The sound of metal against stone echoed through the workshop… and, just as I predicted, the blade shattered into multiple fragments, scattering across the floor.

— Durman — ...Hmph. —He bent down and picked up a piece of the broken blade, examining it closely.

— Durman — Well, I’m not going to say it was perfect... but it’s the material’s fault, not my forging.

I shrugged.

●— I never said your technique was bad. I said the steel was crap. —

Durman grunted, but an amused smile crossed his face.

— Durman — So, lad, if you’re so clever... make a proper dagger yourself. —

I crossed my arms, thinking for a second.

●— A dagger? No. I’ll do something better. —

— Durman — Oh, really? And what are you going to do? —

●— One Dacian scythe. —

— Durman — Falx what? — Frowning.

●— A weapon designed to shatter armor and cut with ease. —

— Durman — So let’s get to work. —

The man didn’t wait; he got to work. While a steel ingot began to heat in the furnace, I borrowed a piece of parchment and drew the iron-carbon diagram. I wanted to record the necessary calculations and proportions for creating the best steel.

Durman leaned over my shoulder, watching with a frown.

— Durman — What the hell is that? —

●— The truth about steel. —

I explained each point on the diagram to him, from the ferritic phase, to the eutectic points, to the eutectoids, to the formation of pearlite. I occasionally asked questions, which caused him more doubts than he cared to admit. By the time I finished, the man seemed more interested than he cared to admit.

— Durman — Hmph… Damn, kid. I DON’T UNDERSTAND HALF OF WHAT YOU SAID… BUT!! You’ve awakened a beast inside me. It wants to try all the steels you’ve described.

He gave me a good slap on the back. (It probably left a mark.)

— Durman —Take out that ingot and start, show me that you don’t just know how to babble.—

●— You’ll see the result. —

With the metal glowing red, I grabbed the hammer and prepared to forge a Falx Dacia that would blow this blacksmith’s mind. The red-hot metal glowed orange inside the furnace. My hands moved with precision as I gripped it with the tongs and placed it on the anvil. The hammer fell for the first time. The clang echoed throughout the workshop, signaling the start of the process. I knew this was no ordinary sword. The Falx Dacia had an aggressive curve, its edge designed to cut with devastating force. Each impact of the hammer deformed the metal, giving it the shape I had in mind. The process was meticulous: heat, hammer, heat again.

Durman didn’t stay quiet for a second. He moved around me, watching every step closely. At first, I thought he was just watching, but soon he started giving me advice.

“Hit closer to the base.”

“Don’t let the metal get too cold before reworking it.”

“That curve needs more tension, otherwise it will lose balance in the cut.”

“Straighten your back before you continue hammering.”

At first, I ignored him. I knew he was right about many things, but I was trying to follow my own method. The problem was, I couldn’t stop.

“That’s too thin.”

“You’re going to need to strengthen your back.”

“That temper isn’t going to work.”

●—Shut up, Durman! —

The workshop fell silent. Finally, I could continue working without interruption. The cycles continued: heating, hammering, cooling. The Falx frame took shape. Its aggressive curves contrasted with the symmetry of the blade. When the frame was ready, I patiently sharpened the edge. Each stroke against the whetstone produced a harsh but satisfying sound. Finally, the Falx Dacia was finished.

I held it in my hands and looked at it closely. It wasn’t perfect. The proportions could be refined, the finishes improved, the technique polished.

●— I may not have your talent and I still have a lot of polishing to do… —

Durman snatched the gun from my hands before I could attach the handle. He held it with both hands, examining every inch. His fingers ran along the spine and edge. His eyes held no contempt or mockery. Just pure interest.

— Durman — You’re right… It’s not the best sword I’ve seen. —

He raised the Falx with a sinister laugh.

— Durman — But I want to try it. —

I followed Durman out of the workshop, through a stone hallway to a large inner courtyard.

The sky, tinged with orange and purple, announced the end of the day. Shadows lengthened across the stone floor as the last rays of sunlight fell on the city walls. Durman led the way, holding it with one hand. Each step he took caused the blade to reflect the twilight, casting golden and reddish glints onto the faces of those waiting for us. (It took about eight hours, and it was already around 9:00 p.m.)

— Emordis Thalas— SLEEP, YOU DAMN UNGRATEFUL BOY, WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR A LONG TIME! —

— Durman — You wait here. —

I leaned against a wall, watching. Several people were waiting for us there. (I scanned them all with a quick glance.)

-- Durman’s wife (Astid), a woman with an imposing presence, watching us with her arms crossed.

--Her niece (Dalia), who seemed just as angry as Astrid.

-- A group of blacksmiths, apprentices and veterans, waiting to speak with Durman.

-- Four servants, both men and women, stopped when they saw us leave. (Peter, Heny, Eliza, and Joan)

Durman entered into a somewhat tense conversation with everyone present. First of all, he apologized to Emordis, who seemed very angry with him. Durman and I exchanged glances; there was no doubt about it. He was about to test the Falx Dacia. With a confident smile, he called over one of the apprentices.

— Durman — Hey, Taron! Go get the last sword you made yesterday. —

The boy, a thin young man, nodded and ran off. (It must be his best work to date.) A few minutes later, Taron returned, panting, with a sheathed sword. Durman took it, drawing it from its scabbard with a clean clang. It was a straight sword, sharp and without visible imperfections.

— Durman — Not bad… Let’s see how it holds up to this. —

Durman jammed Tharon’s sword into a large oak stump. Then he drew himself up as theatrically as possible, puffing out his chest and rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a colossal effort. The smiths and apprentices held their breath. Tharon, the poor apprentice, clenched his fists nervously. Durman raised the Falx with both hands, pausing briefly, as if gathering all his strength. The air seemed to tighten. And then… He brought the Falx down with a clean, sharp motion. Tharon’s sword snapped in two without any resistance.

The metal fragments hit the ground with a hollow sound. Absolute silence reigned for a few moments before Taron’s reaction was monitored. (Taron almost burst into tears.)

The others gulped. Durman calmly observed the Falx, turning it over in his hand a few times. Then, with a satisfied smile, he held it up for everyone to see.

— Durman — Not a scratch. Not a dent. Nothing. —

— Durman — This sword is unique. — His eyes scanned those present, his smile widening.

— Durman — Who wants to try it? —

And then the silence broke, and the madness began. All the Herero, including the oldest, ran out, shouting, “My sword is better.”

One by one, the smiths returned with their finest swords. The courtyard was lit only by torchlight and the dim light of the night sky. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the stone corridors. Durman waited for them in the center of the courtyard. The first smith plunged his sword into the oak stump. Durman raised the Falx and, with a single blow, snapped it in two. The fragments fell to the ground. A second smith did the same with his weapon. Durman repeated the action effortlessly. Sword after sword, the Falx shattered them without resistance. The crowd watched in silence. Even the apprentices, who had been skeptical at first, now watched with wide eyes.

Finally, a man with gray hair and an imposing bearing stepped forward.

The old blacksmith walked firmly to the wooden stump, holding his sword with the same solemnity with which a priest would carry a reliquary. Without hesitation, he stuck it into the trunk and left it standing there, reflecting the light from the torches.

Durman frowned at the sword. It wasn’t like the previous ones. It had no unnecessary embellishments, no exaggerated details. It was simple, but its presence was overwhelming. The silence in the courtyard grew heavy. The night air was cool, but no one moved. Durman snorted and ran a hand through his beard. He puffed out his chest, rolled his shoulders, and raised the Falx with both hands, preparing for the finishing blow.

The blacksmiths watched unblinkingly. Some had their jaws clenched. Taron, the young apprentice, seemed almost to be holding his breath. The Falx rose gracefully. Durman held the position for a second, letting the anticipation build. Then he brought the blade down in a single downward motion. The sound of the impact was distinct.

The edge of the Falx didn’t pass cleanly through the veteran’s sword. It didn’t cut like the previous ones. The Falx embedded itself in the opponent’s blade, and for a moment, it seemed as if nothing else would happen. Then, with a dry crunch—I think I could even feel the vibrations—my weapon split in two. The fragments of the Falx fell to the ground with a hollow sound. The veteran’s blade was still there, embedded in the stump. Only a V-shaped notch showed that it had withstood the blow. The silence was absolute. Durman blinked, astonished. The veteran smiled slightly.

— Emordis — It seems that neither of them won, that sword is capable of damaging a holy sword. — he said, with the calm of someone who already knew the result before starting. —

Durman burst out laughing, and the other blacksmiths were astonished by the type of sword the old man had brought. (I don’t know what holy swords are made of, but they’re better than steel.)

— Durman —Damn, lad! That sword held up longer than any other here. But you still have work to do! —

The words seemed to break through the others’ mental block. Immediately, murmurs erupted like a storm.

— Blacksmith — What happened? The Falx was perfect! —

— Apprentice — This has to be magic! —

— Blacksmith — If you used magic in the forge, it’s dishonorable! —

— Another blacksmith — It can’t be normal steel! Where did you get the material? —

— Apprentice — You have to teach us how to do this —

Questions rained down from all directions. Durman raised a hand and roared loudly.

— Don’t stop —¡START! —

Everyone fell silent instantly. He looked at me with a proud smile and a sparkle in his eyes.

— Durman — This man forged it here, in my workshop, before my eyes and in a single afternoon —he declared in a firm voice!

The murmurs returned with increasing intensity. But before the conversation could continue, Durman dropped the bombshell.

— Durman — And from now on I declare you my disciple! —

The crowd was in shock.

— Durman — And who knows! —Durman smiled even wider—.

— Durman — Maybe even my future son-in-law. —