Chapter 143: Chapter 143: The Blacksmithing Competition (5) Five days passed like the swing of a hammer.
Now the final day had come, and the training grounds thundered with life. The once-empty stands were filled to bursting—hundreds of voices rising in anticipation, nobles glittering in silk and velvet, merchants jostling for seats, and common folk crammed shoulder to shoulder just to glimpse the spectacle.
Flags bearing the stag of Keldoria fluttered above the arena, while criers shouted over the roar of the crowd. The prize was on every tongue: twenty-five gold coins to the champion, ten to the runner-up, five to the third. Enough wealth to change the life of a small family.
Below, the three hundred and thirty-nine forges blazed in their ordered rows. The air was thick with the heat of coal fires, the stinging tang of smoke, and the rhythmic thunder of hammers striking steel. Sparks danced like fireflies, rising in clouds with every blow.
Howen stood at his station, sleeves rolled high, face streaked with soot. His hammer fell with steady precision, the familiar rhythm of his swing unbroken even as sweat stung his eyes. Around him, other smiths toiled with frantic urgency—some grinding edges, others quenching glowing blades, a few still hammering desperately as the hours slipped away.
The judges, stern-faced guildmasters and royal inspectors, walked the rows with quills in hand, observing closely. Every clang of steel echoed like a heartbeat.
Howen set his jaw, focusing on the sword before him. Its edge gleamed faintly in the forge light, the blade strong, balanced, and almost finished. Around him, the crowd’s roar swelled, though he barely heard it. His world narrowed to fire, hammer, and steel.
And just like that the sun had begun its slow descent, spilling golden light across the arena. The roar of the crowd seemed to rise with it, a thousand voices blending into a deafening hum of anticipation.
Then, a booming voice rang out from the raised platform where the judges stood.
"Time!"
The single word rolled over the grounds like a thunderclap.
"All smiths—step back from your forges. The five days are ended. Lay down your hammers. No further work is permitted."
For a heartbeat, there was only the crackle of dying coals and the hiss of steam. Then the sound of hundreds of hammers being lowered filled the air, echoing like the final toll of a great bell.
Some smiths groaned in frustration, caught with blades still unfinished. Others sagged with relief, sweat streaming as they wiped their brows. A few raised their swords high, proud, their faces alight with triumph.
Howen released a long breath, setting his hammer aside. His arm ached from five days of relentless swinging, but he refused to show weakness. He lifted the sword he had forged, its steel catching the light. Not perfect, no—but strong, balanced, and sharp. A weapon worthy of a battlefield.
Around him, three hundred and thirty-eight other blades gleamed in the fading sunlight. The judges moved forward, their quills ready, their expressions cold and unreadable.
The crowd hushed, anticipation crackling in the air.
The judges strode forward, flanked by armored soldiers who carried heavy wooden crates. The crowd leaned forward as the first crate was thrown open, revealing bundles of test materials—iron bars, wooden shields, bundles of straw wrapped tight with rope, and even slabs of stone.
The lead judge, a stern guildmaster with a voice like gravel, lifted his hand. "The rules of judging are simple. Each sword will face the same trials: sharpness, durability, balance, and strength. No excuses. No second chances."
He pointed to the first smith, whose blade gleamed with a mirror polish. "Step forward."
The process began.
First came the sharpness test. A soldier brought forth straw bundles lashed with thick rope. Each sword was swung cleanly, once, twice. A well-honed edge would shear through both straw and rope in a single stroke. A poor edge tore and caught, leaving ragged cuts. The crowd cheered for every clean slice, booed for every blade that faltered.
Next came the strength test. Iron bars were laid across supports, and each blade was brought down upon them with a powerful strike. The goal was not to cut, but to survive. Strong blades bit deep without cracking; weak ones chipped, bent, or shattered outright, their smiths paling as the crowd groaned.
Durability followed. Shields of thick wood and hide were raised, and soldiers hammered the swords against them, stroke after stroke. Ten blows. Twenty. Thirty. If the edge dulled too quickly or the blade warped under pressure, notes were scratched against the smith’s name. If it endured, the crowd roared its approval.
Finally came balance and handling. Judges took each sword in turn, testing its weight, its grip, the smoothness of its swing. Some nodded in approval. Others frowned and scribbled without a word.
On and on it went, row by row. Blades that gleamed like jewels broke like glass. Ugly, rough-forged swords endured every test and earned surprised murmurs. Every clang, every snap, every clean cut sent ripples through the crowd.
When Howen’s turn came, his heart hammered as hard as his forge had days before. He stepped forward, offering his blade with steady hands. The steel caught the sunlight, simple yet strong, no ornament to distract from its purpose.
Howen stepped forward when his number was called, gripping his sword by the blade and offering the hilt to the judge. His heart pounded, but his grin never wavered. He had done all he could.
The guildmaster took the weapon, weighing it in his hands, then gave a curt nod. "Begin the tests."
Finally, the judge tested the grip and swing, twirling the sword in his hand and giving it a few practice cuts through the air. The weapon responded evenly, neither too heavy nor too light. Balanced enough, but lacking the elegance of finer work.
The guildmaster returned the sword to Howen without comment, scratching notes into his ledger. The silence was heavier than words.
Howen exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as though a great weight had lifted. His blade had endured every trial. No cracks, no warping, no humiliating failure. It wasn’t perfect—he knew that—but it had stood where many others had broken.
The testing ground rang with the rhythm of steel. Sword after sword was brought forth, each trial drawing gasps, cheers, or groans from the stands. Some blades passed every stage, slicing through rope and iron. Others faltered—edges dulling, hilts cracking, blades snapping in showers of sparks. Each failure drew sympathetic groans, yet the crowd still applauded. For even failure here meant a smith had dared to stand before the crown and kingdom.
The pile of broken swords at the edge of the field grew higher, grim trophies of the competition’s ruthlessness. At the same time, the few blades that passed unscathed.
At last, the line dwindled. Only five contestants remained, their blades still untested.
The judges moved to call the next smith forward—
But before the trial could begin, a sudden motion from the raised platform drew all eyes.
Arthur Tesla, King of Keldoria, had risen from his seat.
The arena stilled. The crowd hushed, their roar collapsing into silence. Even the smiths lowered their heads as Arthur stepped forward, his cloak catching the late sun. His gaze swept across the field, sharp as a drawn blade.
He raised a hand. His voice, calm yet carrying to every ear, cut through the stillness.
"Before the final blades are tested," Arthur declared, "there is something I must say."