IBSECP 14

Chapter 14

Leon Kowalski.

My father brought that boy home when I was six years old.

“I found him in the forest near the marquisate estate.”
“Did you see the burns on his right arm? I’m sure—”

My father and the uncles whispered things I couldn’t understand.

I couldn’t quite grasp their words, but when I saw the burn scars covering his trembling right arm—like a rain-soaked animal—I caught the strong scent of misfortune from him.

Yeah. Back then, when I was only six, I felt sympathy for that small boy with brown eyes.

I even secretly rejoiced when I heard he’d be living and working with us at the forge.

“He’s going to learn the trade?”

The problem started when he began working at the forge.

“But he’s even smaller than me. I’m still too young to be near the fire myself—”

To this, my father chuckled and answered,

“That boy is already ten, Diana. He’s taller than you, after all.”

But his arms are thinner than mine.

I was about to respond curtly but held my tongue.

“He needs a way to support himself when he sets off to find his path someday.”

In the forge, the blacksmith’s word is law.

That’s what Father always said.

Anyway, I’d be turning seven in a few months, and then I’d be allowed to approach the fire too.

‘What’s he going to do with those flimsy arms…’

To make things worse, Leon hated fire.

Just the sight of it twisted his expression as if he were nauseated.

A blacksmith’s job, heating and shaping iron with fire, didn’t suit him at all.

At least, that’s what I thought back then.

“Leon Kowalski! The flower shop girl’s looking for you again! She said she really liked the scissors you made for her last time!”

Of course, it only took a few years for my opinion to change.

In just three years—or even less—he revealed his true self.

By the time he turned fifteen, his body had bulked up, and his arms were twice the size of mine.

When his muscles flexed under the glow of the furnace as he hammered hot iron, the village girls would all gape at him in awe.

Maybe his hatred for fire as a child was all an act. Once he hit puberty, he started proudly showing off his muscles and handling the fire like it was nothing.

“Disgusting…”
“What was that?”

Leon Kowalski heard my muttered words and asked.

Kowalski.

The name my father had given him himself.

It meant “son of a blacksmith.”

He said that even if the boy ended up living elsewhere, people should know from his name that he was a blacksmith.

But I really didn’t like that name.

“There are potatoes in the furnace. Eat those. I’m going to talk to a customer.”

I didn’t like that he looked after my meals,

Or that my father acknowledged his skills,

Or that he could shape metal faster than I could with those thick arms.

I didn’t like that he got the title “son of a blacksmith.”

But more than anything else, what I really couldn’t stand—

Was that he disappeared into the fire he used to hate so much.

Without leaving a trace.

“So this is all the castle has in terms of blacksmiths?”

And now, he suddenly left a trace.

I had the steward summon the three blacksmiths in the castle.

After all, to build the drainage system, we needed blacksmiths to handle metal like iron or copper.

Wood rotted and warped too easily—unsuitable for drainage.

But the blacksmiths who appeared before me were all strangers.

“Yes, Your Highness. These are the swords they made.”

And those swords—

‘All worthless.’

I frowned as I looked over the three swords.

One was bearded, one had a potbelly, and one was balding.

Each of the three blacksmiths proudly stood by the sword they had made.

[None of them. Not a single one. None of them are Johan.]

I heard the faint murmur of the butter knife I had hidden in my hand.

Johan.

That was the name the butter knife claimed its creator had.

But no matter how I listened, it was clearly Leon Kowalski’s voice.

If Gram had my father’s voice because he made it, then this one had Leon’s voice because he made it.

I didn’t know why the dagger I forged didn’t have my voice.

[Only a master blacksmith can imbue true sword energy.]

The butter knife spoke again as if answering my thoughts.

Which meant I had been too young to properly imbue my dagger with sword energy.

So that’s why it ended up with that slightly raspy, girlish voice?

Tch.

While I was thinking that, the blacksmith with the chest-length beard stepped forward.

“Lady B! If I may be so bold, I am the best swordsmith in this castle. You may not know what a swordsmith is, so let me explain—”

Of course I know.

I had been hanging around forges since I was seven.

I was the daughter of the empire’s greatest blacksmith—and now I am the greatest.

“A swordsmith is a blacksmith who can make swords. Since not just anyone can make them.”

I cut him off and spoke first.

The bearded man flinched in surprise.

“Y-you know more than I expected, Lady—”

I picked up the sword he had made.

The blade was about two spans long.

I stood it vertically and closed one eye to check if it was straight.

It was subtly warped.

If it were me, I would have noticed that twist during the tempering process.

There’s no way I’d hand something like this to the lord’s wife and call it my sword.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the sword.

And then it spoke.

[Just kill me instead.]

I brought it down on the stone steps beside me and broke it easily.

I struck the warped part—the weakest point—and it snapped without resistance.

“If it were me, I wouldn’t dare call this a sword. And above all—”

“M-my sword…!”

The bearded blacksmith’s face crumpled as he stared at the fragments of his shattered weapon.

But I wasn’t done.

“This one too.”

Clang!

“And this one.”

Clang!

I broke the other two swords just as easily and looked at the blacksmiths.

“These don’t deserve to be called swords.”

None of them carried Leon’s voice.

I left the dejected blacksmiths behind and inspected other tools in their forges—like scissors and hinges—likely made by their assistants.

I had ordered Esben ahead of time to bring not just the swords but also those common goods.

“How did you break such strong swords so easily?”

The steward, Esben, asked in astonishment. I replied calmly.

“If it’s not a real sword, it breaks easily. Doesn’t the lord have one of those in his bedroom too?”

That failed sword I made—Gram.

At my words, Esben cleared his throat and turned away.

It seemed to be a topic he’d rather avoid.

He soon regained his composure and said,

“B-but none of them are to Your Highness’s liking? Blacksmiths have become rare since the war. Even outside the castle, it’s hard to find ones even at this level.”

Instead of answering, I continued inspecting the forge’s items.

Then I picked up a pair of scissors.

They were sharp as ever but clearly not a sword. Just scissors. So no voice spoke to me.

But the moment I saw them—I knew.

“Leon Kowalski! That flower girl’s looking for you again! Said she loved the scissors you made!”

He made them.

Holding the scissors, I turned to the three disheartened blacksmiths.

“Which forge did these come from?”

The three looked at each other, unsure.

Eventually, the bearded one raised his hand hesitantly.

“Our forge…”

“…”

“Didn’t make them. We bought them. A blacksmith pulls a roving cart to market, and we purchased them there.”

Some blacksmiths who never established their own forge—or left theirs for some reason—roam with a furnace loaded onto a cart, selling goods.

We call those carts nomadic forges.

When I heard that, I stared down at the scissors.

A roving blacksmith with a cart.

If he were alive, I figured he wouldn’t belong to any forge.

I could tell. I was a blacksmith too.

A man who worked under the greatest smith in the empire wouldn’t easily adapt to someone else’s forge.

So everything was as I expected.

I found him.

The blacksmith’s son.

My father’s disciple—

“Do you know where that blacksmith is now?”

“We don’t, but he usually appears at Urd Village on the full moon. He always attends the market run by Yon’s merchant group.”

My rival.

Leon Kowalski.

* * *

“She broke a sword in two? With one hand?”

“Yes. She said it’s simple if you find the warped spot, but I don’t know what she meant…”

Seeing Esben stammer, Armin picked up the broken sword.

The very one Diana had supposedly snapped in half with one hand.

It was a worthless piece with no sword energy, but for a woman who used to struggle to even lift a longsword, snapping it seemed impossible.

Unless she really knows how to read iron.

That was Armin’s thought as he looked at his reflection in the blade.

His golden eyes glimmered.

Staring into his own gaze, he recalled Diana’s face.

[She really is clumsy, isn’t she…]

The soft feeling of her lips on his fingertips.

That fleeting touch had distracted him—but just before that—

He had definitely sensed it.

She had sword energy.

Diana Isla.

No—Diana Wilhelm.

She was a far better sword than this trash.

So good, any swordsman would want to wield her at least once.