Flawed

The northern borders of the Empire was infamous for its long stretch of winter.

A post abhorred by the lowest of soldiers and the most highborn of knights alike, the region could almost be said to be perpetually covered in snow; its only real significance being its access to the Silver Forest, one of the Empire’s main suppliers of lumber and honey. Unlike the verdant isles of the South or the imperial capital, it had little to offer in terms of political advancement.

After all, it was the dumping grounds for the untouchables residing in imperial court, a convenient place where the vaunted political machinery of the Empire could throw what they didn't need and what they didn't want.

It was bitter, it was cold, it was almost inhospitable.

But, even here, life managed to thrive all the same.

—Amidst a sea of spruce trees, each one heavy with snow, a lone cottage sat by its lonesome in the middle of a clearing full of nothing but white.

CLANG!

Almost as if it had risen from the earth, the house stood low, its foundation hewn from rock and its walls fashioned out of darkened wood. A stone chimney stood by its side, billowing smoke into the air as it jutted out amidst layers of ice and snow, bringing heat towards the makeshift workshop situated on the house’s deck. Surrounded with wooden fencing, the house was simple in design and even simpler in spirit, purposely built for the mundane needs of a frontiersman living in the icy wasteland that was the far north.

CLANG!

It was old. Signs of wear were already perceptible in the chipped stone blocks at the base of the house and in the moss that grew upon its surface. With how harsh life was in the frontier, one would not be remiss into thinking that the house was abandoned; perhaps left behind by its former owners after they had died of disease or worse, starvation.

CLANG!

With the steady rhythm of steel singing under Mifune Irori’s hammer however, one thing was clear. Old as the house he lived in may have been, the flames that kept it alive continued to burn all the same.

CLANG!

Standing under the house’s extension, protected from the elements only by a makeshift roof that kept the snow out and little else, the young man continued to hammer away at the piece of red-hot metal firmly affixed between an old pair of tongs, sparks flying every time his hammer made contact with raw steel.

His hair, previously cut neatly, was now shaggy; the sides cropped relatively short in comparison to the top and the back of his head, kept securely in place by a headband made out of leather.

The teenager had gotten taller too, and definitely more muscular after the years he had spent working the forge.

Training his gaze upon the weapon he was forging, Irori’s eyes searched for any change in temperature on the steel’s surface.

Under the shade of his workshop, the steel bar shone vermillion, flecks of steel peeling away from its misshapen surface due to its intense heat.

Still, it wasn’t hot enough.

When it came to the art of blacksmithing, temperature was key.

Too cold, and the steel would be too hard to work with.

Too hot, and the steel would be too soft, which could induce fractures within the internal structure of the final product.

It had to be just right. And in this context, ‘just right’ meant red-hot steel bordering on orange. Not just red.

It had to be hotter.

Switching his sights towards the blazing forge by his side, he grabbed a pair of tongs by his side and gently held the bar to the forge’s receptacle, the lump of steel slowly turning orange with each second it spent inside the furnace.

At this point in time, all he had to do was quench the sword in oil once again, tempering the steel and ensuring its usability even in the harsh conditions of the battlefield.

After that, he could grind it down to an actual blade.

Maybe even try his hand at making the handle and the decorations to make it seem authentic.

He could see it now.

A three-foot long katana, its blade shining bright like silver and gently curved, its distinct hamon lining its sides much like the banks of a great river; reminiscent of the treasured swords he'd once seen in the museums from back home.

A square guard would be fantastic; he had no need for useless ornamentation anyway. But he could splurge and get himself some sharkskin and high-quality leather to make the grip. 

The sword itself wouldn't make much sense, especially in a region much like this one.

Life here was harsh, and the blade had to be able to endure. A machete, an axe, anything robust would've been more preferable than something like a katana.

But, he didn't care.

He missed home. 

Suddenly, he stopped.

He heard it.

A distinct tinkle, almost drowned by the roaring flames of his forge.

Innocuous as it may be, it made his blood run cold all the same. After all, when it came to working with steel, only a few things in the business ever made that noise, and most of the time, it often turned out to be the sound of steel cracking slightly under the effects of thermal expansion.

Irori paled.

“SHIT!”

The young blacksmith exclaimed, frantically pulling the bar from the forge with his pair of tongs as quickly as he could.

He prayed he was wrong. 

He prayed that it was just his ears playing tricks on him.

After all, he didn't have much material to work with, especially when it came to making something so opposed to the techniques he had learned in this frozen wasteland.

Sadly, his hopes were dashed the moment he saw what had happened.

It had a crack right in the middle, running down the seams of the malformed bar of alloy like a grievous wound. 

He failed.

“I should really get myself an apprentice at some point. How the hell did Gramps survive working like this without me?”

Irori grumbled, wiping sweat off his forehead as he did so, before shoving his would-be project into a wooden barrel beside him; his breath dissipating into mist in the cold.

He was older now. Four years older to be exact, ever since he was saved from that rampaging bear by the beautiful fairy he met that day.

Four years of living in this northern wasteland, hammering away at steel and selling what he makes to the occasional traveling merchant in exchange for food and other supplies.

Four years of living without the convenience of modern society, without the comforts of modern Japan to keep himself company.

Four years of living alone in a completely different world.

“—Hey, blacksmith. Heard this place makes good swords. Think you can make me one?”

Knocking on one of the pillars that held up the roof of Irori’s makeshift workshop, a blonde man stepped into view, smirking as he did so.

Kept warm by a crude cloak made out of an assortment of fur, the newcomer was handsome in the same way a lion could be handsome, his mane-like hair falling straight to his shoulders.

“What, the one you got in your pants don’t work no more?”

Irori fired back, grinning in turn as he expressed his quip towards the blue-eyed man that had suddenly appeared on his doorstep.

“Oh, nice to see you too, you bastard.”

The stranger scowled, eliciting a grin from the blacksmith.

—Well, maybe he wasn’t as alone as he’d like to think.