Chapter 147: Chapter 147: The Blacksmithing Competition (9) The judge gave a single nod. His voice, calm but firm, carried through the hushed arena.
"We begin with sharpness."
A soldier dragged forward a bundle of straw, bound tight with three heavy ropes, and set it upright. The judge hefted the apprentice’s sword, testing its weight with a few practiced swings. For a breath he stilled—then the blade sang through the air.
The sound was unlike any other cut before it, a clean whistle that sliced the silence itself. In a single effortless stroke, the sword sheared through straw and rope alike. The bundle collapsed into two perfect halves.
Gasps tore through the stands, followed by shouts that tumbled over one another in disbelief. The roar swelled like a storm breaking over the arena. Some smiths cursed aloud, their faces flushed with fury, unable to reconcile what they had just witnessed.
Howen’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his hammer. By the forge gods... it cut through as if it were nothing. The shock did not come merely from the sword’s sharpness—many in the crowd could forge blades capable of such feats given enough time and patience. No, what shook them to their core was that this weapon had been made in only five days. Five days, when others would need weeks, even months, to achieve this level of refinement. To make something so keen, so flawless, in so little time bordered on the impossible.
And this was only the beginning.
The judges did not hesitate. With a gesture, the next trial was prepared. An iron bar, thick and scarred from countless tests, was hauled forward and set upon its supports. The judge lifted the apprentice’s blade, raised it high, and brought it down in a brutal arc.
CLANG!
The sound was deafening, the impact reverberating through the ground. Sparks burst in a spray of light as the bar bent under the force, gouged deep by the strike. Every gaze snapped to the edge of the sword. Not a nick. Not even a hairline scratch. It gleamed as though untouched, mocking the trial itself.
Murmurs rippled like waves through the arena—astonishment from some, denial from others. The very masters who had taught generations of smiths found their certainty wavering.
The judges pressed on, his face set in grim focus. Soldiers brought forth the next test—a shield of heavy oak bound in iron. The judge gripped the weapon tightly and began to strike. Once. Twice. Ten times. Each blow landed with the rhythm of a war drum, echoing in the ears of every soul present.
By the twentieth strike, the shield groaned and split, chips of oak flying into the air. By the thirtieth, it gave way completely, cracking apart and collapsing in splinters at the judge’s feet. The blade, when raised for inspection, remained perfect. Its edge shone sharp as a star, the steel singing in the fading light.
And then came the final trial.
He stepped back, letting the weapon flow in his grip. With practiced movements he swung, thrust, and rolled the hilt in his palm. The sword answered like a living thing, balanced perfectly from pommel to tip, its weight shifting with effortless grace. It was neither sluggish nor too light, but a weapon born to obey its wielder’s will.
When the judge finally stilled, the arena held its breath. The silence was so complete that even the wind dared not stir.
Then, in a voice that carried like a hammer striking steel, he gave his verdict.
"Exemplary."
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
The stands erupted into chaos. Cheers clashed with shouts of fury, disbelief collided with awe. Merchants shouted wagers, their eyes glittering with the promise of fortunes. Nobles leaned together in hushed urgency, some pale with dread, others alight with greed at the possibilities. Apprentices gaped openly, some applauding with wild enthusiasm, others struck silent by sheer astonishment.
Even among the smiths themselves, pride battled awe. Some masters ground their teeth until their jaws ached, red with humiliation at being surpassed by mere apprentices. Yet others leaned forward despite themselves, unable to tear their eyes away, hungry to understand what had just been shown.
Howen stood frozen, his chest rising and falling as though he had run a mile. His heart hammered against his ribs, every beat echoing the truth in his bones. That blade had not merely endured. It had not simply passed.
It had thrived.
Sharper, stronger, steadier than anything he had ever seen.
And this... this was only the first sword.
One blade might have been a miracle. Two could have been dismissed as fortune. But by the time the fifth apprentice’s sword was tested, no one in the arena could deny the truth.
Each trial had been the same: straw and rope falling in perfect halves, iron bars dented while the edges remained flawless, shields splintered to kindling, blades moving in the judge’s hands as if forged by the gods themselves. Not one failed. Not one even faltered.
And the most staggering part—their quality was near identical. Five swords, each worthy of kings, born not from the hammers of legendary masters, but from the hands of apprentices.
The arena was stunned into silence.
Masters who had forged for decades stood pale and hollow-eyed, their pride cracked like brittle iron. Journeymen who had hoped to prove themselves lowered their heads, their dreams shattered in an instant. Even the proud envoys of Chronos shifted uneasily in their seats, whispering hurriedly behind silk-gloved hands.
No excuses remained. No boast of experience or tradition could mask the truth laid bare before them. If the apprentices had entered the competition as true contestants, they would have swept the prizes clean. Twenty-five gold for first, ten for second, five for third—no question, no rival could hope to stand against them.
. The humiliation burned, but even the bitterest masters had to admit it: they had been defeated. Not by other masters, not by rivals of equal age and skill, but by students barely past their training. Students who had wielded a method none of them understood.
Howen’s hands trembled as he gripped the handle of his hammer. His throat was dry, yet his heart thundered with something more than fear. Awe. Hope. The realization that the world had just shifted on its axis, and he was standing at the center of it.
For centuries, smiths had bound themselves to charcoal and tradition—rituals repeated without question, shackles of habit disguised as wisdom. But today, before hundreds of witnesses, those chains had been shattered.
The old ways lay broken on the anvil of truth.
And now, at the very height of silence and awe, it was time. Time for Arthur to reveal the true purpose of this grand spectacle—the secret he had been forging in shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.