Chapter 167

Chapter 167
Chapter 167

The arrival of visitors did not cease following the departure of Tristan.

The influence Sword Saint Eisen had exerted upon the world was monumental, and the connections he had built were remarkably varied—ranging from soldiers who had only briefly crossed his path to lifelong companions who had stood by him for half a century.

Had the gates remained open to all, the line of those wishing to pay their respects would likely have stretched through the end of the year. Yet, the duties of the living could not indefinitely delay the rest of the departed. Sensing that the crowd had reached its zenith, Lucian commenced the formal funeral proceedings.

“The illustrious Sword Saint has returned to the embrace of the Eight Gods. May he attain peace everlasting. May his memory be etched into the heart of this Empire for all time. And may every warrior who carries a blade strive to emulate his devotion to the path of mastery.”

Serving as the officiant of the sacred rites, Lucian delivered a succinct tribute before the body was lowered into the casket. The pine box, lacking any gold or jewels, was a final testament to the modest and disciplined lifestyle Eisen had practiced until his last breath.

Under a heavy shroud of silence, the trek to the gravesite and the interment were finished, giving way to the commemorative feast.

As the attendees gathered in the great hall to trade stories of Eisen’s legendary exploits, their focus remained fixed on Lucian. Though the period of mourning officially continued, the practical window for grief had closed with the burial. Moving forward, the chamber would function as a political stage where the Conqueror of the North held court.

‘With the throne remaining non-committal, the House of Grimaldi stands as the most formidable power second only to the House of Roglan. Since they face no local rivals, their ceiling is practically limitless.’

‘The trajectory of the Empire rests on the Duke’s next move. I must ascertain his true goals before this night is over.’

The patriarchs of various noble lines watched Lucian with predatory intensity. Eventually, Lucian stepped into the center of the hall to brief the assembly on the coming days.

“I extend my thanks to everyone who traveled here to honor my mentor. The formal rites of the funeral are now at an end. Typically, such an occasion would call for several days of feasting before we part ways, but I have organized a unique tribute in his name.”

“Are you referring to the ‘Blacksmith Contest’ that was rumored?”

An impulsive leader of a minor family spoke up out of turn. Usually, such a breach of etiquette would have drawn glares or sharp corrections, but on this occasion, the room stayed quiet. They were all plagued by the same curiosity.

Lucian offered a gentle smile, appearing to forgive their lack of patience, and clarified.

“That is correct. My wish is to place a blade forged from Fairy Light upon his resting place. However, because the techniques for refining Fairy Light have been forgotten by history, we must first identify a master smith with the talent to process it.”

“Hmm.”

Murmurs of doubt and calculation rippled through the crowd.

A smith who could actually work Fairy Light? It would be a marvel if such a person existed, but to the gathered nobility, such a craftsman had little practical value. Even if they identified the talent, they possessed no Fairy Light of their own to utilize.

Because the entire endeavor seemed designed to benefit only Lucian, a sense of resentment began to fester among the lords.

‘Curse it all. There is no use trying to recruit them if we lack the ore. Duke Lucian is simply going to gather all the best talent for his own workshops.’

‘I hope they all fail. His reach is already too long; if he adds this to his arsenal, how can we possibly keep him in check?’

While many internally wished for a disaster, one nobleman found the courage to speak.

“What is your plan if the smiths ultimately prove incapable of working the Fairy Light? If the contest ends in failure, will it not cast a shadow over the sanctity of the event?”

It was a transparently cynical question, yet the speaker stood with his chin high, masquerading his spite as a concern for the funeral’s dignity. Lucian’s pleasant expression did not flicker despite the obvious jab.

“Haha! How could a gathering of so many experts all fall short? Someone is bound to find the way. Furthermore, no craftsman would dare step forward for such a task if they did not possess the internal drive to succeed.”

“Ego often outpaces ability. If those with more pride than skill try to refine Fairy Light, it might result in a rather humiliating display later on.”

“I disagree. While I have no absolute proof, I hold firm in my belief that success is coming. In fact, I suspect we won’t have to wait very long for a breakthrough.”

“What are you implying—?”

The nobleman began a mocking chuckle but stopped abruptly as the weight of Lucian’s confidence hit him.

To claim he lacked certainty while remaining perfectly composed? It was a subtle signal that Lucian had already found a blacksmith capable of the task and intended to reveal them through this competition.

‘First the heritage of the Northern Royals, then the wild tribes from the frozen wastes, and now a craftsman who can handle Fairy Light?’

‘How many secrets is he keeping? Every time we think we’ve seen his full hand, he reveals another ace!’

The aristocrats felt a chill at the sheer scale of Lucian’s hidden assets. If he was displaying this much openly, what was he keeping in the dark? Once more, the moniker ‘Conqueror of the North’ felt like a suffocating pressure.

In truth, aside from the royal inheritance, these were merely assets Lucian had picked up through chance and timing, making the nobles’ conclusions a series of errors. Regardless, for those blind to the details, the mental strain Lucian imposed only intensified.

“The blade crafted from Fairy Light will be presented at the tomb by Sir Felicia, the heir to Sir Eisen and the reigning Sword Saint.”

“…One moment, Your Grace. The ‘reigning Sword Saint’? What exactly do you mean by that?”

A man stepped forward with a scowl, unable to ignore the claim. They accepted Felicia as the heir to the estate. However, being the heir to the man and holding the title of Sword Saint were entirely separate concepts. To claim the mantle of Sword Saint without a single trial simply because of her lineage?

“The status of Sword Saint isn’t a family heirloom to be inherited. It is a grand title secured only when one’s prowess is undeniable and no voice dares to speak against it.”

“Are you claiming that Sir Felicia lacks the merit to be called the Sword Saint?”

“I am claiming nothing of the sort. I am saying she has proven nothing, so her right to the name is currently a mystery.”

“Hoo.”

Lucian let out a soft laugh at the predictable resistance. These individuals, who would have held their breath in silence while Eisen was breathing, were now making a scene over her ascension.

‘I suppose if they truly respect the gravity of that title, they wouldn’t want to see it handed out like a participation trophy.’

While the name didn’t grant official legal power, the sheer cultural weight was enough to command the respect of every soldier in the land. Now that the seat was empty, they likely hoped to position themselves or their own champions to seize the glory.

“Fine, let us settle it this way. We will hold a tournament for the title of Sword Saint. The victor will earn the right to proclaim themselves the new Sword Saint by offering the Fairy Light blade to the tomb of the late Master Eisen.”

“A trial of blades. That is a just path, but I question if this city, Asagrim, has the standing to represent the entire realm.”

Even if Asagrim was the heart of the North, it lacked the jurisdiction to crown someone for the whole Empire. A winner here would arguably just be a regional champion, not a true Sword Saint.

Lucian understood the point, but he gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Does a warrior who cleaves a mountain in a distant province possess less skill than one who cleaves a stone in the capital? Is the blade less sharp because of the soil beneath the feet?”

“That isn’t the issue… it is about the prestige and the pool of talent. People will inevitably claim they could have won if only the event were held centrally.”

“The Sword Saint is a position defined by constant trial. If a claimant is bested, they simply relinquish the title. What sort of Sword Saint expects to sit on a throne and never face a challenge?”

It was true; Eisen had faced challengers until his twilight years. It was only in the last decade that the duels stopped, mostly out of reverence for his age. Now that he was gone, whoever took the title would be a magnet for every ambitious swordsman in existence.

“I am indifferent to whether you accept Felicia today, or if you plan to send your own warriors to take the spot. But keep this in mind.”

Lucian looked at the nobles with a frozen, sharp smile.

“Even if you fight your way to that title, if you cannot protect it and fall immediately, the history books will remember you as nothing more than a fool who reached for a crown he couldn’t carry.”

At Lucian’s biting warning, the assembly fell into an uneasy silence.

—

Lucian wasted no time initiating the plans for the sword tournament following the smithing event. Or, more accurately, he maintained the facade of starting them. He had already laid the groundwork weeks ago, expecting this exact pushback.

‘This is a favorable outcome. Felicia had no claim to the title other than Eisen’s word. This tournament will provide the necessary public validation.’

Even if it was only a local start, a public victory was a better foundation than a self-proclaimed title. At the very least, it would silence the minor critics who weren’t even skilled enough to challenge her.

‘They might whisper for now, but they will be stunned into silence once they witness Felicia’s actual strength.’

With the controversy regarding the title managed, Lucian moved forward with the schedule. Since he couldn’t provide permanent forges for every participant at once, he had five modular workshops erected. The protocol was simple: if a smith failed to make progress with the Fairy Light in their window of time, the opportunity passed to the next contender.

The prospect of seeing the legendary refinement of Fairy Light drew massive crowds before the fires were even lit. Among the spectators were many new residents who had recently started as blacksmith apprentices.

“So if one guy messes up, the next guy gets a turn? Doesn’t that mean the people at the end of the line have it easy?”

“Right. If the guy before you manages to soften the metal or change it a bit, you can just study what he did and finish the job.”

“Tsk, tsk. You youngsters have no clue. Do you think the forge is a place for mimicry? I expected better from boys who claim to be learning the craft.”

A veteran smith clicked his tongue, correcting the murmuring apprentices. At their teacher’s sharp tone, the large young men rubbed their necks in embarrassment.

“But it has to help a little, right? We’re just starting out, but the guys in the contest are all high-level masters.”

“It might give you a hint. But what do you do once you’ve copied a failed method?”

“What do we do? …Oh!”

Following the master’s logic, the apprentice saw the flaw. If a smith worked from their own deep understanding of the metal from the beginning, they could reach the finish line. Even if the path was narrow, a solid theory would lead to the end.

However, if someone just mimicked a predecessor, they could only advance a single step beyond where the previous person got stuck. Because they were just reacting to someone else’s work, they wouldn’t have a vision for the final product.

“The fact is, Fairy Light is a substance no one alive has mastered. Even if you get it to melt by copying a neighbor, do you think you can shape a legendary sword? You’d just end up with a glowing lump of scrap.”

“I… I get it now.”

“The only way it gets easier is if you watch a true genius do it perfectly from start to finish… but good luck finding someone like that here.”

The apprentices nodded in agreement with their mentor’s hard-earned perspective. The master spoke casually, but these small observations were the foundation of their education.

While the gallery continued to debate, the first group of smiths, having sorted their tools, marched toward the workshops. Leading the way was Malcolm, who had recently attained the rank of Forge Master.