The Blacksmith’s Forge and a Day’s Musings

Frey placed the steamer basket onto the table, where a dozen large, perfectly white steamed buns rested on its grids.

Yesterday, Noren had experimented by adding honey water and beet sugar to the dough, even going to the trouble of sifting a bit of fine rye flour, yet even with fine rye, the steamed buns turned out neither truly black nor white, resembling the color of coarse grain buns.

She distributed these rye buns among the slaves to offer them a change, and while gratitude was not guaranteed, the act of sharing itself felt quite pleasant.

Noren reclined on her bed, her eyelids drooping, her expression languid, as she watched the crackling sparks dance in the fireplace.

Suddenly, her father gently set another steamer basket beside her, simultaneously slapping Frey, the ‘food-guarding pup’ who had been baring his teeth at him; the blow made Frey’s head snap back, sending starchy, chewed-up bits of bun splattering across the table.

She picked up a snow-white bun from the basket and pressed it against her cheek; it was comfortingly warm, and the internal chill in her body seemed to dissipate slightly.

From the age of twelve until her last menstruation, she had always suffered from uterine coldness and menstrual pain, but since her pureblood awakening, these ailments had vanished without a trace, leaving only physical fatigue.

Moreover, her bleeding had significantly reduced, and the scent was remarkably faint; the sanitary cloths Freya had sewn for her previously were now unnecessary, as a mere touch from the Bloodstone qi-membrane would absorb all the soiled blood, and after its absorption, a surge of energy seemed to feed back into her flesh, invigorating her spirit.

****

Once they had finished their buns, the slaves departed, for they still had work to do.

Frey swallowed his last bun, then sucked on his fingers, feeling as though he had only just grazed the bottom of his hunger, his gaze lingering on the buns still in his sister’s hand.

“Eat!” she exclaimed, tossing several buns towards Frey, who, like a hungry tiger pouncing on its prey, caught them in his mouth, devouring them with a series of rapid gulps and chews that contorted his face.

The sight was simply unbearable, prompting Noren to turn her head and avert her gaze.

Svein hoisted Frey up like a scrawny chick; they were off to smelt iron, for though his younger brother Frey lacked in other areas, he possessed a nascent talent for iron smelting and forging.

Seeing them gone, Noren manipulated the qi-membrane to feed herself a bite of bun, then lay prone on the bed, allowing it to massage and pummel her shoulder and neck muscles.

Her control over the Bloodstone had become proficient, and she had grown intimately familiar with the various properties of the Bloodstone qi-membrane:

One, the Bloodstone qi-membrane’s extension range was limited to twenty feet; the further it stretched, the thinner it became.

Two, the Bloodstone qi-membrane could freely change shape and, once transformed, required no further concentration to maintain, though damage necessitated active manipulation for repair.

Three, the Bloodstone qi-membrane could absorb blood, yet it could not absorb water or any other substances; any object would remain perfectly intact after the qi-membrane dissipated. Noren surmised this might be related to the Bloodstone originally being condensed from her own blood.

The qi-membrane, twisted into two hands, rhythmically pounded her shoulder and neck muscles, then massaged down her spinal column; her usual training intensity was considerable, with Svein’s drills and assessments occurring periodically, making muscle relaxation essential for her.

‘But why don’t my muscles show significant bulk? My strength is completely disproportionate to my muscle volume. While I don’t appear overly slender, it’s like slender branches bearing abundant fruit!’ Noren couldn’t help but ponder her physique under the forceful pummeling of the tendrils. Compared to the characters in Azur Lane, she much preferred to be a fierce, bald, muscle-bound behemoth.

Feeling sufficiently relaxed, Noren stretched, arching her back like a great cat, then leapt to her feet. “Time to watch them smelt iron!”

****

Afternoon siesta.

Cows lazily fanned their ears, a pony lay sprawled on its back with legs splayed, and roosters and hens strutted about as if dancing a tango.

Farmers, too, took advantage of the midday break, leaning against the lush oak trees or sitting on the low stone walls encircling the strip fields, savoring the peaceful moments.

The sunlight, hazy and dreamlike in its colors, accompanied her as she brought her own lounge chair and lay beneath the shed, forming two distinct pictures alongside the father and son blacksmiths, toiling away in a flurry of heat and sparks.

“Tolke’s craftsmanship has certainly improved,” Noren mused, “It’s comfortable lying here, the sun neither too fierce nor too weak, making for a pleasant bask.” Her feet crossed, her legs stretched out, the oversized lounge chair easily accommodating her nearly six-foot frame.

Her father was still inspecting the clay furnace for suitability, while Frey sifted charcoal from a wicker basket, crushed iron ore to separate large impurities, and scooped up spoonfuls of lime.

“Begin!”

The blacksmith controlled the bellows, and his younger brother Frey added layers of charcoal and iron ore to the melting furnace; their forging process was always long and monotonous.

“Hmph…” The girl awakened from her afternoon nap, a trickle of drool at the corner of her mouth. The sunlight slanted obliquely as her father and brother continued their arduous work.

They were now ready to break open the furnace and extract the iron bloom, with reddish slag oozing from a small hole at the bottom of the vertical furnace.

The blacksmith skillfully chiseled open the furnace body, hooked out the sponge iron, and clamped it onto a wooden stake.

Frey, already poised, had a large wooden hammer resting on his shoulder.

“Bang!” Sparks erupted.

One hammer blow followed another in a relentless onslaught.

“Switch!” Her father took the wooden hammer and began striking.

Were she not so utterly fatigued and disinclined to move, she could perform such strenuous labor far more efficiently than them.

The wooden block was charred black, and the iron bloom was moved to the anvil. After its initial shaping and the expulsion of impurities, its volume would shrink significantly. This piece of iron might be destined for armor, a sword, or perhaps, if a subsequent step like carburization or quenching went awry, it would be relegated to scrap, fit only to be deceptively sold to uninitiated newcomers or to penniless veterans. This, of course, was the reality for most blacksmiths striving for survival, though it did not include Svein, whose orders never ceased and whose hand never faltered.

‘Still, it’s been quite a while since I’ve taken on a large order like chainmail production,’ she thought. ‘As long as I have enough finely drawn iron rods, I could pull all the necessary iron wire in a single day. As for the intricate work of riveting the iron rings afterwards, my hands tremble too much; I wouldn’t do it well.’

‘When will a big order come in? I also want to earn some extra money from my father. Just freeloading in Hradec can’t be a permanent solution!’ Life was hard, and Noren sighed.

****

The sun, having turned its back on the ‘Lady Night,’ was now cavorting with the moon across the cosmos. Before darkness fully enveloped the sky, the moon shyly revealed her face. The sun truly possessed cunning ways, having a virtuous wife at home yet still seducing the moon.

‘How old is the moon?! How dare you flirt with Terra’s wife! And Terra, can’t you stand up for yourself? Don’t you feel uneasy wearing that cuckold’s hat (TL Note: In Chinese culture, wearing a green hat ‘戴绿帽子’ is an idiom indicating that one’s spouse has been unfaithful.)? All that medieval land reclamation was for nothing, huh! No amount of forest clearing will make your green hat disappear!’

Noren mentally concocted a grand interstellar ethical family drama. With little entertainment in the Middle Ages, each day was spent either practicing finger-flicking techniques or fantasizing. While she had played plenty of Norse board games, they were rather dull; she crushed Frey in every match, only to be crushed herself by the blacksmith.

Lost in thought, her movements slowed.

The pony turned its head in confusion. It was so comfortable! ‘Two-legs, two-legs, move it!’

The girl was nudged several times by the pony’s glossy black lips, rousing her. With all five fingers, she vigorously scratched its hind neck, and the pony snorted contentedly, its lips flapping as it relished the scratch.

The Norse father and son were eating dinner at the table, while the slaves squatted in a circle, each clutching a wooden bowl. Before them sat a large wooden basin filled with chunks of rye bread. They dipped bits of the rye bread into the cabbage and onion soup from their wooden bowls, eating slowly.

A medieval wooden house, a setting sun, a pale moon, and people dining—it painted a scene as if rendered and photographed.

Artifact Description

Bloodstone: Epic Artifact

Lifestyle XP +25%

Stress Accumulation +25%

Special Effect 1: Transparent Tendrils, total strength of all tendrils not to exceed holder’s Valor.

Special Effect 2: Blood Absorption, temporarily enhances holder’s Valor.