A day has passed since I woke up.
Apparently, since I had pushed myself for four days and nights without eating anything, they said I needed at least a full day of rest. So I had slept like a log and was only now getting up.
"Hwaaaah... My body's mostly recovered now..."
Crack
Pop
Crackle
Wondering what all those sounds are?
They're all coming from my body. Twist your neck to the side, rotate your waist, roll your shoulders—doesn't everyone make sounds like that?
"Well then... time to go put on the finishing touches~"
I had made it, but I still hadn't put the final dot on it. To become a dragon, it needed eyes. And once it had eyes, it would leave to find its owner... Ah, is this how a father feels when he sends his child away...? I don't want to give it to some guy who'll go down easily somewhere...
"Quit thinking pointless thoughts and go finish it."
I still hadn't had breakfast, but there was nothing wrong with beginning the day by bringing it to a close.
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Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
When I'm doing other work, I have no hesitation about using modern industrial equipment such as grinders, vises, electronic engraving tools, and grinding wheels. But when it comes to sharpening the edge—the final step—I always do it by hand with a whetstone.
If you ask me why... I don't really have an answer.
It's just that, at the very end, I face it in the most fundamental posture, without any complicated procedures... I suppose that's reason enough.
Since it's a 160-centimeter greatsword, even this is hard work. Normally, I would brace it on the floor and sharpen it directly with a large whetstone meant for huge cold weapons like this... but it's so large that holding and pushing it is difficult, so I have it laid across my knees and am working the edge with a small whetstone in my hand.
Making sure not to forget to wet the stone periodically, I soak it in water once and push it along the blade again. Normally, the key is to apply pressure as you push the blade, but since I have it the other way around right now, I apply pressure as I pull the stone and push it gently.
I sharpen the blade for roughly thirty minutes with a whetstone that feels like it's around 600 grit. Whetstones are generally measured in grit numbers: the lower the number, the coarser it is, and the higher the number, the finer it is. And the more you polish with a high-grit whetstone, the more the edge's sharpness comes alive. In the modern age, whetstones can be artificially manufactured and measured down to the details, but Orario apparently hasn't advanced that far yet.
They do, however, roughly classify and use minerals and tools that can serve as whetstones according to their coarseness. And the whetstone I'll use for the second sharpening, after the first is done... is one made from a Minotaur horn, a Dungeon drop item. Let's see... if I had to put a number on it, around 9,000 grit? This really is a fantasy world. A monster horn is this high quality?
All right, then...
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Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
Swish...
Scrape...
How much time had passed?
I simply synchronize my entire body to the sound of sharpening.
My breathing to the sound of sharpening.
My blinking to the sound of sharpening.
To the sound of sharpening...
I just sharpen the edge, utterly absorbed.
Then, at one point. At a point visible only as the faintest glimmer, I realize it.
This sword will shine only if I stop here.
Any more, and it will become too weak.
Any less, and it will be too dull.
Coming to my senses, I look once more at the greatsword on my knees.
Perfect.
It had been made so perfectly that I could hardly believe I was the one who had made it.
"Are you finished?"
At the voice from behind me, I place the greatsword on the anvil and turn around.
"Lady Hephaestus."
"You seemed to be concentrating, so I was watching for the moment."
"Thank you."
"What for? It's not as though I did anything. I merely watched. So that is the sword you made to accomplish your great deed."
"Yes. It is a work I can proudly call my masterpiece."
"Hee. You're full of confidence. May I hold it and examine it?"
"Gladly. It would be an honor."
I pick up the Greatsword of the Great King from the anvil and bring it to Lady Hephaestus. Suddenly, one question comes to mind. What will she, a divine being, see in this sword? Will she see exactly what I imagined?
"Let's see. It weighs around ten kilograms and is 160 centimeters long. Its balance is artistically perfect, and..."
Tap~
She lightly taps it with a small hammer at her side before continuing.
"Its durability is incredible as well. And..."
Side: Hephaestus
It is a fine sword. Its weight distribution, durability, and shape have all been made perfectly. Since descending to the lower world, I have seen few weapons crafted this well.
Then... what is the origin of this weapon?
Everything in this world has a fundamental source, something called an origin. For those of the lower world, it would be the light of the soul Freya speaks of; for us Deus Dea, it is Arcanum—divinity.
Then what is the origin of things that are not alive, things that have been created?
I believe it is the mental image their creator held when they made them.
If a blacksmith made a sword while holding only the intent to kill his opponent, then what it carries is a murderous demon. If they made armor wishing for its wearer not to be harmed, then what it carries would be a guardian.
Most weapons and armor are made carrying their origins, yet those origins do not readily reveal themselves outwardly. But on rare occasions, weapons made by children called master craftsmen—or weapons made by someone willing to devote everything they have, even if they are not a master craftsman—will allow their origins to show through.
A sword carrying a murderous demon becomes a cursed blade.
Armor carrying a guardian becomes holy armor.
If it carries goodwill and justice, it becomes a holy sword.
If it carries malice and hatred, it becomes a magic sword.
Releasing even a little of what it carries spreads its name a thousand miles.
The greatsword Smith made is no exception. It feels incredibly faint, yet warm—like a wood fire or a bonfire.
And I, as the God of Blacksmiths, can see through that mental image.
Now... show me your origin. Show me the image Smith envisioned as he made you...!
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Whoosh...
A desolate land comes into view. Surrounded by pitch-black bedrock, this place is stained gray, and even the sky is gray.
Slowly, I walk toward the sound of burning wood. There, amid nothing but gray ash, a single bonfire burns.
And... there was a king.
He merely held a burning greatsword in both hands and rested it against the ground, yet from his crown and bearing alone, one could tell he was a king.
Then suddenly, the king began to speak. No, had the king truly spoken? The voice was coming from all directions.
Long ago, there was an Age of Ancients, when only Everlasting Dragons, rocks, and enormous trees existed.
We remember that age as a bland gray world, one without light or darkness, life or death, warmth or cold.
But one day, [First Flame] suddenly came into being in the world. Through this flame, the boundaries between light and dark, life and death, warmth and cold arose, along with every kind of color.
Drawn to the warmth of the fire, beings of darkness began to gather around it. Within the flame, the Lord of Sunlight ■■, the First of the Dead ■■, the ■■ of Izalith, and the unknown ■■■ discovered Souls of immense power.
The first four joined their strength and ruled over the Age of Fire, but as the First Flame gradually lost its power, the world began to fill with chaos. As the Undead, those who had died but could not die and had gone mad in the agony of eternal life, overflowed, the First King journeyed to the First Kiln, where the First Flame had taken root, to kindle the fire once more.
And now, he has bought the final moments by using himself as kindling. Praise his name!
Lord of Cinder ■■!
With an incomprehensible cry, she was cast out of the origin.
Side: Smith
Lady Hephaestus had been holding the greatsword and examining it in concentration for ten minutes... no, five minutes, while staring it down.
...She's not picking at flaws, is she?
"...Smith?"
"Yes, Lady Hephaestus."
"You... what exactly were you thinking as you made this sword?"
"Uh... I wouldn't call it a thought... There was something I wanted to recreate."
"What?"
"The Greatsword of the Great King—the weapon of the First King, the King of Lightning and Sunlight, who bought the final moments by using himself as kindling. I wanted to make his final weapon."
"..."
"But why do you ask...?"
"Mm, no reason. I was simply wondering how you even came to think of making something like this. So, what is the sword's name?"
"There's only one choice, of course. Its original owner's name."
"And that name is?"
"Gwyn, Lord of Cinder. From now on, this sword's name is Gwyn."