Chapter 146: First Trial of the Gwyhyr
"Good gods above! Are you coming here to sleep or to wage a private campaign?!"
The next morning, when the landlady heard once again from Arthur that a bed had been wrecked, she couldn't suppress a shriek of disbelief.
"First it was the Lavender Room, and now the Emerald Suite! Where in the world am I supposed to find so many spare beds for you?"
Arthur felt a wave of genuine embarrassment. He placed two more crowns on the counter and cleared his throat. "What I mean is, don't bother with a new bed for now. Just have someone bring us a few extra sets of bedding and blankets."
At the sight of the shimmering gold coins, the landlady's face blossomed into a smile once more. "Satisfying our guests' needs is the primary duty of this establishment. I'll send someone to see to it at once!"
She paused, her tone dropping into a suggestive lilt. "By the way, do you require any... other assistance?"
She was hinting broadly at finding someone to help Maria "share the load," but Arthur played the part of the deaf-mute perfectly. He left the gold on the counter and made a swift exit.
Word had reached him that the courts of Verden and Brugge had received Calanthe's letters and were currently selecting delegates to investigate the case. This meant Percival's order needed to be finished—and fast.
"Laddie, you were born for the anvil! I've never in all my years seen a man hammer out a blade blank in a single day—and such a beauty, too!"
Amidst Percival's shrill praise, Arthur set down the hammer and reached for the tongs. It was time for the quenching.
But before his hand could close around the tool, Percival blocked his way. "Steady now! Wait a moment! You need to rest properly first!"
Quenching was never a simple task, and this time, the difficulty was compounded. Per the King's specifications, this blade measured a staggering 180 centimeters from tip to pommel, with the widest part of the blade exceeding 10 centimeters. They had even been forced to construct a custom, elongated quenching tank and specialized tongs.
Yet, those were the least of their troubles. Such exaggerated dimensions inevitably brought massive weight. Even though the Gwyhyr process utilized light-weight alloys, the blank still weighed over twenty pounds.
If anyone had pressed their face to the forge window at that moment, they would have been stunned. Arthur sat perched on a stool while Percival scurried around him like a frantic apprentice—wiping sweat from Arthur's brow, bringing cooling drinks, and even using a professional massage technique on Arthur's forearms to soothe the accumulated fatigue.
There was no other way. To create a perfect Gwyhyr, the contact area between the tongs and the blade blank during quenching had to be as minimal as possible. This meant Arthur had to maintain absolute control over the massive blank while gripping only the tang—a requirement for arm strength that surpassed even a gnome's imagination.
"I can't wait any longer. The temperature is dropping too fast," Arthur said. He had tried to stand several times, only to be forced back down by Percival. Only when the radiant glow of the steel began to dim did the gnome finally, reluctantly, back away.
"Don't be nervous. If you're nervous, your hand will shake, and the contact between the blade and the quenching oil will be uneven," Percival muttered, oblivious to the fact that his own sharp nails were digging into his palms.
The next second, the greatsword plunged into the tank. A brilliant pillar of flame roared upward, reaching the ceiling and illuminating the dusky street outside the window.
"...Three, two, one. Now!"
Though he was a mere observer, Percival was far more tense than Arthur. He practically pressed his face against the edge of the tank, staring fixedly at the transformation of the metal, nearly singeing his eyelashes on the dying sparks.
It was worth it. As the flames receded, what stood before them was a greatsword of impeccable quality. The blade shimmered with a jewel-like luster; held close to the candlelight, it possessed a faint, translucent quality, making the steel appear as though it were a single, meticulously polished shard of obsidian glass.
"Look at it... just look at it! Now this is the strongest sword in the world!" Percival declared with pride. "Even without the enchantment of runes, its sharpness alone is enough to cleave through light armor like parchment!"
"That powerful?"
Arthur fitted the pre-prepared hilt onto the tang and settled into a ready stance, only to discover that the weapon felt far lighter than its formidable silhouette suggested.
"Whether it's as legendary as the tales say... well, one strike will tell us everything we need to know, won't it?"
Percival was bouncing about like a clockwork doll wound to its limit. He scurried back and forth, dragging a wooden practice dummy onto the street. He draped it in a suit of ring mail—protection comparable to chainmail but far inferior in comfort—and, after a moment's thought, added a layer of thick, albeit grimy, gambeson.
"Go on then! Give it a whirl!"
"Don't we need to wait for the blade to temper?" Arthur asked, hesitating. Everything he had learned until now suggested that after quenching, the steel should be allowed to rest and temper to ensure its resilience.
"I said strike, so strike! A Gwyhyr isn't some common piece of pig iron you'd find at a village market!" The gnome's face was flushed as if he were drunk, his shrill voice echoing down the street and drawing the curious gazes of passersby.
Arthur nodded. He coiled his strength and unleashed a horizontal slash toward the dummy's chest.
By now, the sky had bruised into twilight. Candles flickered in the shop windows along the street, while the more upscale establishments lit magical lanterns imbued with illumination spells. This ambient light bled into the Gwyhyr's translucent blade, blooming into a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues. As the sword swept through the air, it looked as though Arthur were painting a streak of sunset across the darkness.
Shing!
The blade whistled through the air. Arthur felt only the faintest resistance, followed by a sensation of effortless weightlessness.
Thud.
The upper half of the dummy, along with its two layers of armor, didn't slide off until a full half-second after the edge had passed. The cut was perfectly level and glass-smooth, as if it had been polished by a master lapidary rather than severed by steel.
In terms of pure sharpness, it rivaled the power of his runeblade when imbued with "Condensed Frost."
In a daze, the reflections of the streetlights in his eyes began to writhe and coil, coalescing into glowing script across his vision:
[Smithing Proficiency increased. Current Rank: Expert]
"Finally..." Arthur looked up at the sky and let out a silent, triumphant laugh.
Ever since he had begun exploring the craft alongside Zoltan, Arthur had noticed a pattern: repeatedly forging equipment he had already mastered yielded no growth. However, every minor refinement made during the process—whether through his own ingenuity or external guidance—brought a steady, incremental increase in proficiency.
In this instance, without Percival's hands-on tutelage, Arthur could never have forged a weapon of the Gwyhyr's caliber. But the moment the blade was declared finished, his smithing skill had broken through to the [Expert] rank.
"One day, I'll forge the strongest sword this world has ever seen!" Arthur declared, hands on his hips as he laughed at the darkening clouds.
"You brat, you've already forged the strongest sword in the world!"
As Percival barked out his laughing mock-reproach, the heavy clouds above seemed to churn together, forming a line of text as black as chimney soot:
[You have mastered the most advanced metallurgical techniques in this world. The path forward must be explored on your own.]
"That's... that's it? No more levels?"
Arthur stared at the dissipating clouds, bewildered. Was this the ceiling? Shouldn't there be "Master" or "Grandmaster" ranks above Expert? Or was it because this was a different world, causing the direction and progression of his skills to deviate from the expected path?
Arthur turned and scooped Percival up in a sudden bear hug. "Master," he said earnestly, "you must take me further. We have to delve into even more advanced smithing techniques!"