Becoming a knight might change things. To those who knew Encrid, some things had already changed, and others might change in the future. But quite apart from all that, some things would never change.

There was something he had heard so often since first taking up a sword that it was etched into his ears.

["A man who doesn't take proper care of his weapon will one day find himself holding a snapped sword, cut down by someone worse than him."]

The mercenary who first taught him swordsmanship had said it. Oddly specific as it was, Encrid understood the meaning well enough. He had heard countless similar remarks since.

["A sword is an extension of your hand. Would you pinch Krona buying yourself a hand?"]

That one had come from none other than a sword merchant. He had quite a way with words, and those words had become an excellent weapon for emptying the purses of swordsmen seeking new weapons. Encrid hadn't let himself be overcharged, of course, but he agreed with the sentiment.

Could he entrust just anyone with a sword his life depended on? Of course he couldn't entrust his weapon to someone with rotten eyes. To Encrid, that was self-evident.

"Are you questioning my skill?"

Was the dwarf displaying a craftsman's characteristic stubbornness? It didn't look like it. All Encrid saw in those dull, clouded eyes was greed.

Had he said he came from Martai? An unpaid tab? Who would have willingly extended him credit? Not a chance. He probably hadn't killed anyone, but he must have done something on the order of skipping out on a payment.

"Could you go outside and fetch a passing soldier?" Encrid asked the craftsman's apprentice instead of addressing the dwarf.

"Pardon? Oh, yes."

The situation had taken a strange turn. The craftsman stared at Encrid and said, "He's more skilled than I am."

"Not in my eyes."

"You bastard!"

The dwarf flared up like a furnace, but a simple motion of the hand was enough to cool his temper.

Too fast for anyone present to see, Encrid took hold of the gladius with the rattling joint between grip and blade and leveled its tip at the dwarf. Despite that loose joint, it hadn't made so much as a rattle. In the blink of an eye, the slightly dulled blade was simply pointing at him.

Even then, the craftsman found himself noting that the blade had been regularly oiled and well cared for.

"I don't know for certain, but I imagine I have the authority to order a summary execution. Martai is Border Guard's sister city. If you've caused serious trouble there, the person responsible for this area ought to be able to hold you accountable."

Having calmly stated the facts, Encrid looked back at the craftsman, who blinked several times. For a moment, no one spoke. The dwarf merely watched, his eyes darting about as he tried to gauge the situation. Then the craftsman abruptly asked Encrid a question.

"Is there a particular reason you want to entrust it to me?"

Encrid answered immediately. "Your eyes."

"My eyes?" the craftsman echoed. Encrid looked into them.

"You say you're less skilled, but neither your manner nor your eyes seem to be saying that at all."

Just as Encrid had things he took for granted, so did the craftsman. Calling himself less skilled was a dispassionate assessment of the present. It would not remain true in the future. That was self-evident to the craftsman. He had no intention of stopping here.

He faced the fire every day to hone his skills. It blackened his fingertips and scorched his face. His darkened forearms were proof.

The dwarf, by contrast, had a paunch, reeked of liquor, and demanded a house. As far as Encrid was concerned, he was trash. Had he followed his demand for a house with a demand for women, Encrid would already have had him beaten half to death. Border Guard had no shortage of female soldiers. Left in their hands, he would get a thorough stomping.

Yes, natural talent might have made him an exceptional metalworker. His technique might be excellent. But what of the determination behind it?

Encrid wasn't saying this because he was a knight who wielded Will. Even without Will, he would have treated the dwarf exactly the same. Even if he weren't responsible for Border Guard, even if the dwarf were a better fighter than him, nothing would change. Some things changed, but others never would.

The craftsman's eyes wavered. What did this man know to make him say that? No, it didn't seem as though he knew anything in particular.

Still holding the sword in his left hand, Encrid asked, "Do you have a dream?"

The craftsman blinked slowly three times. Whatever change of heart took place in those moments, his eyes stopped wavering, and he spoke.

"Please call me Eitri."

He abruptly offered his name, his speech turning respectful.

"Encrid of Border Guard."

"Then I shall call myself Eitri of Border Guard as well."

Outwardly, the craftsman Eitri remained composed. But never in his life had anyone looked into his eyes and spoken of dreams. Looking into the blue eyes of the man before him, he felt he could say anything. His dream, for instance, or things he knew would only earn him ridicule.

In this age, many people worked iron and fire simply to keep themselves fed. Some did take pride in their craft, but even they, upon reaching a certain standing, would turn back to talk of practical realities and stop striving to improve.

People who spoke of dreams and struggled to achieve them? There were some, at first. They made bold declarations, too. But as time passed, their hearts changed. Everyone's did.

Not Eitri's. He had a dream, one he had never been able to share readily with anyone. That dream had driven him to forge an axe entirely from Lewis steel, and a greatsword entirely from black gold.

Here was someone speaking of dreams. Eitri knew his hair had gone white and thinned, and his arms were weaker than before. But he recalled something he had never forgotten and spoke.

"I intend to make an imprinted weapon."

Imprinted weapons were weapons wielded by knights. A knight generally had only one made in a lifetime, making the work an unsurpassed honor for a craftsman. But it required both luck and talent. Without the requisite qualifications, one could not even speak of having a chance.

Scour the entire continent, and there would be no more than three craftsmen currently known to make imprinted weapons. Would there be more if one found those hidden from the world? Perhaps. No sage knew everything that happened in the world.

Then what should someone do if they wanted an imprinted weapon right now? At present, the most sensible course would be to seek out the White Flame Guild, said to live near the Demonic Realm. They were known as a group of craftsmen who worked with white fire, and they had experience making imprinted weapons.

Of course, neither finding them nor commissioning them would be easy, but that was undoubtedly the best option. Even so, making an imprinted weapon was the dream of this old craftsman who worked iron in the flames.

"You said you couldn't even work on magical weapons."

"I'm studying and researching the subject. Would you allow me to make your weapon someday?"

He could not have been more respectful. The apprentice hadn't even managed to leave. He could barely breathe from the shock. He had never heard his master speak like that.

His master had made weapons for members of the lunatic unit, too, but never shown them such deference. He had never shown it to anyone.

Was it because this was the Demon Killer? His master wasn't a man who changed his tone or bowed his head to suit someone's status. That was why the apprentice respected him.

"I'll wait."

"I mean, allow me to do it when you become a knight someday."

"That's why I said I'd wait."

"Pardon?"

"If you mean the title of knight, I'd have to visit the palace. But you weren't talking about a title, were you?"

Eitri blinked, wondering what he meant. Then understanding dawned. His eyes widened before his face settled back into its usual impassivity.

It wasn't a secret that Encrid had attained the strength to be called a knight, but only a handful of people knew. And here he was, saying it as though it were nothing. Eitri was astonished, as were his apprentice and the dwarf.

While the Demon Killer and the craftsman talked, the dwarf had tried to edge sideways. But the Demon Killer shifted his sword point to follow him without so much as a glance, and he abandoned the idea of escape.

The dwarf thought he had landed in a truly shitty predicament. He had expected anyone of high standing to come crawling to him at once. Usually, anyone who wielded a weapon was bowled over by his skill. Was this because he hadn't demonstrated it yet?

No chance. He could see exactly how things stood. Act up, and he'd die. Whether he failed to demonstrate his skill or hammered out a sword worthy of being called a masterwork on the spot, this man would never use his blade.

"You haven't gone yet?" Encrid asked offhandedly. The apprentice hurried away.

Eitri held out his hand again, and Encrid placed the gladius in it. The dwarf hovered awkwardly, watching for a reaction.

"If I catch you trying to escape, I'll break your legs. If that's what you need, you can just say so." Encrid spoke while watching Eitri work.

"I'll stay put."

The dwarf's voice was markedly quieter than before. No one paid him any attention.

Eitri used a hammer and punch to tap apart the fitting securing the gladius's blade. Then he raised the blade to eye level and checked its straightness and the condition of its edge.

"I'll heat it and restore the edge. Are you rough on your weapons?"

"I face a lot of difficult opponents."

Encrid's reply was matter-of-fact, without a trace of bravado. Eitri immersed himself in his work.

WHOOSH!

He stepped on the bellows, and flames sprang up. Heat gushed out, warming the smithy. The scorching air pressed against the lungs, making it hard to breathe. If even Encrid found it uncomfortable, Eitri and the Frog sitting nearby ought to have been suffering, but both remained unperturbed.

Encrid sat watching Eitri. After a while, he casually took out the leather acquired on his way there and showed it to him.

"I'll work on that as well," Eitri replied with a glance. When Encrid brought up whistle daggers, he said he could make several of those, too.

"That Frog doesn't look like a customer."

The Frog, who had briefly turned to look earlier, had resumed the original position. Seated on a stool taller than Encrid's, the Frog had both arms on a worktable and was absorbed in the task at hand.

"Came here to learn to make jewelry," Eitri said.

Encrid found that even more bewildering than seeing a Giant become a merchant.

"A Frog?"

The question came out unbidden. Frogs were born with slippery skin. Changes in emotion could make oil flow from their entire bodies, so even in combat they used weapons fitted with rings, hooking their fingers through them. Loop Swords and Loop Axes weren't made for no reason.

A Frog's slippery skin was a tremendous advantage in battle. Most blades simply slid off it. Barring the use of Will, one's skill with a weapon generally had to reach the level of a master to take on a Frog. It was an enormous advantage.

But for the delicate work of making jewelry, hands that routinely dropped whatever they held would be a disadvantage. No one needed to tell Encrid how difficult it would be. For Frogs, working in a crafting profession was inherently impossible.

"Why? Am I not allowed?" the Frog asked. Encrid gazed silently over, noticing sharp projections on the hands. Nails had been driven into them.

Slippery palms had clear limitations. These were tools to compensate for them. Driving nails into one's own flesh and using regeneration to hold them in place?

["Do you think Frogs don't feel pain?"]

Even without Luagarne's words, pain was pain for a Frog, too. Simply keeping those nails embedded meant enduring it. The nails fused with the flesh must have been like another set of hands.

"Why? Want to stop me?" the Frog asked again.

Encrid looked into those frog-like eyes. Despite having spent quite some time with Luagarne, he still couldn't fully distinguish one Frog's features from another's. But he felt certain he could distinguish the look in their eyes.

These eyes held the heat he sometimes saw in Luagarne's. They burned even hotter than hers.

["I won't set limits on myself either."]

Luagarne had said that once. But she wasn't the only person in whom Encrid had seen eyes like these. He had seen them just moments ago. Shining eyes. The eyes of someone moving toward something.

"No," Encrid said.

He had always supported dreams. This time was no different.

"I'll speak to the city administrator. If you need anything, say so," he said.

"I don't."

The Frog returned to work after that reply, picking up a carving knife to whittle wood without even offering a name.

"I've been making the necessary tools," Eitri said from behind him.

One dreamer was helping another. They were always yearning, always moving forward without ceasing to long for more. Encrid could see it.