Hero – Part 04
“We just need to win,” Zenobia declared firmly, despite the weariness from the discussion. “No matter the forces they bring, we will not lose.”
Their strategy for the Valbanill Campaign—to overwhelm by sheer numbers—was no bluff. The Militant Nation had already forged over two hundred replicas of the Sacred Sword. By the time of the skirmish in one week, another hundred would be ready. The plan was to send soldiers armed with these swords into battle at the plains near the Militant Nation’s border, close to the capital’s outer wall.
Cecily had double-checked the number of soldiers with Francisca and had received confirmation that there was no problem.
“The Imperial Federation will respond with equal force. At least in terms of numbers, they won’t exceed three hundred, and they won’t use firearms or ranged weapons. It will be a battle of pure armed might, fought in close combat.”
How much could she trust this statement? Still, both nations had agreed on these terms for the skirmish.
“Though I was caught off guard by her sudden arrival and proposal,” Zenobia continued, “once we buckle down, it will be easy. Anyone who stands in the way of our justice will be swept aside. We won’t let this mad nation monopolize the Valbanill Campaign. Just sit back and watch.”
Zenobia oozed confidence, but Cecily couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this wasn’t as simple as it seemed.
The establishment of the Imperial Federation. The sudden proposal for a skirmish. Were these bold political moves just driven by something as trivial as monopolizing the rights in the Valbanill Campaign? Or was there something darker lurking beneath the surface? An unease gnawed at her, a feeling she couldn’t quite place.
“What… What should I do?”
Cecily had thought about seeking advice from Housman or Hannibal, but it was not possible. Considering the distance, one week was simply not enough for a correspondence with the Independent Trade City. She had sent a letter just in case, but by the time it arrived in the city, the battle would be long over. Harvey had already decided to stay out of it, watching from the sidelines. Should she, as his subordinate, do the same?
Ridiculous.
There had to be something. Something that an outsider, a neutral party, could do.
“Can you show me to the workshop of the so-called sacred swordsmiths?” Cecily asked Doris.
Doris, familiar with Cecily’s stubborn nature, didn’t question her. Without a word, she led the way.
They traveled by carriage along the main road, stopping halfway to continue on foot. After navigating a maze of alleys, they finally reached an area filled with factories, where the workshop was located. It was nothing like Atelier Liza, the forge Cecily knew. This was a massive and flat building of an entirely different scale.
The moment they opened the door, Cecily was hit by a wave of scorching heat. She stepped back instinctively, shielding her face with her arm, and squinted through a narrow gap.
Inside, a large number of craftsmen—more than she expected—worked furiously, preparing for the battle. Dozens of evenly spaced furnaces roared with flames, and the red-hot iron they produced was hammered relentlessly by the workers. The deafening roar of flames mixed with the resonant clanging of metal to create an overwhelming cacophony. Cecily stood there bewildered.
The temperature difference between the outside air and the workshop was extreme. She had worn a thick cloak over her dress to ward off the cold, which still wasn’t enough. Meanwhile, the smiths in the workshop, bathed in the heat of the forge and the intensity of their own labor, were sweating as if it were the height of summer. Since they were all shirtless, Cecily wasn’t sure where to look.
The iron they worked with came in all sizes. Some pieces were short, like daggers, while others were nearly as tall as Cecily herself. Doris explained that the smaller ones were called wakizashi, and the larger ones odachi. None of the swords had curves, which meant they hadn’t been tempered yet, a process that took place in a separate, dim room.
“They’ve already made enough swords for everyone,” Doris said, “but apparently they’re still not enough. If possible, Mr. Irving wants each person to have two—a wakizashi and an odachi.”
A week was a ridiculously short deadline. Watching the sacred swordsmiths work with such fervor and desperation left Cecily feeling a bit overwhelmed.
“Ah.”
A moment later, she spotted the people she was looking for. At the far end of the workshop, in front of a furnace. The young man sat cross-legged, with the girl standing opposite him. Luke and Lisa.
Luke was stirring the smoldering charcoal with a fire poker in his right hand. With his other hand, he inserted a rod into the furnace. At the right moment, he pulled the rod out. A glowing chuck of iron had fused to its end. He laid the heated metal on a low platform. Above it, Lisa, waiting for the right moment, sank her body into a deep squat and swung a sledgehammer down on the iron.
The hammer’s strike sent a flash of red across the room, sparks flying in all directions. Lisa moved her tiny body with determination, repeatedly raising and striking the hammer high above her head. The softened iron gradually flattened and stretched. Once it reached about twice its original length, it was returned to the furnace.
After reheating the block, Luke placed it back on the platform and swapped the fire poker for a chisel—a steel blade with a handle. He crossed the chisel over the iron block, and Lisa hammered it down again.
The chisel sank into the metal with each strike, carving a horizontal groove. Lisa kept hammering, over and over. After several strikes, the iron began to bend, forming an L-shape under the force.
Luke spun the rod in his hand, flipping the L-shaped iron, and then switched from the chisel to a small hammer. He pounded it mercilessly, folding the iron completely.
“Folding,” muttered Cecily, standing by the doorway.
The folding process involved hammering the jewel steel, making cuts, and repeatedly folding and stacking it. With each repetition, the layers of jewel steel grew thicker.
Luke and Lisa continued their work in silence. No words were needed. Despite the sparks flying at their cheeks and foreheads, they didn’t flinch.
“Apparently, those two have picked up some kind of clue,” Doris said. “They’re still unsure about it, so the swordsmiths are sticking to their usual methods for now, while Luke and Lisa are trying out a new forging technique.”
Doris cocked her head. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want to talk to them?”
Cecily couldn’t bring herself to do that. The moment she saw them, she understood.
Luke and Lisa’s forging was supposed to be a familiar sight. She had watched the folding process before and understood its significance.
But right now, they looked different. It was as if they were in another world.
While the workshop buzzed with the frantic pace of the craftsmen, scrambling to meet the military’s immediate demand, Luke and Lisa seemed untouched by the chaos, completely absorbed in forging the katana before them. They were neither rushing nor restless. They simply dedicated their very soul to each strike.
They were more intense than Cecily had ever seen.
“There’s no way I could speak to them,” Cecily muttered under her breath, her fist clenching tightly. She didn’t even realize her nails were digging into her palm.
Luke and Lisa were simply doing what they could. Unlike herself, who let herself get consumed by terms like neutral or outsider, they were giving their best. It really was as simple as that.
What could she do? What a spineless question. She could never ask that. If she did, she’d never be able to forgive herself.
Cecily turned on her heel and faced away from the workshop.
“What? Are you sure?” Doris asked.
“I’m sure. I’ll do what I can. There’s no need to hesitate.”
Since arriving in the Militant Nation, Luke had been coming to the workshop regularly. She hadn’t seen his face in a while, so a part of her wanted to stay.
“Sorry, Doris, but I want to return to the castle. Please lead the way.”
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