Ghost Knight King's Dungeon Project

Chapter 41 [Forging Competition]

clang! clang!
The hammer struck the red-hot metal, sending orange-red sparks flying.

Dozens of blacksmiths and foundry technicians stood in the square in front of the Temple of the Forgers, with each contestant having their own furnace and forging tools.

Dozens of hammers swung up and down, striking repeatedly, creating a series of heavy and light metallic clanging sounds, like an industrial heavy metal band composed entirely of percussion instruments.

A tall, stout, and burly contestant finished shaping the blade. After confirming that the blade was straight, he wiped his sweat, raised the red-hot iron billet in his hand, pushed aside the large oil drum next to him, and carefully turned the blade horizontally with thick, charred leather gloves and iron pliers, aiming the blade at a wooden cold water tank.

"What is David doing?!" the audience exclaimed, only to see him intently controlling the submerged portion, immersing only the blade in the water. After the blade was quenched, he then submerged the entire blade in the oil drum.

“Differential hardening results in blades and bodies with different hardness and toughness. The blade is sharper, but the overall strength of the body isn’t sacrificed for sharpness,” explained a dwarf with a short brown beard clinging to a nearby box.

"The premise is that the water quenching must be successful." Another human foundry technician standing next to the boxes in the audience shook his head, supporting the stack of boxes. "Too many impurities, too short forging time, and the carbon wasn't removed. It's not suitable for water quenching."

Contestant David took the cooled blade blank out of the oil drum, frowned and examined it for a long time, then slowly shook his head.

There was a small crack on the blade.

Although the audience was too far away to see the details, they could tell from David's expression that things were not going well.

“Too hasty.” The dwarven blacksmith clinging to the chest tower chuckled. “Look at Albert, he’s only the third person in the Blacksmith’s Festival in the last twenty years to play with enchanting in the competition—I bet he’ll fail.”

“Oh, I bet he’ll succeed—not that I have any faith in Albert, but I just want to go against you.” The human blacksmith beside the box grinned. “If he succeeds, you’re buying drinks tonight. If he fails, I’m buying.”

“I’ll take the gamble!” The dwarf blacksmith shifted his numb legs on the pile of chests.

The contestant, Albert, had just hammered the blade into its basic shape. Before refining it further, he put down the heavy hammer and opened a small wooden box at his feet.

Amid the gasps of the surrounding audience, he grabbed a handful of expensive enchanted materials and threw them straight into the furnace.

The fire in the furnace burst into flames instantly, emitting a whooshing roar—the sound of the surrounding air being sucked into the furnace. The orange-red flames instantly turned into pale demonic fire, and the furnace opening resembled the gaping maw of a fire-breathing monster, with pale flames gushing out from within.

The contestant, Albert, picked up the iron tongs, gripped the hilt of the sword, and shoved the entire sword directly into the roaring, pale furnace.

The pale flames vanished in an instant. After the enchanted materials were completely burned away, the flames turned a soft orange-red again, and the surging tongues of flame slowly retreated back into the furnace. He lifted the scorching iron billet from the furnace; the blade was now covered with wild, faintly blue patterns that shimmered slightly in the shadows under the sunlight.

"Great job, you really do it." The dwarf blacksmith, taking advantage of the height of the box, punched the human blacksmith next to him on the shoulder. "The drinks are on me tonight, drink as much as you want."

The human foundry laughed heartily.

When the time came, the clergy on the high platform of the temple raised their hammers and struck the anvil, signaling the end of the competition. The contestants placed their works on the anvils, stood quietly in front of them, and waited for the judges to come down from the stage to inspect and judge them.

The clergy, dressed in deep red robes, moved among the anvils, occasionally exchanging words and making judgments.

"Did I miss anything exciting?" Samael pushed through the crowd and jogged quickly back to the audience of the forging competition around the square, asking in a low voice to Archie Yevel among them.

The little wooden puppet hanging around his neck swayed back and forth, gently tapping his breastplate.

"The enchanting—Albert's blade was successfully enchanted," Archie replied excitedly. "David chose water-quenched blade and oil-quenched body, but the differential tempering failed. Jacqueline's work deformed during tempering, the body bent, which will probably deduct a lot of points."

"Oh... I think I missed some of the interesting parts." Samael, leaning against his tall, bronze-armored body, stood out from the crowd, trying to see the judges' scores in the distance. "When will the results be out?"

"No need to rush, the evaluations and scores for each piece will be announced after the competition." Yachi turned his head, squinting at Samael. "By the way, what were you doing just now?"

“I went around the Temple of the Forgers—to see if there were any other entrances,” Samael replied in a low voice. “It seems there aren’t any, just a large door leading inside from the front.”

"To enter the Temple of the Forgers? What for?" Old Duke, the leader of the exiled tribe, peeked out from the side.

The old man held a piece of onion and meat-filled baked flatbread he had bought from a street vendor, wrapped in greasy parchment paper, and chewed it with relish.

Oven-baked flatbread is one of the signature foods of the Erdrik Empire. It consists of a mixture of salted and fresh minced meat wrapped with chopped onions and solid oil blocks. When baked on an iron plate in a large iron oven, the oil blocks melt, turning simple baking into a semi-frying and semi-roasting process. When you bite into it, it sizzles and releases onion oil.

This dish originated from the wife of a blacksmith in an ancient empire. Using the heat of her husband's forge, she would place minced onions and meat on a large iron plate, cover it with a flatbread, and heat it on top of the forge. The heat would slowly bake the flatbread, making it a rich, oily, and salty food. Blacksmithing was physically demanding work; after a long day working by the forge, hungry and sweating profusely, the rich, oily, and salty food was indispensable. To make it easier to eat during the short breaks while waiting for the iron to cool, she modified it into a flatbread shape that could be eaten by hand.

Unexpectedly, as time went by, oven-baked flatbread gradually became a specialty food of the empire. It could be served on the tables of nobles, and it would also appear in the iron stoves of commoners' homes. The Erdrik people especially respected blacksmiths and loved the forging industry. During the autumn blacksmith festival, they would slaughter sheep and cattle and pick salted meat, using the newly harvested and milled coarse wheat flour to bake oven-baked flatbread in several large ovens.

However, the crust produced by this combination of frying and baking is often tough and hard, while the coarse wheat crust of the common people's streets and alleys in the empire is particularly thick.
Old Duke looked quite old, but his teeth were stronger than the monstrous chimeras pulling the exile caravan. He politely adjusted his gold-rimmed round glasses, opened his mouth, and tore off a large, thick piece of baked flatbread with a mouthful of bright white teeth, chewing it with relish until his mouth was full of oil.

"Elder Duke, why are you here? Shouldn't you be at the camp outside the town?" Samael suppressed the urge to complain—the handsome old demon was still a demon, not just an ordinary handsome old man.

“Since we’re not leaving anytime soon anyway, we might as well watch something interesting. A few people can stay at the camp to keep watch, that’ll do. The rest of the tribe is just wandering around the festival grounds.” Old Duke stuffed the remaining onion and meat pie into his mouth, then elegantly wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Who could resist watching a forging competition from the Erdrik Empire—oh, unless there’s a beast-fighting performance from the Supar Empire, a sailing race from the Kingdom of Florence, or a grand mass by the Holy Light Kingdom’s choir…”

“You are truly knowledgeable, Elder Duke.” Samael nodded. “In my homeland, reading ten thousand books and traveling ten thousand miles are considered equally important. Travel is an important way to understand the world.”

“Always having a purpose isn’t good either. If you’re stuck in traffic, then enjoy the scenery along the way.” Old Duke put away his handkerchief and slowly gazed at the situation of the competition. “The Forging Festival is also a major feature of the Empire. In areas adjacent to dwarven city-states and fortresses, the festival is even held together with the dwarves. Alas, although the dwarves have excellent craftsmanship, their cooking skills are really not worth praising. In the end, it’s their racial nature not to enjoy life, so it’s their own loss.”

“However…” he lowered his voice, “Sir Samael, what brings you into the Temple of the Forgers?”

“There might be something very important to me inside.” Samael hesitated for a moment. “There’s nothing special in the temple.” Old Duke looked at Samael. “It’s just a religious building. The clergy usually keep the sacred fire burning inside, and from time to time they take in talented young blacksmiths and foundry apprentices to train their smelting skills in the temple. Beneath the temple is a huge tomb, where the remains of gods are buried.”

“Divine remains?” Samael grasped the key word.

“They call it the corpse of a dead god,” old Duke explained, emphasizing those words. “Of course, it’s probably just a dried-up corpse that they picked up from somewhere.”

“This is a divine relic! You call this nothing special?” Samael exclaimed in surprise.

"The remains of gods are nothing special. There are so-called remains of gods in many temples all over the world... Gods are really worthless, they are dead all over the world." The old man shrugged, looking indifferent. "So I think they just randomly grabbed a decaying, dried corpse and put it up for worship—humans are prisoners of themselves, they always need an excuse to do things, even if it's made up."

"They needed a god as an excuse, so they worshipped a god. Who cares what that god is? As long as they have an excuse, that's enough. The Forge Emperor established the tradition of worshipping the forgers, just to ensure that the Erdrick Empire's military and agriculture would always have strong steel support."

“No, I suspect that the remains of the forger might be the real deal…” Samael pondered.

In other words, the so-called "authorized users" are ancient gods? The original builders of alien colonies?
The location radar dot and pop-up notification on the UI are still flashing. To unlock more database content, you must scan the [identity code] of the deceased senior user.

Samael had just circled the Temple of the Forgers for a long time, but found no other entrance besides the main gate. The glass windows were all sealed with stained glass mosaics of religious paintings, but there were operable glass windows on the second floor and above. The roof also had two huge white stone brick hexagonal chimneys, which were presumably designed to ensure ventilation to keep the sacred fire of forging burning continuously.

But how do you climb in? A suit of bronze armor clatters up the chimney, pretending to be Santa Claus scouting ahead of time?
“If you need to find a way into the Temple of the Forgers to plot against the remains of the gods, then I suggest you do so within the three days of the festival,” Old Duke said calmly. “These temples that contain the so-called ‘remains of the gods’ are usually heavily guarded, and the tomb passages are always closed.”

"But during the festival, the temple clergy will temporarily open the tomb gates at sunset, enter the tomb passage, pray that the steel and fire will comply with the empire's will, and offer the best piece from the festival's forging competition before the coffin of the deity. If you miss this opportunity, the tomb passage will probably not be opened again until next year's festival."

"At the same time, during the festival, the priests guarding the temple and the soldiers stationed there are busy maintaining order among the people and holding various sacrificial activities, so there will be far fewer priests inside the temple than usual."

"Will the festival last for three days?" Samael asked in a low voice.

“Yes. Judging from the scale of the event and the estimated dates, today should be the first day.” Old Duke calculated the time. “You have two more days, Your Excellency Sir Samael.”

……

Samael clattered back to the exiles' camp outside the town.

Most of the exiles, like old Duke, seemed to have gone out to participate in the Founders' Festival with great enthusiasm, while a few remained in the camp surrounded by wagons to keep watch.

A dozen or so Hili ponies, aided by the digestive organs of their hybrid beast bodies, grazed on dry, thorny stalks of grass on the late autumn meadow. Two exiles had just bought some hay from town and brought it over to feed the herd.

Talia sat quietly in the shade of a tree, holding an old book she had borrowed from an exile. She wasn't wearing a helmet, and her gray hair, which had been tied in a short braid at the back of her head, was loose, falling down her fair and slender neck. Scattered slivers of sunlight filtered through the trees, like glowing butterflies landing on her forehead and knees.

She doesn't seem to be the type to wander around aimlessly. On the contrary, Talia is quite quiet and could sit by the window facing the garden all day long.

Samael plopped down next to Talia with a thud, bending his legs and trying to shrink his massive, broad, and burly bronze body into a small patch of shade.

Talia gave a soft hum.

"What's wrong?" Samael asked, looking at her loose hair—her hair used to be tied in a short braid, like a deer's tail. Now, the braid was suddenly hanging down naturally around her neck, which Samael found very novel.

"You still know to come back? The forging competition is over?" Talia snorted again. "You ran off with Archie Yeviel to watch the forging competition before the car even came to a complete stop. You still remember me?"

“I bought you some food.” Samael held up a pancake with minced meat and onion wrapped in parchment. “Elder Duke said it’s one of the specialties of the Erdrik Empire.”

Talia looked at him.

The two stared at each other in silence for more than ten seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Alright, alright, it's the same old routine again..." Talia pouted, took the still-warm oven-baked flatbread, held it in both hands, and slowly took a small bite. "If you like forging... I can forge too. And the demons' craftsmanship might be better than humans'."

“Well… it’s not just the forging competition.” Samael pondered, “I might have to find a way to infiltrate an empire’s temple of forgers.”

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Talia asked.

She didn't ask "why" or "what's the use?", but simply asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

“I don’t know… I don’t know yet. I have no ideas right now.” Samael leaned against the tree trunk, lost in thought. “I’m good at frontal tactics and planning, but not at stealth—I’m completely clueless.”

“Hmm… Demons aren’t really used to stealth either, because these stealth tasks are usually done by controlling small magical beasts.” Talia leaned against him, chewing on a warm oven-baked flatbread.

“That’s the problem. This is within the Empire’s borders, a habitable zone, with no magical beasts or undead.” Samael stretched out his bronze gauntlets towards the space in front of him, trying to catch a patch of sunlight.

"How about we create a necromancer servant?" Talia suggested. "Although I don't know how necromancers are naturally generated, maybe... we can create them artificially?"

Samael sat up abruptly.

"Perhaps... we can give it a try." He gazed at the Wujin longsword in the distant carriage, recalling the descriptions of Wujin.

"A small psionic construct."

(End of this chapter)