Chapter 6: The First Craft (2)

“Hmph!” Vargar harrumphed again upon noticing Blake’s expression.

He didn’t doubt that the young man had cursed at him.

He must have been so frustrated that he forgot to show respect or even reverted to his former demeanor.

Even so, his frustration didn't seem baseless.

Many people give up on blacksmithing after experiencing its difficulties, growing frustrated to the point of no return.

Blake, however, seemed determined to attempt melting iron ore, coal, and limestone flux once more. He demonstrated this resolve by standing up and questioning the dwarf about his failure.

“Where did it go wrong?” he asked, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he walked toward the old man with heavy steps, his voice insistent.

Vargar clasped his hands behind his back and stood motionless, offering no reply.

Blake gulped and added, “Sir?”

Vargar sneered. “I don’t know what ye have seen, but ye obviously missed a lot of cues. What did ye see? Let me guess: bubbling slag and red metal. Ye didn’t see anything else!”

Blake’s face twisted as if he'd swallowed something bitter.

Vargar guffawed.

He used a long tool to extract the failed product. “Ye listen to me, but ye are so impatient. It’s good that ye aren’t relying on your player’s advantages—those cheap methods. But I can’t understand where this impatience and arrogance come from. Don’t forget ye need a guide before forging alone!”

“…I was at the top,” Blake whispered.

“Ye were?” Vargar asked curiously.

“I’m similar to the Hollow King—you could say we're two peas in a pod. My friend gave me those titles to remind me not to repeat the same mistakes, but something inside me resists. I told myself I'd work hard for my own growth, but maybe I'm incapable of that; maybe I'm just an arrogant prick. I want everything handed to me because I believe I deserve it, having been at the top before... If I just pick up a katana, I could achieve so much!”

In making that candid confession, Blake recalled Edward's advice not to wield a katana too soon.

Here he was, trying to forge one for himself.

Was that really the path he should have taken?

Why did he feel so confused and lost? In the real world, he could endure hardships and eke out a living, but why did he so easily lose himself in this game world?

Blake looked away in shame.

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Vargar hummed thoughtfully. “…ye're still malleable, like mythril. And why? Because ye've acknowledged ye're similar to the Hollow King. Ye're the best person to change the fate of the Lost Kingdom—and yerself! Whether ye achieve it is up to ye!”

He placed the flawed iron on the workbench and walked over to his backpack, retrieving a bottle of beer.

“When I’m down, I drink plenty and hammer metals as if they were misbehaving mistresses!” Vargar raised the bottle in a toast, thumbed it open, and downed it in one go, causing Blake's eyes to widen. “My wife prefers it slow and romantic, after all.”

“I didn’t need to hear that!” Blake exclaimed.

“Haha! Someone’s spirit is up!” Vargar guffawed. “Giving up on the first day is pathetic! Come, I’ll explain to ye what exactly went wrong!”

Blake nodded.

Only a sore loser would abandon the pursuit of legendary titles.

If they weren't meant for him, he'd find another way, but it was too soon to say.

He approached the workbench where the cooled iron lay. It looked terrible, even to an untrained eye.

Vargar began, “Heat management is paramount. Remember when I told ye about optimal temperatures? Ye must maintain it consistently while skimming the slag! Precision is crucial. Improper skimming results in losing valuable iron and leaving impurities behind! The slag needs to be removed promptly; otherwise, it cools and solidifies with the iron. Visual cues like bubbling patterns or color changes are vital to observe so ye can properly skim off the slag.”

This explanation illuminated his mistakes.

Blake had monitored the percentage of slag bubbling out and the iron melting, but then became lost during the skimming process, which he had performed clumsily. He hadn't observed other visual cues, controlled the heat, or even handled the tool correctly.

He inhaled deeply. “Can I get a bottle?”

“Aye,” Vargar nodded, fetching another bottle of beer and handing it to Blake.

Blake popped it open and drank as Vargar had done.

Being only a nineteen-year-old human, he coughed and spat foam onto his blacksmith's apron, eliciting laughter from the old dwarf.

He licked his lips and declared, “I’m not leaving this smithy without forging full armor and a weapon.”

Vargar chuckled. “Haha! There’s still plenty of fun ahead!” he said, knowing that Blake would face more hurdles—milestones—on his first crafting journey.