"What? You don't even know that… Oh! Maybe it's just called something different here."
Hanwei swallowed the doubt that had almost slipped out and instead explained earnestly,
"My father taught me that the first step in sword-making is to carve the outline of the blade—length, width, everything—into a stone slab or a flat patch of sand to serve as a mold. Then you pour the molten iron in. Once it cools and hardens, you have your rough sword blank."
Ethan quickly sifted through the knowledge in his head and understood at once.
*That's just casting.*
But from everything he remembered, very few serious sword-smiths used pure casting. Molten metal cools and solidifies too quickly during the pour, easily trapping gas bubbles and creating internal flaws. The resulting blade ends up porous, brittle, and far less durable than a properly forged weapon.
Most craftsmen who cared about quality relied on forging: repeated heating, hammering, folding, and heat-treating to produce a dense, uniform structure with superior strength and toughness.
Still, Ethan didn't dismiss Westerosi smithing outright. A young village blacksmith couldn't represent the skill level of master armorers in White Harbor or King's Landing.
He shook his head slightly.
"In my homeland we have a better method. By the way—do you have an iron shovel?"
"Of course."
Hanwei quickly produced a thin, worn iron shovel from the corner and handed it over, curiosity plain on his face.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Here—take over the bellows. I'll show you."
Ethan positioned Hanwei at the piston handle while Kevin steadied the crucible with tongs. Then he plunged the shovel blade into the glowing pool of molten iron and began to stir slowly and deliberately.
"Just like stirring soup to mix the seasoning evenly," he explained as he worked. "Stirring helps distribute the carbon and burn off impurities. The air reacts with the molten metal, releasing gas and leaving behind purer wrought iron. This is an old steel-making technique from my homeland—the puddling method."
He cautioned,
"Wrought iron isn't brittle, but it has very low carbon content and stays soft. That's why we'll add pig-iron chunks later to raise the carbon level back to the sweet spot for a proper blade."
As Ethan spoke he had to mix in quite a few Chinese technical terms—there simply weren't Westerosi equivalents for many of the concepts. Hanwei, who understood none of those foreign words, could only listen intently and try to memorize every gesture and phrase, hoping to puzzle it out later.
After more than an hour of careful stirring, Ethan judged the melt ready. He added the reserved pig-iron pieces and worked them in until everything blended into a single radiant white pool.
He gave a final vigorous stir, then divided the molten iron into three portions and ladled each into the long, bar-shaped ingot molds Hanwei had prepared.
As the blinding white glow slowly dimmed, the iron cooled and solidified into three soft, gray ingots.
While the largest was still cherry-red, Ethan snatched it up with tongs and began hammering on the anvil.
He first flattened it into a wide, thin strip.
Then folded it in half and hammered it flat again.
He repeated the fold-and-hammer cycle four times.
Afterward he switched to a lighter hammer and began shaping the edges. Slowly the rough outline of a leaf-shaped blade emerged—roughly a meter long, elegant and balanced.
Next he forged a slightly narrower tang at the base for the hilt, then set the blank aside on the anvil to cool gradually on its own.
While it cooled Ethan stayed busy. He mixed equal parts carbon powder, fine iron filings, and wet clay into a thick, workable paste.
When the blank was fully cool he carefully polished the future edge with a whetstone until it gleamed. Then—using a small brush—he applied the clay mixture evenly along the spine and sides of the blade, leaving only the cutting edge bare.
Once the entire blank was coated he built a long, narrow charcoal trench in the yard, lit it, and laid the clay-coated blade inside to heat slowly until it glowed an even cherry-red.
He pulled it out with tongs and plunged it vertically into a barrel of water.
Steam exploded upward in a violent hiss.
The clay cracked and flaked away in places, revealing a blade whose edge had hardened to glass-like brittleness while the spine remained tough and springy—classic differential hardening.
The rough form of a one-handed sword was complete.
By then the sun was low. After a full day's labor Ethan was tired. He left the unfinished blade at the forge and took Kevin back to the tavern to rest.
The next morning, after washing up, master and apprentice hurried back to Hanwei's shop to finish the weapon.
Three final steps remained before the sword could be called a true masterpiece:
1. Tempering
2. Polishing
3. Mounting the hilt and guard
First came tempering.
The blade went back into the long charcoal trench and was heated slowly for two full hours to relieve internal stresses and improve overall toughness.
Second came polishing.
No matter how strong the steel, without a razor edge it was just a fancy iron bar.
Ethan worked his way through progressively finer whetstones—coarse to medium to fine—until the blade could slice a single hair cleanly in half.
Third came the hilt and guard.
This step was mostly cosmetic and ergonomic.
In the market the price of a sword often depended far more on the hilt materials than on the blade itself.
Two blades of identical performance—one with plain wood and iron fittings, one with engraved silver and sharkskin—could differ wildly in price.
For Ethan this was simply a gift for his apprentice—no need for extravagance.
He forged a simple, flat oval guard from scrap iron, drilled a slot in the center, and slid it onto the tang.
Then he split a sturdy piece of seasoned wood from the yard, shaped rough handle scales, and pinned them in place with iron rivets.
A basic wooden scabbard—split and hollowed—completed the package.
Eighty centimeters overall, fifteen-centimeter hilt, clean lines, perfect balance.
Ethan gave the finished sword a few experimental swings in the yard, then fell silent.
It felt almost as good as his own "Azure Song."
"Kevin—come try it."
Kevin accepted the blade reverently. He swung it twice—then froze in astonishment.
The sword felt like an extension of his arm: perfect weight distribution, flawless balance, no hint of awkwardness.
As the son of a knightly house he had a decent eye for weapons.
This was no common blade. It was far beyond what a squire his age should ever own.
He panicked.
"Sir—this is too precious. I'm not worthy. A sword like this belongs to a great warrior like you."
Ethan laughed easily.
"Hey—it's just scrap metal hammered together in two days. I can make more anytime. Don't be shy. Go find some wood and test how sharp it really is."
Kevin shook his head so hard his hair flew.
"No—no! A blade this fine—cutting firewood would be a crime!"
"It's fine. Go cut a few pieces. I want to see the quality of the cut."
"No! My father taught me: axes are for wood, swords are for enemies. You don't use a sword for chores!"
Ethan sighed theatrically.
"So stubborn…"
He stepped forward, plucked the sword from Kevin's hands, selected an arm-thick branch stuck upright in the dirt, and delivered a single clean diagonal cut.
The wood parted with a sharp *crack*.
The upper half slid slowly to the ground; the lower half remained firmly embedded.
Ethan handed the sword back to a wide-eyed Kevin.
"See? It's just a sword. Why act like it's a holy relic? Should I find you a wife to go with it?"
He picked up the severed piece, examined the mirror-smooth cut, and whistled softly.
"In Azeroth this would easily be high blue-tier—maybe even entry purple."
He had poured real effort into this blade.
Every technique—puddling, folding, clay tempering—was knowledge he had painstakingly gathered from books and forums back on Earth.
But the intangible parts—the precise feel for temperature, the rhythm of the hammer, the instinctive sense of when the steel was "right"—came directly from his maxed-out Azeroth forging skill.
Forging it by hand had truly made those skills feel like an extension of himself.
Satisfied, Ethan tossed the cut wood aside and clapped Kevin on the shoulder.
"All right—that's not the end. We'll play with it more later.
Hanwei—do you have any round iron rods?"
Hanwei—still squatting in the corner, hands over his ears, eyes closed, muttering to himself—didn't respond at first.
Kevin shrugged.
"He's been like that ever since you cut the wood. I don't know what's wrong with him."
Ethan leaned closer and caught the quiet recitation:
"…stir like soup… pour and mix… carbon powder…"
*Huh. Kid's reviewing his notes. Diligent.*
But there was still work to do.
"Hanwei—round iron rods?"
The young smith snapped out of his trance, rummaged through a scrap pile, and produced a suitable length.
"Here, master—the rod you wanted."
The rod would become the socket for the spearhead.
Ethan's design was simple: a double-edged dagger blade with an extended socket tang instead of a hilt.
Slip it over a shaft → spear.
Remove it → long dagger.
In a single afternoon he forged two—one sized for Kevin, one slightly larger for himself.
With forging finished it was time to settle accounts.
Because of the different process he had used more charcoal and materials than originally estimated.
Ethan wondered whether he should add extra coin.
Before he could offer, Hanwei waved both hands frantically.
"Sir—please don't talk about money. You let me watch the entire process—step by step—and even explained everything. That knowledge is worth far more than a few baskets of charcoal or scraps of iron. I'm the one who should be paying *you*."
Ethan considered that.
Knowledge *was* priceless.
He had been happy to teach—but he wasn't going to undervalue himself either.
"All right then, Hanwei—one more favor. We need two spear shafts. One long—about twice my height stacked end to end—for me. One shorter—twice Kevin's height—for him.
As thanks, the piston bellows stays here with you."
Hanwei had been lusting after that bellows since the first stroke.
He had already planned to rebuild one from memory after Ethan left (though it probably wouldn't match the original).
Now it was being given to him in exchange for two pieces of wood?
He nodded so fast his curls bounced.
"Deal!"
After settling with Hanwei, Kevin proudly donned his new leather armor, belted the one-handed sword at his waist, slung the spearhead and shield across his back, and followed his master back to the tavern.
After dinner Ethan chatted and drank with the villagers who drifted into the common room, passing the evening in easy conversation.
It wasn't until the moon rode high that he returned to his room and lay down.
Just as sleep began to claim him he remembered something important.
He rolled over and spoke into the darkness.
"Right—get up early tomorrow. We'll hold your apprenticeship ceremony."
Nothing more was said that night.
The next morning Ethan rose before dawn.
He carried his full suit of plate armor down to the tavern courtyard, polished every surface with fine sand and clean straw until it shone like gold in the first light, then donned it completely and stepped outside.
Kevin had been waiting in the yard for some time.
When he saw Ethan emerge he snapped to attention, saluted crisply, and said,
"Good morning, sir!"
Ethan smiled and ruffled the boy's hair.
"You look sharp—but those dark circles are heavy. Didn't sleep well?"
Kevin shook his head quickly.
"I slept fine, sir."
Ethan didn't call him out on the obvious lie—the boy had been too excited to close his eyes all night.
"Let's go. Down to the river."
A small, clear stream—barely a meter wide—flowed just outside Rockfall Village.
In the days Ethan had been here he had often seen women washing clothes along its banks while children splashed and laughed in the shallows.
It felt like the perfect place for a quiet, meaningful ceremony.
On the walk they went over the details one last time.
When they reached the stream Ethan chose a flat boulder near the water's edge and sat.
"We can begin."
Kevin immediately dropped to one knee.
From his satchel he took a small wooden cup borrowed from the tavern, filled it with clean river water, and raised it in both hands.
"Sir—please drink."
Ethan accepted the cup, drained it in a single swallow, then drew the newly forged longsword.
He touched the flat of the blade gently to each of Kevin's shoulders in turn.
"From this moment forward, you are my student. I am your teacher."
The ceremony was simple—a blend of two worlds—but under the soft dawn light and the quiet murmur of the stream it felt solemn and sacred.
When it was done Ethan sheathed the sword and spoke formally.
"Stand up. From now on you don't call me 'sir.' That's for strangers. Call me 'Teacher.'"
Kevin sprang to his feet, eyes shining.
"Yes, Teacher!"
Ethan drew the longsword once more and formally presented it hilt-first.
"This blade is my gift to you. I now place it in your hands. Give it a name. Let it become your companion."
Kevin cradled the sword against his chest like something precious beyond price.
His voice was soft but certain.
"I've already decided. Its name is Ellie."
"Ellie?" Ethan raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a girl's name."
Kevin's cheeks flushed scarlet. He looked away, suddenly shy.
"Um… it's the name of a girl who lived next door. I… like her very much…"
Ethan stared for a second, then burst out laughing.
*He really does plan to marry the sword.*
He shook his head, still chuckling.
"All right. Ellie it is. May she stand by you through every storm to come."