Chapter 134: The Thunder-Fire Furnace
"This Yarpen... what's his story? Why did everyone push him forward to compete with me?" Arthur asked, sitting side-by-side with Percival on the workbench.
The gnome reached out with his spindly fingers, grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from Arthur's palm, and began cracking them, mimicking Arthur's technique.
"That Yarpen lad? He's from a rather marginal branch of the Zigrin clan. Moved here only the year before last," Percival explained, crunching through a seed. "Supposedly, he had a deal to buy a furnace from the Guild, but at the last second, another smith outbid him and snatched it away. That's why he's got such a sharp tongue with them."
Percival crunched the seeds whole, shell and all, then spent a good while spitting out the splinters. "I've dealt with the lad. His craft is solid, but his raw talent is a step below yours. As long as you perform well today, it shouldn't be much of a problem."
Arthur nodded, neatly cracking a shell with his front teeth, and offered a piece of friendly advice: "You're supposed to peel them before eating, you know."
"Why didn't you say so sooner!" Percival glared at him. The gnome's teeth were tiny and fine; after a few seeds, the gaps were already packed with debris. Grumbling, he snatched up a pair of needle-nose pliers. Snap, crackle, pop—in an instant, he had stripped the remaining seeds bare, tossing the kernels into his mouth in one go. "Much better!"
While the two were preoccupied with their seeds, the dwarves had finally finalized their champion. Tarun had staked his reputation as Guildmaster, promising Yarpen a free furnace from the Guild if he won. Only then did the indignant young dwarf agree to the terms.
Next came the determination of materials, weapon type, and judging criteria. This was supposed to be a negotiation between Percival and the Guild, but the moment the gnome saw the materials they provided, he grinned.
"No objections from me!"
He turned to Arthur. "You're in luck, lad. These bastards are actually putting up some real capital this time. They even brought out the Mithril."
Arthur looked curiously toward the long table. Beside the steel ingots lay a small lump of silvery substance, no larger than a fingertip, gleaming brilliantly in the morning sun.
Mithril—also known as Meteorite Silver. Because it passed through magic-dense elemental planes before arriving in this world, it possessed incredible properties. It had one trait that drove every blacksmith wild: even a tiny amount added to ordinary iron could grant a blade supernatural strength.
However, every boon has its bane. Mithril's melting point was astronomically high. Aside from the Thunder-Fire Furnaces of Mahakam, almost nothing could melt it completely—which meant true Mithril alloys were exceedingly rare.
For most blacksmiths, utilizing Mithril required the grueling "Mithril Skeleton" technique: forging the Mithril into the "bones" of the weapon and then laboriously folding iron around it. The physical toll was immense, and the result was never as structurally sound as a uniform Mithril alloy.
Percival slapped Arthur's arm, smirking. "They're clearly counting on dwarven endurance to win. Let's open their eyes and show them what real strength looks like!"
Arthur flexed a bicep that looked as if it were carved from iron. "Just sit back and watch the show."
Once the judging standards were finalized, the contest officially began. To facilitate oversight, the Town Hall had temporarily cordoned off the street to serve as the forging ground.
Percival rolled a small, portable furnace out from his shop, winking at Arthur. "Give it your all, boy. I can't wait to get my hands on that legendary Glacial Longsword!"
Arthur was about to reply when he felt a faint vibration beneath his feet, as if something massive were slowly approaching. He instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of the Sword of Temeria, narrowing his eyes toward the source of the tremor.
"[Gnomish Profanity], you stunted stone-munchers are cheating! I'm lodging a formal complaint!"
Percival had been watching with wide-eyed surprise, but the moment the source of the tremors finally lumbered into view, the gnome's composure vanished. It was replaced by a torrent of vitriol.
"Mr. Mayor, I protest! The dwarves are using underhanded tactics to gain an unfair advantage!"
It was a colossal furnace mounted atop a flatbed wagon, hauled by a team of three oxen and four grunting trolls. Every time its massive wheels crushed a cobblestone, a distinct shudder rippled through the ground.
Yarpin Zigrin stood there with a grim expression, cranking the furnace into life under the frantic direction of several white-bearded dwarf elders. Without a single stick of kindling being added, the forge let out a violent blast of heat, forcing the surrounding crowd back nearly a dozen paces in an instant.
The air shimmered and warped with unnatural intensity. The steel ingots had barely been tossed inside before they began to glow a fierce, angry red.
"What in the name of the Great Sun is that?"
Seeing Hackshaw's bewilderment, Percival nearly leaped onto the man's shoulders in his agitation. "That is a Thunderfire Furnace! One of only two in this world capable of completely liquefying mithril!"
The realization hit Hackshaw like a mace. The dwarves intended to use the Thunderfire Furnace to smelt a perfectly uniform mithril alloy. They were aiming for a total tactical eclipse of Arthur, relying on the sheer superiority of their raw materials.
These dwarves... they were pulling out all the stops to win this wager.
Hackshaw marched toward Tallon Zigrin, but before he could utter a word, the Guildmaster hoisted the freshly stamped notary documents high into the air.
"Mr. Mayor, the notarized contract is quite explicit. Not a single clause forbids the participants from utilizing their own equipment. I am simply following your rules to the letter."
Though Hackshaw looked as if he wanted to snatch the document and shred it into confetti, the sight of the still-damp ink forced him to swallow the bitter pill.
"Protest overruled," he barked. "The wager proceeds!"
Percival opened his mouth to argue further, but Arthur's hand settled firmly on his shoulder, pressing him down.
"Relax," Arthur whispered. "I've got this."
By now, Arthur had seen through the charade. "Thunderfire Furnace" my foot—it was nothing more than a magical apparatus designed to generate a powerful electric current, using electromagnetic induction to achieve temperatures far beyond what any charcoal fire could dream of.
Arthur tossed his own steel ingots and mithril into his forge. He was about to release an electric arc to begin the heating process when he paused; a spectacle of this magnitude required a bit of theater.
He snatched up Percival's measuring rule with his right hand and formed a ritualistic sign with his left. After muttering a string of gibberish under his breath, he suddenly snapped the wooden rule toward the forge and bellowed:
"O, Thunder of the Heavens! In the name of Nature herself, I command thee: Ignite! Smelt this metal for me!"
As the words left his lips, his right hand dropped and his left hand thrust forward in a violent palm-strike. A brilliant arc of lightning hissed from his palm, coiling around the materials like a hungry python.
"What is this madness?" Hackshaw gasped. Arthur ignored him, pretending to be deep in the throes of a complex incantation.
Tallon's expression soured instantly. He spat a curse under his breath, glaring at Arthur. "To flaunt such high-level arcana before these common philistines... what a godsdamned waste!"
Under Arthur's full-throttle output, the steel ingots in his forge were the first to surrender, collapsing into a molten pool. The mithril floating on the surface held out for a mere thirty seconds longer before it, too, began to show signs of liquefaction.
Meanwhile, the dwarves' Thunderfire Furnace—despite its head start—had only managed to melt the steel. Their mithril remained stubbornly solid, mocking them with its original shape.
"Increase the output!"
Brouver, no longer caring about preserving the furnace's "mystical" secrets, barked the order directly.
Yarpin wiped the sweat from his brow and cranked a lever on the side of the furnace to its limit, but a look of confusion crossed his face. He had followed the Guildmaster's instructions perfectly, yet he felt no increase in the heat radiating from the forge. In fact, a series of strange, erratic noises began to emanate from the furnace's core.
Bip-pop. Bip-bip-pop.