Chapter 136: The Dust Settles
"Was I... truly like that just now?"
No one dared answer. But Tallon didn't need words; it was painfully obvious that Percival was mimicking his earlier lapse into madness.
The Guildmaster let out a long, weary sigh. "How long was I out?"
"Two hours," Percival chirped.
Tallon flinched as if struck by a whip. He scrambled to his feet, swaying, and turned his gaze toward the Thunderfire Furnace. "The furnace? How is it?"
"Operational," Yarpin replied, dumping a bucket of ice water over his padded cotton tunic. "The heat is rising fast this time. The mithril has finally begun to liquefy."
"I see."
Tallon glanced to the side. Arthur was already deep into the rhythmic clink-clank of shaping his blade's core. Even if Yarpin were an avatar of the Smith-God himself, there was no closing a gap like that.
Tallon closed his eyes, the weight of years visible in his slumped shoulders. "Then... I leave the rest to you."
Yarpin had already donned a soaking-wet cotton hood and mask. His voice came out muffled and thick: "I swear by my hammer, I'll give it everything I've got."
The stirring rod, crafted from specialized heat-resistant materials, could withstand temperatures that melted mithril, yet it was far lighter than the molten metal itself. Coupled with the sheer bulk of his sodden tunic, Yarpin's movements were agonizingly clumsy. The rod scraped and grated against the crucible walls with every rotation.
The dwarven elders who had drafted the rules felt a sudden, sharp pang of relief. They had assumed only their side possessed a Thunderfire Furnace, so they hadn't specified regulations for the smelting process. Had they been stricter, Arthur's effortless mastery would have shamed them on that merit alone.
"Hey! Why are you stripping? That blade is still white-hot!"
Arthur had finished hammering his core into shape and was preparing to take a breather when he saw Yarpin peeling off his protective cotton layers.
He couldn't help but shout in surprise. Yarpin's blade-core had only just solidified; the ambient heat was staggering. Without the protection of the wet cotton, the dwarf would be scorched raw.
"He's afraid that when he swings the hammer, water will drip from his sleeves onto the hot metal," Percival explained. The gnome's expression had shifted to one of solemn respect, his earlier mockery completely vanished.
Tenacity, courage, and a relentless pursuit of the craft—these were the virtues that had brought gnomes and dwarves together in the first place.
"Oi, dwarf-lad! I've got a pair of gloves here. Take 'em!"
Percival held up a pair of heavy-duty smithing gloves and tossed them across the forge floor to Yarpin.
According to the wager's terms, outsiders were forbidden from providing materials once the clock started. However, since neither participant lodged an objection, the City Hall officials weren't about to play the villain by intervening.
But that was the extent of the help. While his hands were now shielded, Yarpin's bare chest and face remained exposed to the savage waves of heat. After only a few strikes of the hammer, the fine hair on his arms began to curl and singe. His skin turned a violent, angry red, making him look like a giant, boiled lobster.
"Hmph. You're a stubborn bastard, aren't you?"
Seeing even Percival lend a hand, Arthur decided he couldn't just stand by and watch. "Yarpin! Over here!"
Arthur knelt, grabbed a handful of furnace slag, and crushed it into a fine powder between his palms. With a sharp exhale, he blew the dust toward the dwarf. The fine gray powder swirled into the air, coating Yarpin from head to toe.
In an instant, Yarpin looked as though he'd just survived a desert sandstorm, layered in a thick coating of ash. It wasn't as effective as wet wool, but it was enough to deflect the worst of the thermal radiation.
Yarpin bowed deeply toward Arthur, his expression unreadable beneath the mask of gray dust.
"…My thanks."
"Hold on, I'm not done yet!"
Seeing the dwarf turning back to his anvil, Arthur quickly called him back.
"Stay still. Just a few seconds... There! Done!"
A flash of magical radiance erupted, drawing a collective gasp from the surrounding crowd.
Yarpin's skin had been transmuted into a shimmering, mirror-like surface, so bright it reflected the stunned expressions of those nearby. Armored by this gleaming coating, he no longer had to fear the blistering heat radiating from the blade-core.
"There. Get back to it; you'll be fine now. Just remember to scrub yourself raw once we're finished here."
It was another ready-made spell from the Book of Illusions—"Object Transmutation." It allowed for the reshaping of minute particles, and Arthur hadn't even needed to tweak the formula before casting.
"What a noble gesture!"
Hackshaw stepped forward, his voice thick with performative emotion. "To aid a rival in distress for the sake of true craftsmanship... such a pure duel is the stuff of ballads and epic poems!"
The Mayor wasn't merely being sentimental; he was framing Arthur's actions in the public eye. It was a calculated move to ensure the dwarves wouldn't attempt anything unseemly should they find a way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Fortunately, after his collapse, Tallon seemed to have reached a state of weary clarity. He sat in his chair, watching in silence as the silver-plated Yarpin swung his hammer, inching closer and closer to Arthur's progress.
"Time's almost up."
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the sand in the hourglass trickled down to a final few grains.
Yarpin lowered his hammer and plunged the glowing blade into a vat of tempering oil. Flames erupted with a violent roar, and the dwarven smiths on the periphery let out an instinctive cheer:
"Hah! A fine blade!"
It was indeed a fine blade. As it emerged from the oil, the steel was straight and smooth.
"A pity," Percival remarked, eyeing Tallon with feigned nonchalance. "With a bit of grinding and a proper hilt, it could easily fetch four hundred crowns on the market."
Tallon remained silent, though the tips of his ears glowed a dull, angry red. That morning, his opening offer for the Gva'chir technique had been a measly five hundred crowns—an insult masquerading as a deal.
Yarpin hadn't spent the furnace's cooling period idling. He had pre-carved several hilt components to fit the blade's tang, managing to assemble them just as the last grain of sand fell.
"So," Percival said, grinning at Tallon. "Do we actually need to go through with the judging?"
Though Yarpin had managed to produce a complete longsword, the blade remained rough and unpolished, the hilt nothing more than two bare slabs of wood.
Placed beside Arthur's masterpiece—a mithril-alloyed longsword with a cross-guard, brass pommel, and a surface that shimmered like a pool of autumn water—it looked like a half-finished toy.
"We judge. Of course we judge," Hackshaw cut in before Tallon could speak. "This wager is presided over by the City Hall. We must ensure absolute fairness and transparency. We wouldn't want people saying we favored one side, would we?"
Tallon let out a heavy, defeated sigh. It was clear the Mayor intended to grind his pride into the cobblestones.
First came the visual inspection. Hackshaw hoisted both blades, parading them before the assembly. Not a word needed to be said; both sides unanimously conceded the point to Arthur.
The durability test allowed the dwarves to reclaim a shred of dignity. No matter how hard Hackshaw struck the targets, neither blade suffered so much as a nick. This round was declared a draw.
Percival grumbled from the sidelines, "Testing a mithril blade on ox horns? You'd have to be cursed for it to fail! If I'd known you were going to play it this soft, I'd have insisted we use an anvil as the target!"
Next was the sharpness test. The targets: two freshly slaughtered hogs.
Yarpin's sword relied on sheer weight and hardness to hack through the hide and bone. Arthur's blade, however, passed through the carcass like a hot knife through wax, cleaving the massive hog in two with a single, effortless stroke.
"Ace!"
Since Zoltan wasn't around to provide the commentary, Arthur did it himself. Sadly, no one bothered to ask what the word meant this time.
"Four categories in total. Arthur has one draw and two wins. Do we really need to proceed to the final handling assessment?" Percival asked, clutching Tallon's arm with an expression that screamed: 'Brother, do you really want to lose what's left of your dignity?'
"There is no need. We concede."
Tallon's face looked as though it were coated in wood ash. He turned toward Hackshaw and spoke with a hollow voice:
"Mr. Mayor... the sword Glacier is now at the victor's disposal."