smithing flickering around it.
Every time he brought down the flame-wreathed hammer, fire spread around him. Yet strangely, the flames never approached Hestia. Even when sparks flew toward her, they simply went out without leaving the slightest sensation, as though they had no intention of harming her.
As he hammered again and the flames spread in response, fire began to cling to Smith's body. In his eyes, there were no longer eyeballs; flames had taken their place.
Flames billowed from everywhere sparks had landed, but Smith seemed completely unaware of it all. Silently, he hammered and hammered and kept hammering.
How long had the flames flickered over his body? His body had been blackened until he seemed like a single piece of charcoal.
As though he were wearing blackened armor.
Yet even then, the flames flickering in his eyes continued to burn without ever going out.
"...Hey!"
Unable to watch any longer, Hestia tried to call out and stop Smith, but a pair of hands suddenly appeared from behind her and covered her mouth, forcing her to abandon the attempt.
"Mmph!?"
"Shh. Be quiet. This is an incredibly important moment." the voice whispered.
"What are you talking about? Your child's body is burning!" Hestia whispered back.
"Hmm... I did not expect to see anything like that either, but if you stop Smith now, that child will spend the rest of his life resenting you."
The owner of those hands was none other than the goddess Hephaestus. What was she talking about?
"What do you mean by that?"
"That child... Smith is trying to step into the supreme realm. If his concentration falters for even a moment in that state, if even the slightest hesitation enters his mind, if the rhythm of his hammering breaks..."
"Gulp."
"He may never again be able to seize even the chance to reach the supreme realm. So, in this moment, as that child's fellow worker..."
Hephaestus clenched her fist again. She had squeezed it so tightly that her nails had dug into her palm and blood ran down from it.
"Just watch him. That is the only help we can give."
"All right..."
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.
.
How long did he hammer, heat, and cool it?
He forgot the world.
He forgot his family.
He even forgot himself.
All that remained was the greatsword before him.
He simply struck, cooled, and heated it again, following this beautiful flow.
But... something felt wrong.
This would not do.
He could do better. Better still.
He could shape it more perfectly.
Following that uncomfortable sensation, he struck anew.
No. Not this either. Then what should he do?
He struck countless times, correcting his mistakes, yet his heart cried that something was fundamentally wrong.
Just a little more. Just a tiny bit further.
He only needed to take that final step before he lost this uncomfortable sensation.
Then, by chance, a single hammer blow brought a slight change.
The world changed.
No. The world had not changed. He had simply become able to see what he had never been able to see before.
Suddenly, he felt another eyelid—one he had never even known existed—slowly lift.
He became able to see what he could not see.
He became able to feel what he could not feel.
When that eyelid finally lifted all the way, the world was transformed once more.
And only then did Smith realize.
This was the world his goddess always saw.
This was the realm his older sister had spoken of so often.
This was the wish of all of them.
The supreme realm.
And from that moment onward, everything changed.
The first thing to change was the sound of the hammering. The hammer that had barely engraved its marks into the blade despite striking with all its strength and spreading thunderous noise in every direction now began to carve its marks into the blade more clearly than before, even as its sound diminished.
Then there was his gaze. It was no longer a gaze that merely looked at the object before him in a simple, two-dimensional sense; it was a deep gaze that penetrated inside it and uncovered everything.
Before long, he filled every inch of the blade with dense grooves and moved on to the hilt.
He heated the rod that could hardly be called a hilt once more.
Once it was fully heated, he firmly secured the blade in a vise. Using a hammer and chisel, he quickly but precisely carved out the cross-shaped crossguard and the small ring above it.
Each time he struck the chisel, the resistance tried to push it away, but he used even that force to keep carving.
He finished the ring in an instant, then carved out one, two, three, and finally all four.
Before the hilt could fully cool, he carved out all four crossguard sections, bent them upright at right angles, and put it back into the furnace.
He was no one now. Having forgotten everything and erased even himself from memory, only a single word remained.
[Completion].
He took the reddened hilt out again, placed it perpendicular against the anvil, and folded the long, protruding crossguards in half, making them slightly shorter but sturdier.
Once again, he completed all four crossguards before they cooled, but he folded the last crossguard one more time, making it shorter than the others.
Why had the incarnations' weapon been shorter on one side? Was it because it would be inconvenient to wear at the waist? He did not know. So he simply called forth before his eyes everything he remembered exactly as it was.
This time, he placed the hilt, now hollowed out in four directions and shaped like a seal, into the furnace to heat it.
There was no longer any need for Arcanum or [Fantasy]. It was already more than full inside. If he forced in any more now, the resistance might make it burst apart on its own.
Without the slightest hesitation, he took it out and struck.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The hammering was soft, completely unlike before. Perhaps he had already grown accustomed to the supreme realm; there was not a trace of awkwardness in his movements.
He drew out the grotesquely seal-shaped hilt long, then longer still, like a tang. Before long, the hilt stretched out as though it itself were a blade.
The two goddesses worried at the sight, but soon they were astonished by the unimaginable method he used to make the hilt.
After heating the elongated hilt again, he stood the blade upright and secured it in a vise. Then, like twisting dough into a braid, he slowly turned it clockwise, creating a hollowed hilt.
Even the slightest deviation would have twisted the hilt into a grotesque, unsightly shape, but as though he did not care about such concerns, he turned it and continued turning with an indifferent yet profound gaze.
How long did it take him to heat it little by little and twist it again, until he completed a hilt that did not merely look twisted, but appeared to be embracing itself?
He heated the hilt again after rolling it fully inward until its upper and lower lines met, then poured a special solution into the seam, sealing even any possible gaps.
With the hilt finished, he began on the pommel above it. Because of the way the hilt had been made, a portion inevitably stuck upward. He heated it, placed a chisel on top, and tapped it gently to create a small indentation.
He struck that small indentation again with a chisel to widen it enough to fit over the anvil, placed it on the sharp horn at the anvil's side, and slowly hammered it into a round shape.
And finally, it was time to create the twisted blade that symbolized the [Greatsword of the Firelinking Rite] itself.
He heated the blade to its fullest in the furnace, leaving out only the sword tip, whose belly was covered in countless lines, then clamped the tip in the vise with all his strength.
From the uppermost section of the rod that replaced the ricasso down to just below the sword tip, the bright-red blade was slowly turned by inserting an iron bar through the hole in the pommel.
As expected of the final stage, it did not turn easily. And as he had said all along...
If he were going to quit because it was difficult, he would never have started!
He simply turned it with all his strength, and kept turning it.
Strangely, the degree of twisting did not differ much with each full rotation. No—it was identical to the twist from the previous rotation. Whether that was thanks to the realm he had reached or merely luck, no one knew.
All he did was turn it with every ounce of his strength, with the resolve that if he could not complete it, he might as well die.
When he had turned it to the very end, a greatsword stood before him.
A greatsword with a twisted blade and a twisted hilt, one that looked ancient despite having just been made, as though it had weathered countless years.
But it was not complete yet.
One final stage remained.
Smith took the nearly finished greatsword in both hands, walked before Hestia, dropped to one knee, and held it up with both arms as though presenting an offering.
"Lady Hestia..."
"...Yes."
"I ask that you grant this sword your blessing... your blessing that can carry it through the journey of the bonfire.
Arcanum, [Fantasy], and smithing are of no use any longer.
Only your blessing, as the very first Fire Keeper... can complete this sword.
Please. A blessing for that magnificent journey..."
Hestia stroked the greatsword Smith held up with both hands and spoke.
"I, Hestia, goddess of the furnace and goddess of the hearth, bestow my blessing here.
This sword shall be a great sword that begins its journey from the flame that heralds the beginning of the world.
This sword shall be a great sword for the incarnations, in the final journey that heralds the end of the world.
Holding the pride of the small yet blazing bonfire, it shall stand tall.
It shall burn hotter than anything.
It shall endure more firmly than anything.
In the name of the goddess of the furnace, this sword shall be the sword of the bonfire."
With the goddess Hestia's final words, the greatsword, which had looked old and unimpressive, was enveloped in fierce flames atop Smith's hands.
The flames touched Hestia as well, but they did not harm her, nor was she surprised.
For that fire was the flame of the bonfire, and she was the goddess of the bonfire.
When the flames finally died out, what remained was the [Greatsword of the Firelinking Rite], its hilt and the center of its blade receiving the bonfire's power and shining red with a gentle luster.
"To the old gods of Lordran, deliverers of the First Flame..."
Suddenly, Smith spoke in a language the goddesses could not understand, but one that was far too familiar to Smith.
"And to the oldest Fire Keeper..."
Then, turning his gaze toward the goddess Hestia, who could not understand the words but intuitively grasped their meaning, he continued.
"May they be honored..."
With those words, Smith's vision went dark.