By the time the pair arrived at the Amenoma Smithy, a crowd had already formed three layers deep. Those at the front let out cries of admiration, but from the outside, nothing could be seen. One could only piece together what was happening from the snippets of conversation.
"Sounds like the head apprentice of the Amenoma Smithy made a bet with someone. And the blade they're making is the ceremonial offering for the Yashiro Commission."
The man turned to the white-haired boy beside him, his voice full of intrigue yet cautious. "What do you... think?"
Fortunately, the white-haired boy showed no displeasure. In fact, he seemed to have taken an interest in the contest himself.
"Amenoma-style forging emphasizes stability and solid fundamentals. To be considered a novice, one must be able to control the force of every single hammer strike at will." He responded thoughtfully, closing his eyes as if sensing something. "The smith's presence is calm, his technique honed by a thousand trials. But as for whether he can produce a true Amenoma-style blade... we'll have to wait and see."
From his words, the outcome was still uncertain. But the "waiting and seeing" part was a problem for the chestnut-haired young man.
"Wait and see? With this many people, how are we supposed to get in?"
"Be patient." The white-haired boy was in no hurry. He stood with his arms crossed, speaking with an unusual certainty. "Forging, after all, is a test of patience."
As he predicted, after ten minutes, some people in the crowd began to drift away. After thirty minutes, they had made it to the front rows. After a little more waiting, the figure of the blacksmith was clearly visible.
"You were right, almost everyone has left..." Though it was still lively, many people only stopped to watch for a moment before leaving. The crowd was still large, but it was no longer the same group of people from the beginning.
His words, however, received no reply. His white-haired companion's gaze was fixed on the blacksmith, unable to look away.
The blade in the red-haired man's hands was still taking shape. One could vaguely see that the length of the iron billet was just right, but its thickness was not yet up to standard. The sound and weight of the hammer strikes…
"It feels like he's been hammering for a long time... Is it still only that thick?" The man, unskilled in forging, tried to ask again, but his companion still didn't seem to hear him, which made him adopt a more serious tone. "It seems this is more complicated than it looks."
He couldn't help but scan the surroundings. His gaze suddenly sharpened as he spotted several familiar faces.
The samurai, Kurosawa…
The second son of the Kujou Clan, Kujou Kamaji…
A retainer from the Yashiro Commission's Kamisato Clan…
Naoe Hisamasa, who reports directly to the Shogun…
They've all gathered here?
While they might not be famous figures on the continent, in Inazuma, they were all people of considerable status.
Meanwhile, Amenoma Tougo, who had been witnessing the whole process, was too stunned to notice them. He could only mutter in disbelief, "How many times has he folded it…?"
He was already surprised when Muramasa had first used the Tamahagane. But as the man folded and forged the steel again and again, his surprise had gradually transformed into a more complex emotion. Removing impurities and revealing the grain were necessary steps. However, to complete so many folds in one go was a significant challenge to one's precision, stamina, and mental fortitude.
And yet…
"Yoimiya, heat!" Muramasa roared.
"Right, got it!"
Her Pyro Vision lit up again, raising the furnace's temperature to a level that even the onlookers could feel the scorching heat.
"Such a high temperature? Is that really okay…?" The chestnut-haired man began to understand why the crowd was backing away. Even though the weather wasn't particularly hot, standing under the sun like this was unbearable.
"This temperature… is indeed at the very limit for Tamahagane." The white-haired man could judge the furnace's temperature just by feeling the heatwave. He knew it was the absolute limit—and the optimal temperature—that Tamahagane could handle. However, even in Inazuma, only a handful of smiths dared to heat Tamahagane to such a degree. The closer to the limit, the better the final product, but also the higher the risk of error, requiring even finer control over one's strength.
And this man, who had been forging for at least an hour, still dared to push for such perfection.
The amateurs watched for the spectacle, while the experts saw the technique. The crowd was simply amazed by the heat.
"When did Inazuma get such a master?"
"Could he be bluffing?"
"Look at Tougo's face, it doesn't seem like it~"
The onlookers chattered amongst themselves, but the people at the center of the event were each lost in their own thoughts. Yoimiya felt like she was about to be soaked in sweat again. She had been helping for so long, getting drenched and drying off repeatedly. But she didn't feel tired. Instead, every time she couldn't stand the heat, she would go drink some water and then rush back, her enthusiasm undiminished.
"He's amazing!" She often commissioned intricate parts for her fireworks. But her whimsical ideas were sometimes too strange, requiring a level of skill and ingenuity beyond Tougo's capabilities, leaving many of her ideas unrealized. But now, she saw the possibility of them becoming a reality. Of course, even without these personal motives, just being able to help was enough to make her ecstatic.
"Maintain the current temperature."
The golden-red flames in the furnace licked at the still-forming blade, heating it once more. Muramasa's fiery gaze was fixed on the steel. When he removed it, he immediately plunged the red-hot blade into water to quench it.
"Water quenching—" The white-haired man couldn't help but take a step forward. Tougo also rose to his feet, staring intently.
The moment the blade entered the quenching tank, white steam erupted with a series of sharp hisses. The smell of iron and charcoal clashed violently in the searing air. This method was far riskier than oil quenching. A single mistake would be irreversible, especially in a wager like this.
"Good. Perfect."
The man who had just completed the quenching in front of everyone finally broke into a satisfied smile. But in a moment, that smile faded. The blade in his hand seemed to be faintly pulsing. There were no cracks, no signs of failure. Yet that pulse… everyone present with a certain level of strength could feel it.
After a brief pulsation, the blade grew calm, but it began to emit a bone-chilling, terrifying coldness…
Acid washing, polishing… with each step, the horrifying aura emanating from the sword grew stronger.
"A demon blade…" the white-haired man couldn't help but mutter. His friend beside him also stared intently.
"This sword… has reached the pinnacle of perfection."
-------
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