“With a clash of iron and steel, only the truth shall be revealed…” Peter mumbled to himself, rubbing his chin in thought.

Iron and steel… one natural, the other man-made. A “clash” would mean the act of hitting these two metals together – the act of forging. However, in order to forge, aside from hammer and anvil, there was but one more, very important piece – fire, the symbol of life and knowledge. And yet, there was no way to make fire where the boy stood, unless you would count the sun’s insufferable heat.

That was also the boy’s thought process as he was absorbed in the riddle before him. “Steel… Fire… A forge?” Peter spoke out in his daze. “But there’s no fire…”

Indeed, “a clash of iron and steel” wouldn’t necessarily equate to forging. While forging was one of the few cases that involved a clash between iron and steel, the lack of fire would make things unclear. Instead, there was another, not necessarily better, but definitely more common way to refer to the act.

“Clash… of weapons, perhaps? Wait… could it be…”

Looking at the hammer and anvil again, the boy could tell that these two objects had very similar touches. The hammer’s head and the anvil both were a deep black, and were covered in the same protective layer of black rust that came from heating metal for a long period. In other words, they were both the “steel” that had been tempered by a master smith. On the other hand, the rusted sword had a layer of brown rust – the kind that ruins metals, eating it from the inside out due to exposure to harsh nature. In other words, it had the highest chance of being the “iron”.

Putting it together,,,

“Do I just… hit the sword with the hammer, placed on the anvil?” Peter asked himself. The conclusion, just based on the words, was sound enough, but the nature of the act was nowhere near it. This sword was long gone from being a genuine article, so a hit from the hammer would undoubtedly not leave it in one piece, even when swung by an adolescent teen.

“And that’s just one side of the problem, too,” the boy continued his train of thought. “That last phrase… ‘only the truth shall be revealed’... What ‘truth’ is there to reveal itself?”

Peter continuously loosened and tightened his grip on the hammer, trying to readjust himself into a comfortable hold. However, even he himself was painfully aware that this so-called “comfortable hold” didn’t exist in the first place. But he was running out of ideas, and this was the best he could think of.

Keep it together, he tried to reassure himself. There was no other way; no matter how much he would dawdle on the decision, Peter had no choice but to fully believe in the answer he had reached.

The boy raised the hammer skyward while placing the rusted sword onto the still-wet surface of the anvil.

You just have to bring it down, Peter. There is nothing simpler.

He took a deep breath, his hands sweating a downpour.

Just do it already! What are you hesitating for?

“Hah!”

Peter let out a thundering shout as he brought down the hammer of truth. The harsh clanking sound of impact between iron and steel ruptured through the lakeside view, shaking even the leaves and grass while sending nearby critters to an alarm. However, the boy didn’t have the luxury to enjoy the scenery around him, for his hammer arm had already felt the strange sensation once the hit registered.

Hidden within that loud clanking sound, with sparks flying from the hammer and anvil, was a small “crack”.

On the anvil, the rusted sword was no more. It had indeed transformed, but not to its previous, assumingly glorious state. Instead, the object, or rather, what was once an object, lying on the anvil’s surface were two pieces of broken metal – a lower half of the hilt and a part of the blade, which still resided in Peter’s remaining hand, and the upper half, with only bits of metal dust serving as their previous connection.

Oddly enough, the boy felt nothing.

As if the swing that broke the sword had also broken his spirit altogether, so much that he was completely numb from his supposed failure. No tears welling up in his eyes; no sudden fatigue that would hit him in the knee to make him curl up in pain; nothing at all. What filled his heart was nothing but a vast emptiness, a sense of futility from everything he had managed to do until now.

However, just when he was at his lowest, another chance was given to him.

The two halves of the sword suddenly vibrated together in unison, as if the whole earth was shaking itself. By a mysterious force, they were lifted in the air, bestowed by a higher being of power. With a deafening screech as the trigger, the pieces flew towards the hilt still sitting in his hand, and the sword was whole again, albeit still in its rusted state.

Countless thoughts run through the boy’s head before the second chance at life. Doubt, anxiety, elation, joy, a wild mix of different emotions stirred up in his soul. But there was nothing to think about anymore; he had been given another chance, and even if he didn’t know the reason, there was no way for him to not grab it, by force if he had to.

Putting his strength in the hammer, The boy raised it skyward again.

Once more, the hammer struck down.

Once more, sparks filled the air, as the clanking sound of iron and steel vibrated through the area.

And yet, once more, the sword shattered.

Something within him broke at the same time, as Peter raised his hand for another time. And another. And another.

Time and time again. The hammer kept on delivering the blow, and the sword kept on breaking and regenerating like a vicious cycle. The more the boy failed, the more he saw red. The more times the blade broke, the more blood gushed out of his palms. The more times his eardrums were almost ruptured by the screech, the more he could hear his veins popping off. His grip grew stronger, his teeth clenched harder, and his swing grew harder.

However, the result wouldn’t change by guts alone. The boy would swing and swing, but the end was still the same: an endless loop of breaking and recovering. And, as his anger reached its maximum point, the boy smashed the hammer down the anvil one last time, as if trying to destroy the sword instead of bringing it back to life.

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It was when he saw sparks for how many times already that the boy was struck with an idea.

“With a clash of iron and steel, only the truth shall be revealed…” Fully entranced by the new idea, Peter muttered. “Only the truth shall be revealed… Only the truth shall be revealed…”

He slowly put down the hammer and sat down next to the anvil, gazing at the soothing greenery. Only after a good while did he stand back up, until he could see the sun sitting on top of his head, signaling the time of noon once more.

Putting his hands around his mouth, Peter called out:

“Hey, Balam! I know you’re here!”

To his expectations, as soon as the boy uttered the words, a gust of wind carrying flower petals emerged, and as the wind died out, the male figure wearing a bear hide once again appeared before him. With a mischievous grin on his face, Balam asked:

“What’s the matter? I see that the sword is not fixed. Have you decided to give up on your trial?”

“No,” the boy firmly shook his head while letting out a smile of confidence. “I’ve finished my trial.”

“I see no magical sword,” The demon squinted his eyes in doubt as he tried to evaluate the piece of junk in the boy’s hand. “Or are you saying this… thing is supposed to be the strongest sword known to man, Excalibur?”

With another shake of my head, the latter answered:

“Of course not. But I don’t need to reforge the sword in the first place.”

Balam’s eyes slightly widened, his mouth forming an “o” for just a second before regaining his usual mysterious, yet playful composure. Covering his mouth to hide a chuckle, the demon retorted:

“Isn’t the trial about reforging the sword? If you can’t reforge the sword, you can’t pass the trial.”

As if waiting for this argument, Peter’s lips curled up to make a smile:

“Is it really?”

With a question filled with sarcasm, the boy rolled out the leather scroll. Once again, its golden letters floated in the air, revealing the cryptic message about the final part of the trial.

“With a clash of iron and steel,” he explained. “This verse explains the process of hitting the sword with the hammer while placing it on the anvil – the act of forging.”

“Correct,” nodded Balam.

“But it’s the second verse that catches my attention. ‘Only the truth shall be revealed’. What ‘truth’? This was the question that boggled my mind throughout the process. But now, I understand.” Peter deliberately paused for a dramatic effect, mirroring the same act that Balam once showed him.

“Do continue.” With a grin on his face, the demon ushered.

“The fact that the sword kept regenerating to its original, rusted state gave it away.” The boy finally brought out his decisive answer. “No matter how much I try, just one swing of the hammer breaks the sword into pieces, and yet, it keeps coming back no matter what I do. In other words… reforging the sword is an impossible task.”

“An interesting theory,” Balam nodded his head, intrigued by the answer. “But let me ask you this: have you considered the possibility that it was an extra layer of protection, in case you fail to reforge the sword on your first try? Or that the sword needed a specific number of hits to be fully restored?”

The demon had brought out convincing counter arguments. However, his explanation wasn’t without faults, and Peter knew this very well.

“...Impossible,” he retorted. “If the fact that the sword kept coming back was some sort of second chance, then I would only get a limited number of tries, not that it kept restoring itself no matter how many swings I made. And if the requirement was supposed to be a certain number of hits, then the verses in the scroll had to mention something about numbers – a date, a detail, anything is fine. But there was none here, meaning that I cannot use the number of hits as a solution to this trial.”

Balam, upon hearing the boy’s full answer, paused for a moment. Without a word, he plunged his staff onto the ground, engulfing himself in a gust of flowers once more. When the wind settled, appearing again was his animal form of a giant bear with flaming eyes, as the demon roared and stared straight into Peter’s eyes with his fiery gaze:

“Good! Good confidence! But let me remind you this: all of that pretty talk you just did? That’s just conjecture; mere speculation you made with the little information your tiny brain can take! Do you wish to take that as your final answer, and prepare for the consequences that it might bring, boy?!”

“... The fact that you’re resorting to intimidation tells me everything I need to know,” though his body reflexively flinched before the obvious attempt of threat, the boy did not back down. “This trial is impossible to attempt, and that is my final answer.”

The demon gruffed a loud hmph, slowly but surely returning to his original position. Before Peter could steel himself, Balam had let out a deafening roar, as if trying to blow the boy away through the sheer force of sound alone:

“You! That! Is!...”

As Peter desperately planted his heels on the ground, trying his best to resist the pressure, it suddenly stopped. With another storm of flowers covering him, Balam once again returned to his human form, and this time, a satisfied smile showed on his face:

“Absolutely correct. You pass with flying colors.”

“... Is scaring me half to death absolutely necessary, then?”

“Once you’re here for so long, you learn how to entertain yourself,” the demon chuckled. “But I digress. You’ve deduced everything up to this point correctly, but do you know why I gave that trial in the first place?”

“... Not really. I didn’t think about it until now.”

“In a war, what is the first thing you think you need?” Asked Balam.

“Um… Strength?”

“Indeed. The strength to vanquish your enemies. That is the most basic requirement, and the purpose of the anvil’s trial.” Nodded the demon.

“The second,” he continued, “is wits. Smarts, strategies, you name it. Essentially, it is the mind to make use of your current surroundings and resources to maneuver over an obstacle otherwise over your league.”

“Which is the hammer’s trial,” Peter continued, nodding in understanding of the meaning behind his short journey.

“Correct. But those two are not the most important factor that decides the war. Do you know what it is?”

The boy shook his head for a second time.

“It is the correct judgment to distinguish the impossible from the possible, and the courage to believe in your correct decision to the end. The part about the whole trial being a hoax, my questioning you and intimidation… those are all for that matter.”

“I… see,” Peter could only stiffly nod in admiration. Never before could he imagine every single detail of their conversation was calculated to such an extent.

“But no worries,” laughed Balam. “You passed, that much is certain. And now, your reward.”

The Demon waved his staff again. On his cue, the rusted sword in Peter’s hand shivered before taking flight on its own to the air, escaping the boy’s grasp. On the earth and in the air, small golden dots started to gather, just like what happened to him on the night against the angels. As the golden energy covered the sword, it shone a blinding, yet warm light like a soothing spring’s sun, before revealing itself at last.

Its blade shone a silver light, while running along the blade was a dark blue decorative pattern. Its hilt was basked in a golden light, and at the end were two emeralds made by only the finest of craftsmen. But there was one problem with the new magical item – its length was too short to be called a “sword”. A normal sword should be at least around the length of a teenager’s arm, if not more, and yet, this one was barely longer than Peter’s hands. In other words, it was not a sword, but a dagger.

“What gives?” The boy tilted his head in confusion. “I thought you said Excalibur was a sword?”

“Excalibur is a sword,” answered Balam, along with a playful wink. “But this is not Excalibur. I never mentioned that I would give you Excalibur if you managed to pass the trial.”

“... Fine. Have it your way. What is it?”

“Excalibur’s infant form, the legendary dagger Carnwennan. Right now, both it and you are merely seedlings. Learn with it, grow alongside it, and soon both of you will become a great tree, enough to withstand any calamities heading your way.”

“Carnwennan…” fiddling the shining dagger in his hand, Peter mumbled before turning to the Demon and gave a bow of gratitude:

“Thank you, Balam.”

“No worries. Now, close your eyes while holding onto that dagger tightly. You’ll find yourself back in the real world again, where I’ll begin your body’s treatment. Oh, and… try not to panic at your surroundings.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Until we meet again, Balam.”

“Until we meet again, my partner,” the demon let out a gentle smile as the boy closed his eyes once more, letting his body flow freely into the abyss before him…