Chapter 1426: So Is This Dagger A Failure? (1)

The indifferent hammer kept striking the iron on the anvil, as if utterly unrelated to everything happening around it.

Kahng!

Each time the small hammer fell, the blazing-hot iron spat sparks in every direction.

Tang Jo-Pyeong, who had been hammering for so long, peered intently at the iron he lifted with tongs, then thrust it back into the furnace that belched searing flames.

His face, watching the iron engulfed by flames, flickered with a ruddy shadow.

Jang Ilso, who had watched Tang Jo-Pyeong in silence, finally parted his blood-red lips.

“Old Master.”

A chill-laden voice washed over the old man.

“Where did the rest of the Tang Family go?”

It was a voice that would make anyone look up; no one could remain calm while a snake coiled around them.

But Tang Jo-Pyeong showed no particular reaction to Jang Ilso’s words. As if deaf, he simply fixed his gaze on the furnace.

A chill entered Jang Ilso’s eyes. Before he could act, Tang Jo-Pyeong, with casual hands, pulled the heated iron out and began hammering again.

Kahng! Kahng!

Each strike on the glowing iron released an uncanny, strange force.

“Hmm.”

At that, Jang Ilso watched Tang Jo-Pyeong with a smile, as if intrigued.

“It’s been a long time since anyone dared to snub me like this.”

For a moment the faces of the Red Dogs guards who stood watch went pale. Those who had escorted Jang Ilso nearby could keenly sense the twisted anger hidden in his slow tone.

One of the Red Dogs stepped forward hastily.

“This old man…”

“Stand aside.”

But Jang Ilso coldly barked and blocked them. The Red Dogs who were about to move stepped back.

Thud.

Jang Ilso slowly approached Tang Jo-Pyeong. Standing within arm’s reach, he looked down at the tiny, frail old man as if he might crumble at any moment—his gaze transparent and emotionless.

It was just a pointless waste of time anyway.

Whatever this old man did mattered not to him. He could swing his hand and kill him easily, then pursue those who fled. He knew that better than anyone, yet he had stopped here out of simple curiosity. Yes, nothing more.

“What are you making?”

There was no answer this time either.

Jang Ilso snorted. A clear murderous intent bloomed in his delicately curved eyes.

But at that moment, a murmured voice slipped from Tang Jo-Pyeong without him turning his head.

“A dagger.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m making a dagger.”

It was more a soliloquy than an answer. Jang Ilso furrowed his brow slightly.

A dagger… in this situation?

Kahng!

Tang Jo-Pyeong struck the hammer again. A relentlessly sharp light swirled in Jang Ilso’s staring eyes.

“A lifetime’s devotion… has collapsed.”

A voice, almost scoffing, rang out.

“Everything I forged with my spirit has turned to ashes. Still, this is all I can do. So even at the end of life, I repeat what I’ve always done.”

Jang Ilso curled the corner of his mouth.

“If that’s the life of craftsmen… then it’s nothing but pitiable, pitiful indeed.”

Kahng!

Tang Jo-Pyeong’s hammering grew slightly harsher. Jang Ilso twisted his mouth into a deeper smile as the iron was shoved into the furnace.

“Well?”

“…”

“Do you think a magnificent sword will come of it?”

It was not a mere question but a blade driven into the soul.

“Is a sword being made great enough to justify that dreadful end? Enough to console that the miserable life wasn’t wasted?”

“…”

“Reality is brutal. The tale of a craftsman pouring his soul into a masterpiece at his last moment is nonsense found only in stories. In reality, you just pound iron that hasn’t even properly melted and produce worthless scrap.”

For a moment Tang Jo-Pyeong glanced at Jang Ilso with an inscrutable look, then pulled the dagger from the furnace and placed it on the anvil.

Jang Ilso asked.

“How is it? The feeling of having everything you are denied? Of clinging to a useless task despite it all?”

His stomach twisted. Those who have lost everything often pretend largesse at the end, as if they never wanted any of it to begin with.

He had seen countless fools feign enlightenment at death, and each time a wave of disgust rose in Jang Ilso.

Better those who cry and beg; they’re honest. Those who crawl and claw for life are pure compared to losers who ascribe false meaning to the meaningless and insist they actually wanted what they did not.

“Answer me. Is that dagger worth being the last object of your life? For such a paltry life…”

His voice seemed to twist and squeeze the soul.

“Do you really have to cling to it? Huh?”

Under his wide sleeve Jang Ilso’s hand twitched, showing he didn’t mean to threaten with words alone.

But Tang Jo-Pyeong, aware Jang Ilso could end his life at any moment, seemed unconcerned about death and merely inspected the heated iron.

Kahng!

Tang Jo-Pyeong resumed hammering. Red sparks flew as if the old man’s soul were scattering.

The iron on the anvil took on more of the short sword’s shape; Tang Jo-Pyeong, after carefully inspecting it with tongs, shoved it back into the furnace.

Tang Jo-Pyeong briefly turned his head to look at Jang Ilso. The old man’s indifferent gaze and Jang Ilso’s flickering eyes met in the air.

A surge of revulsion rose in Jang Ilso; just as he was about to swing his hand, Tang Jo-Pyeong spoke.

“I gather the purest iron from among countless pieces.”

“…”

“I melt it in a furnace fierce enough to be cruel.”

Kahng!

Once more Tang Jo-Pyeong struck the short sword with his hammer.

“I strike it hundreds, thousands of times, and again and again.”

Kahng!

“Until it reaches the most perfect form and strength. It is twisted, broken, bent countless times…”

Kaaang!

Tang Jo-Pyeong slammed the hammer down hard and plunged the short sword into a bucket of water beside him.

Ssssss!

“Thrown into filthy, filthy water.”

White steam burst violently from the water that cradled the blazing blade.

“Only after being ground and ground, having its flesh taken away until the final and very final moment, will it—at last—become a true sword.”

For a moment Jang Ilso’s gaze became strangely calm.

There was a peculiar resonance in Tang Jo-Pyeong’s voice—a weight that even Jang Ilso could not easily dismiss.

“All my life I’ve done those things. I forged stronger, sharper, greater swords, crafted excellent weapons, and if they fell short by even a bit, I broke them and melted them down again.”

Tang Jo-Pyeong took the short sword from the bucket and placed it on the anvil.

A dark, blotchy color and a bumpy surface. Though unpolished, it was hardly something one could call a masterpiece.

Made with a battered little furnace and gnarled, aged arms, it was still a sword the Tang Family’s craftsman had made at the end of his life. Yet its appearance was so humble it was hard to believe.

Tang Jo-Pyeong studied the unbearably humble blade with careful attention, as if it were a once-in-a-lifetime masterpiece.

Squeeze.

Tang Jo-Pyeong gripped the still-hot short sword in his hand.

Ssssss!

As his flesh tore, blood flowed and stained the sword. Yet the old man seemed not to feel the pain; he simply stared at the blade and spoke.

“Then is this short sword a failure?”

Tang Jo-Pyeong slowly set his hammer down.

He left the sword—still seeming to need countless more strikes—abandoned. A shabby, low-grade short sword.

But there was no real regret in the way he placed the hammer down.

Turning the dagger slowly in his hand and examining every corner with a composed look, he nodded slowly.

Then he extended the dagger in his hand—specifically—to Jang Ilso.

Silence fell. As Jang Ilso opened his mouth at the old man’s inexplicable action, Tang Jo-Pyeong’s indifferent voice came first.

“Take it.”

For a moment a clear expression of bewilderment crossed Jang Ilso’s face. Glancing between the offered dagger and Tang Jo-Pyeong, he slightly contorted his eyes.

“… What are you doing?”

No matter how close to death the old man was, anyone bearing the Tang name would know who stood before them.

Yet the old man was offering Jang Ilso the last weapon of his life. He couldn’t possibly be begging for his life with this, could he?

As if answering Jang Ilso’s question, Tang Jo-Pyeong spoke.

“Iron has no predetermined owner. The one who holds it is its owner. You’re simply here now.”

Jang Ilso looked down at the bumpy sword as if incredulous.

“…This dagger might even be driven into the Tang Family’s neck, you know?”

Even so, Tang Jo-Pyeong did not withdraw the offered sword.

He simply stared at Jang Ilso. Jang Ilso’s face had become expressionless. After that silence, he slowly reached out and seized the offered short sword.

Squeeze.

Heat still radiated. Tang Jo-Pyeong’s dried blood on the sword’s surface stained his hand dark red.

Staring at the misshapen, ruined sword, Jang Ilso gripped it tight and raised his head—preparing to cut down Tang Jo-Pyeong in one stroke.

But.

“This old man…”

Jang Ilso’s face contorted.

Tang Jo-Pyeong’s head sagged down. In that moment, the old man’s breath stopped.

Pathetic.

The hammer he set down at his last moment, his twisted, aged body, even the shabby furnace before him—all were simply pathetic.

Yet the faint smile at Tang Jo-Pyeong’s lips was something even the great Jang Ilso could not mock as pathetic.

As the furnace died, Tang Jo-Pyeong’s body cooled. Jang Ilso, staring at the Tang Family craftsman who passed without a sound, flapped his long cloak and turned away.

“Just wasted time.”

The cold voice rang out.

“They’re not here. Pursue them. They can’t have gotten far.”

“Yes, Alliance lord!”

The Ten Thousand People Clan members and the Red Dogs, who had been holding their breath nearby, scattered in all directions. They would likely track the fugitives’ trail soon.

Crackle.

Just as Jang Ilso turned to walk away without hesitation, a sound brushed his ear and he stopped. It was the sound of the furnace burning down. A strange light crossed his face.

“…Hmph.”

Whoosh!

Jang Ilso’s hand swung. As force poured out, the entire workshop collapsed in an instant, burying Tang Jo-Pyeong’s body.

Rumble!

Staring coldly at the ruined workshop, Jang Ilso shoved the sword he held roughly into his garments.

“I detest going into debt.”

Leaving words no one could hear, he turned and walked away.

The workshop collapsed completely.

On the ruins of that workshop—now meaningless and abandoned—one small, battered hammer stuck up like a gravestone for someone who had finally found rest.