Arthur's gaze swept across them. "You call it mystery. You call it blessing. I call it by its true name—carbon."
The word landed like a hammer blow. Strange, foreign on their tongues.
"This carbon," Arthur pressed on, "is what gives steel its strength. It is what turns soft iron into a weapon that can pierce armor, a plow that can tear the earth, a blade that can last a lifetime. Without it, your iron is weak. With too much, it grows brittle. Balance is everything."
Murmurs spread like wildfire. Some smiths scoffed, crossing their arms in defiance. "Essence? Invisible strength? Nonsense!"
Yet others looked shaken, recalling memories they would never admit aloud—blades cracking in a soldier's grip after only a handful of battles, plowshares warping mid-season, edges dulled despite endless hours of care. Arthur's words gnawed at those hidden failures, tugging at doubts they had buried long ago.
And yet, doubt remained stronger than belief.
What he spoke of could not be seen, could not be weighed in the hand or smelt in the fire. Invisible strength? A hidden essence? Such things sounded closer to superstition than craft. The smiths knew kings could be wise in matters of politics, coin, and war—but what could a man who had rarely lifted a hammer know of their sacred craft?
A low murmur rippled through the contestants, the pride of master smiths bristling like steel raised in defiance. Finally, one stepped forward. A broad-shouldered man with a beard as black as coal, his apron stained with soot from a lifetime at the forge.
He bowed stiffly, then raised his voice so all could hear. "Your Majesty, forgive me if my words sound harsh. I speak not to insult, but to question." He paused, choosing his words with care. "You say this carbon is the secret hidden in charcoal. Yet none of us have seen it, none of us have touched it. And with respect… you have not lived the life of a smith. You have not spent decades at the anvil as we have. How can we trust that you know better than us, who have bled and burned for the craft?"
The crowd stirred—some nodding in firm agreement, others frowning at the man's boldness. The challenge hung heavy in the air, and all eyes turned back to Arthur.
The king's expression did not falter. His gaze sharpened, steel-hard, and when he spoke, his voice carried like a hammer striking true.
"You ask if I have proof." He spread a hand toward the five apprentices, their blades gleaming on the testing table. "You will have it. Not in words, but in steel."
The murmurs swelled again, louder this time, as Arthur's cloak shifted in the breeze. He stepped forward, his presence commanding the silence back into place.
"I do not claim to be a smith," Arthur said, his voice steady, ringing with unshakable conviction. "I will not insult you with such a lie. But I am a man who seeks knowledge, and who dares to look where others turn away. I studied the failures you accept as fate—the cracks in your blades, the warps in your plowshares, the steel that betrays its wielder at the worst possible moment." Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by No(ᴠ)ᴇlFire.nᴇt His gaze swept over the rows of masters and apprentices, cutting into their pride like a whetted edge.
"I asked why. Why must this be so? And where tradition told you to stop, I pressed further. I sought the truth buried beneath your rituals. What I found was not mystery. It was not the will of the gods. It was something real, something that could be understood, measured, and mastered. I found carbon."
The word rang out like a brand-new hammer striking its first blow. Uneasy murmurs rippled across the crowd, some scoffing, others whispering, all of them unsettled.
Arthur lifted his hand, pointing to the five apprentices whose swords gleamed on the table. "You all saw it. These men did not waste days sealing iron in charcoal. They went straight to the forge. While your forges smoldered in silence, theirs rang with hammers. Why? Because they did not use ordinary wrought iron instead, they used a new iron called Intermediate Carbon Iron—iron that already has the right amount of carbon content to forge a sword."
His voice deepened, sharp as tempered steel. "This material is no accident. It is no mystery stumbled upon by chance. It was made, refined, and measured. With it, the smith does not wait. He does not pray. He forges. His steel is born ready. Stronger. Faster. Cleaner."
The king's words struck the arena like a spark cast into dry tinder.
For a heartbeat, silence held. Then the crowd erupted.
Confusion rippled through the ranks of smiths, many stumbling over the strange terms—carbon, intermediate carbon iron—as though the very language itself was foreign to their ears. Apprentices whispered frantically, trying to make sense of it.
From the stands came a storm of sound—shouts of denial clashing with cries of wonder, outrage colliding with excitement.
"Madness!" a master bellowed, his face red with fury. "Invisible strength? Lies to glorify his own apprentices!"
Yet just beside him, another smith leaned forward on the railing, eyes alight as if he were glimpsing a new world. "If it's true… if such a metal exists…"
Merchants in the crowd shouted, sensing fortunes waiting to be made or lost. Nobles exchanged hushed words, their expressions sharp and calculating. Even the foreign envoys stirred uneasily, some with frowns of contempt, others with narrowed eyes that glittered with dangerous interest.
And in the midst of it all, apprentices and journeymen sat spellbound, hearts pounding, desperate to see the proof with their own eyes.
Arthur raised his hand once again, silencing the chaos. His cloak caught in the wind, a dark banner of authority.
"And today," he declared, each word heavy as iron, "before your eyes, their swords will prove it. No more talk. No more doubt. Let the steel speak for itself."
The arena trembled with anticipation. Smiths clutched their hammers. Nobles craned forward. Even the foreign envoys sat rigid in their seats.
Howen's heart thundered in his chest as he stared at the five untested blades waiting on the judges' table. The air seemed to crackle around them, as if the swords themselves hungered for the trial.
Arthur's hand swept toward the judges' table. "Bring forth the first sword."
At once, two soldiers lifted one of the untested swords, carrying it with careful precision as though it were already something sacred. The crowd hushed, anticipation falling over the arena like a shroud. Even the cries of hawkers outside the stands faded, leaving only the crackle of cooling forges and the restless murmur of thousands holding their breath.
The judge stepped forward, his face unreadable, quill and parchment tucked away. He held the weapon high, letting the sun catch along its polished edge. Gasps rippled through the stands.
Everyone has high expeditions for the swords as Arthur has hype by saying these swords would be better than all the swords made by master smites.
Howen leaned forward unconsciously, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could see it even from where he stood—the difference. It looked alive, as though it had been born to cut.
The judge gave a small nod. "We begin with sharpness."