Within the years of peace after Kong Reian's disappearance, In a place of unimportance, and planetary system of utmost normality. The years and life weren't just numbers here, unlike some places in the universe.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
A hammer sounds echoed in the particular shop in a mortal city.
“Hey! Allan! Quit making that noise. It is already too late for that. Sun is already getting down, so let's forget this for sun's sake.” an old, yet vibrant and powerful voice told.
“But father, the sun is always getting down after lunch. Besides, I can see the sun is still 3 minutes away from being completely submerged by the horizon..” The boy pointed outside of the window, but his father wasn't the one to care for his words.
“No complaining, Allan. I told you already. If you want to keep the pace up. You better buy your own workshop, which has a nonstop option for working there.”He barked at him once more “I am the boss here, kiddo. Rest is also important.”
The boy, who was hammering a piece of metal, stopped unwillingly. “Fine.” He tossed the hammer aside and took off his heavy blacksmith leather attire.
“Do not forget to close the furnace lid. Let the fire die down.”
“Yes, father!” Allan answered in a bothersome tone, grunting some intangible words, while his father was cleaning up the other room. He swiftly and finely finished what he had to before a quick stop in the bathroom to clean up. On a mirror was a young boy. Around 12 to 13 years old, with short brown hair. Somewhat well-built muscles for his age, but that may be because of his genetics, or the fact that he helped his father manage his blacksmithing shop. He started when he was 5 years old, so he had plenty of time to work hard.
After washing up and changing into clean clothes, he went back to the forge. His father sat there in a corner by the table, which is his little office, and research space.
Allan turned up to him and told. “Father. The water is still warm in the bathroom. You can finish your paperwork later”
Jolting his head towards his son. “Ugh, no time to waste here.” His father stopped reading documents. Getting from his chair, he stretched a little after a long day of work.
Facing Allan was his father, Clayton. Man in his mid-thirties, the prime time of his life. The muscular body he has is vastly different from the kind of his son, whose age is little to his. Wearing a vest that made his biceps stand out was just a cherry on top of his stature. His short beard and messy hair made an easy excuse for stereotyping his profession. He left the room to wash, leaving Allan alone.
Allan, with his side of the task done, approached his office table, which had a lot of documents and random papers. It was quite a mess, if he was honest with himself, but it was like his father. A single father with a life that revolved around forging and his shop.
“He should clean his stuff, too.” He sighed, figuring one day to tell him that. Who he was kidding? He would scold him before he would even finish his words.
Night soon came, so Allan had to use his spare oil lamp to learn about his father’s work. On a side of a wall, facing the table, there were scattered technical scrips and sketches. This was the work table and office of his father. All in one place, but this place was like his father. A single father whose wife passed away shortly after giving birth. Messy, kind of lonely, and with very little sense. At times, that is. Allan would never complain about it since he could learn what he could.
Sadly, his mother didn't have good medical treatment. That was at least his father's words to him when he explained to him where was his mother. Nowadays, he could have saved her with the help of better doctors, but he never regretted her death. His wife, Cellena gave him a son as for her's and his own wish.
Allan slowly read through the sketches and some documents. Burning them to his memories, because he liked to do so since it's about what he can do. There were some forgotten concepts of handheld weaponry and even armor. Some models of hidden swords piqued Allan's curiosity, too, but his father never told him much about them. Something about being too of a rookie, or something. They were combining the best of two worlds. A gauntlet with a hidden dagger? That was never before seen. Allan always thought his father had the craziest ideas. After all, in the current market, there were no such weapons in production or style. Even with the information from the capital of the kingdom, or his own research in the libraries.
After a couple of hours of this reading experience, Allan put away the oil lamp and made his way to his room on the second floor. A few hours of learning was enough for him. His father was already asleep since he never complained about his son being a night owl. He had his room on the first floor, beside the blacksmithing shop and forge itself in case some thieves would emerge.
As he closed the door to his own room, soon enough, something else began to move downstairs.
A light of a lamp illuminated the insides of the rooms, with a lonely figure of Clayton who was walking there as if something mattered. Outside, the night was otherwise calm and dark, with only moons floating in the starry sky. This light of the lamp quickly and mysteriously reclined towards the floor of the shop after his father motioned something in his clutched fist. Disappearing into the wood right in the middle of the shop, he was nowhere to be found in this dark room.
Allan’s heart thumped as he tried to sleep in his bed. “Not tonight. I am tired.” He thought.
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The new day arrived in a blink of an eye. Allan was sleepy and felt like not doing something that he liked to do. It was his little secret, but sleep was important to him too. Especially since yesterday was kind of tough on him. He worked hard with his father to finish the last remaining contracts that his father had.
The early morning was the same as usual. The radiating sun made the shop and home to Allan brighter with a new day of work. After the sun emerged, he already wore his working attire. He greeted his father, who was starting a fire in the furnace.
“Morning, father.”
“Prepared for another successful day?” Clayton asked his son, who was yawning as he walked.
“Did you stay late again?” he asked again as his son still looked kind of sleepy.
“I was so full of knowledge I had trouble sleeping,” Allan replied, with his mouth wide open.
“You already read through everything on my desk at least 3 times. Are you not bored with it already?”
“Not at all. Boris from Maine Trading company said that good enough the repetitions, the better the final set of skills. I believe it’s the same with a hammer in my hand, or even the head between my shoulders. Hammering down toward the piece of metal is simple enough, and gradually polishing it with great precision is like polishing my brain.” Allan explained as if the matter of fact was much more complex than his clever words.
Clayton fell speechless. It made sense somehow, but this son of his isn't wrong, nor too right. “That old Boris. Sometimes he can say some clever things, I suppose. If he didn't spend almost every night in a pub, he could become one of the leading trade officers in the city.”
Allan nodded to himself. “That is true. Maybe he could even get me some better learning materials since you always refuse them.”
Clayton rather changed topics as he heard his son's words. “Anyway. Here is today's work for you.” He told, pointing towards the distant table. “Repair 2 pairs of short swords and sharpen them. You can also add 3 custom blades I made, too.” With that, Allan looked towards the worktable in the middle of the biggest room of the forge. Behind it were 4 furnaces. On the right side of them were sharpening tools and a room with materials and wood.
Allan didn't have a chance to ask something before his father ordered another task. “Also, there is some order for high-quality steel pointed arrows. 100 of them. I stored arrowheads in a chest beneath the worktable. Work with wood, wire, wood strings, and some feather of swamp dark turkeys. Make sure you wipe them clean. Their elasticity and straightness are guaranteed upon doing so for a long time.”
Allan, speechless by so many tasks, stopped by the worktable. Looking at the blades was enough for him, but even the 100 arrows? Was he being punished?
“It's more work than usual. Wanna work me to my death before my adulthood?” he complained, looking at his father in an unappealing manner.
“What? You don't know how to do these simple things?” Clayton looked at his son with curiosity and a small piece of mockery.
“OF course I know them, but if I am finished before lunch, I want the rest of the day off,” Allan said with great confidence about his abilities.
“Deal. I will also add some book for you if you finish them. Only when you accomplish it, of course.”
Allan’s eyes beamed with light. “I will start immediately.”
Clayton could only sight. “Little competition isn't a bad idea.” He thought and laughed inside his mind. “I should have done that much earlier, but whatever.”
And with his son's task finished, Clayton went to do his own work within the furnace. As he did so, Allan already grabbed the pair of short swords for repairs. Firstly, he had to appraise those products and see the repairs he had to do. There were some pronounced cracks in thin wood handles. The original maker must have been quite tough with this wood. That, or another possibility, was the bad usage of those short swords, or poor materials.
Allan shook his head in a dismissive manner. “That is unnecessary to know about that. I am a blacksmith, after all.”
Within 20 minutes, he made new handles for both pairs of short swords with black oak wood. Mounting them to the sword was as basic as this could be. Then he went right to the sharpening station, not far away. It was a simple, very impressive tool that was powered by either hand or legs. Rotating around the front were many small whetstones, or grindstones depending on the sort of needs for them. They spun around with great speed, thanks to intricate mechanical strings and chains. They would make sharp edges with the right way of handling of the blade at the right angle.
It depended on the skill of the blacksmiths, who were the only people who used these things. It came forth around 500 years ago in the northeast continental war conflicts. Its popularity advanced warfare in the mortal world to unprecedented high, since it was incredibly easy to use, and allowed better and faster weapon making.
Unbeknown to their usage, it wasn’t useful for too advanced kingdoms or powerful nations on the continent. Hard metals and other types of ores outside of the ordinary were plentiful but hard for sharpening stations and their ordinary whetstones that could be mounted there. They were hard to find in higher qualities, and making the sharpening station was better with ordinary whetstones.
1 and a half hours went by and Allan finished sharpening all the blades. He even used some protective oil for the handles.
“Good blades.” Allan cleaved the air with both of them around, feeling proud of his work.
“Time for the most time-consuming thing. Let's be efficient Allan!” He cheered himself and return to more work.
Slamming the table with a heavy chest that his father left him, he looked inside. There were neatly organized boxes of arrowheads. 5 rows with 20 each made of an unknown metal, but quite nice craftmanship. It was already sharp, tough, and well-balanced for not the kind of arrowheads that he usually saw. They were bigger and longer. Maybe the metal itself was even such that he didn't recognize. Feeling a bit curious, he put them all on the desk. Going around the forge, he quickly found everything necessary for 100 arrows. That included the wooden parts, feathers, tools, and some strings.
He spends the first 2 hours preparing wooden parts for the bows, which needed to be all the same. It was a time-consuming project, but quite simple. Adding dried feathers, which were dried up after cleaning, was done with quite a lot of them in the following hours. Unfortunately, right around the corner of lunchtime. He was a bit off since he finished his 90th arrow.
“Ugh. Not fast enough. 20 minutes over the usual time for lunch.” Allan complained after the last 10 were finished. Dissatisfied, this whole time, his father didn't even check on him, or his progress.
“He already finished his forging, I suppose.” Allan thought as he was a bit too focused on his task. “I wonder why he wanted me to do all of this in a single day. We would usually split the work to make it fair. I would usually do this kind of work in about 6 hours with no hurry or within two parts in two days.” Allan assumed, and it seemed his father was already gone from the forge.
After this finish, he packed the arrows and stored the blades in a box. They were organized for customers to get them and appeared fancy as they should.
Changing his clothes, back to his formal attire, Allan was about done today, as he massaged his fingers from a long stretch of work. It was so precise that his hands themselves hurt by forming a fist.
“Time for lunch!” cheered himself again. There was no need to be upset. So what if he failed within the time limit? It was just another regular day in this shop with his father. Ascending the stairs, Allan was surprised to see his father in the kitchen. He was sitting by a window, reading some papers. He seemed rather lost in the reading, as he noticed Allan after he went closer to him.
“Oh, Allan? Done already?” He asked him, after shutting the papers to the table.
“Yes. I packed items downstairs.”
“Good job for quick work. I will check them later before completing the contract. The rest of your day is off as you wish.” His father told in an unbothered tone.
“Great! What's that paper? Some work?” Allan asked, after noticing the kind of paper that seemed like a contract.
“I suppose. There will be some kind of job for me. Boris inquired me about something. An excellent work opportunity. I will need to check about it myself, though. It will be on the other side of the city.”
“Wait... But I didn't finish in time!” Allan told the truth, which he almost forgot about. Not even continued with his father's work, he insisted on that instead.
“Even though you are having lunch now? Allan, I thought we made a deal?” Clayton asked with a smile on his face.
Allan, stunned by this development, didn't know what to say about his wording of those words. It seems he didn't mind it, either way, so he scratched his head, before accepting it. “Alright then. What about the shop? Is it worth the job to let it be for that? ”
“It will be closed for a day or two. You can practice in the shop these days. I will drop you some books to your liking if everything will go well and yes, a week’s worth of gold coins.” Clayton happily answered Allan’s questions.
“Right. Before that, I will be right back.” Clayton snapped up and went downstairs. Coming back in a few minutes, within his hand was a decent-looking, hard-covered book. He tossed it at the kitchen table in front of his son.
Facing Allan was a barely readable cover art that wasn't looking that impressive. A roughly-looking name was in the middle.
First order of mixing.
Nonetheless, Allan was looking at it with expectation and curiosity. Grabbed it without hesitation. “Thank you, father.” he thanked him and opened the pages.
“Did you write it yourself? Sounds like a craziness you would make. Some pages are even missing. What are those notes and writing against printed sentences? Who does that?” Allan asked, after 20 seconds of his quick glances.
Zigmund, indifferent to his questions, or wonders, sneered behind his back. “It's normal. It's rather old and probably your imagination. I will be on my way to clear things with Boris. Do not burn the house down while I am at it, understood?” Clayton commented with a last glance at his son, who was looking at him with the book open book in his hand.
“He changed topics again.” Allan sighed, not feeling that surprised.
“Oh well. It’s at least something new. I will keep it for the early evenings. Father should be back at night if it is some big contract worth dozens of gold coins. I hope, so... I don't want to miss out on the evenings two days in a row. Still, this book should last me a few days if it’s interesting enough.” He guessed, slapping the book close before preparing some lunch.