Table of Contents
PROLOGUE: A Warrior Blacksmith
Chapter I: Census and Excise
Chapter II: Outlaws and Opportunists
Chapter III: Forging and Forgeries
Chapter IV: Give and Take
Chapter V: Lies and Secrecy
Chapter VI: Warriors and Brigands
Chapter VII: Quality and Quantity
Chapter VIII: Weight and Balance
Chapter IX: Life and Tragedy
Chapter X: Tradition and Dissention
Chapter XI: Truth and Reality
Chapter XII: Regret and Respect
Chapter XIII: Master and Apprentice
Chapter XIV: Rise and Fall
Chapter XV: Wrath and Sorrow
Chapter XVI: Crime and Reward
Chapter XVII: Fear and Respite
Chapter XVIII: Honor and Value
Chapter XIX: Pride and Retribution
Heretic’s Forge
異端の鍛冶屋
Itan no Kajiya
A Crafting Fantasy Adventure
By Jared Mandani
Heretic’s Forge is © 2021 by LitRPG Freaks
This book is a work of fiction, and any similarity to persons, institutions, or places living, dead, or otherwise still shambling is entirely coincidental.
Thanks for purchasing this book. Happy reading!
PROLOGUE: A Warrior Blacksmith
“Wrong, again!” Barked his father as, once again, he hit his head with a stick.
“Ow! What did I do wrong this time?” the boy replied, nursing his skull.
“Your back was in the wrong posture the moment you removed the ore from the forge. Your feet were too far apart, and your brow was furrowed.”
“My brow wasn’t – OW!”
“And you complain too much, Senshi!” The older man sighed, sullenly shaking his head. “How do you expect to honor our family name, when you can’t perform your work with a clear focus?”
Senshi groaned, flexing his aching fingers. For the fifth day in a row, ever since his thirteenth birthday, he had been working at his family’s forge, learning the ways of metallurgy and ikiteiruken – the living swords forged by master blacksmiths. His dreams, however, lied elsewhere. “But father,” Senshi said, steeling himself for another strike, “I aspire to something else. I want to honor my name, and become a warrior.”
“Become a...” The blacksmith sighed once more, struggling to contain his disappointment. “What slight have I committed, that my ancestors punish me with such a foolish son?” He stood up, stretching his legs before bending over to take the tongs from Senshi. “A mere blacksmith,” he uttered somberly as he turned the metal inside the forge, “One of our class, Senshi, cannot and should not think of becoming senshi, your namesake. To think so is heresy, and punishable by death.”
“But father, one who can make a blade must also know how to wield one to—” Senshi was interrupted by his father’s violent, backhanded slap. The sting threatened to bring tears to his eyes, but Senshi gritted his teeth and refused to weep. “Kajiya Senshi.”
“What?”
“Kajiya Senshi is the name you have given me, father, and by my family’s name and honor, I shall live up to it. I shall become a warrior-blacksmith!”
Senshi’s father gasped in dismay. “Are you daft, my son? The sole utterance of such a lofty goal is heresy; may the wind die so your words don’t carry to our lord Yorunokenshi’s hallowed ears! Have you any idea what would happen to you should he listen to your drivel?”
“I don’t, and I don’t think I will know!”
“Senshi, you are my son and pride, yet your foolishness wounds and worries me. Understand that our stature in life precludes us from the arts of the highborn – no warriors, poets, sorcerers or politicians will ever run in our family. You and me are from the moment we are born until the moment we die nothing but artisans—feces in the eyes of the gods. But our noble families, hallowed by the gods, stand tall and proud above us humble ones. To defy the will of the gods is heresy, Senshi, and heresy is akin to spitting in your father’s face.”
His father’s dismay and the gravity of his words formed a pit in Senshi’s stomach. Was it truly such a grievous deed? Was he truly a heretic for daring to dream of honoring his given name? All his life he had been taught to respect and honor the gods, both through his actions and his words, yet the gods themselves had gifted him with the ability to dream – was it truly such a blasphemy?
“I am sorry, father,” Senshi said sullenly.
“Apologize not with words, my son, but with actions. Learn the importance of your thoughts, and cleanse them of their youthful foolishness.”
“How, father? How can I relieve myself of foolish notions?”
His father placed two strong, calloused hands on Senshi’s shoulders, and softly said, “As a blacksmith cleanses his ore, Senshi – through hard work, patience, and humility. A true forgemaster knows that no raw metal is perfect, it must be refined time and again until filth and muck are gone, and only pure, pristine hagane remains. You are now a raw ore, Senshi, and must forge yourself into a man of honor, a man of respect. You must honor not your given name, my son, for ours is not the path of warriors and warlords no – you must honor our ancestral family name, Kajiya – the blacksmiths to our honored lords. Can you do this, my son, can you walk through the path righteously given to you by the gods?”
Senshi gazed into his father’s eyes, two deep, dark-brown pits as intense as glowing embers piercingly staring at him. The boy sighed. My father speaks true. I have been given a purpose in life – a path to follow, and to follow it is my gods’ given duty. “I can, father Munesuke-sama. Teach me the path of our family. Teach me how to create true ikiteiruken.”
A smile stretched Munesuke’s heat-hardened features as he watched his son. “Then my son, pick up your tongs and assume the correct posture to work your ore. Back straight, legs wide, arms stretched forwards!”
Senshi took the complicated posture as his father told him and though his muscles protested from strain, he uttered no complaint. “Like this?”
“Better. Now turn the ore and let it heat up until red – this is but the first moment for folding the metal to cleanse its impurities. Only true, pure hagane can awaken into an ikiteiruken!”
“You mean the kotodama?”
“Kotodama—The Soul of Things indeed, Senshi. But there will be time for you to learn such a secret, my son. For now, you must work on your posture.”
“But you said – OW!”
“Your legs were too far apart!”
Senshi didn’t complain any more. As he heated and turned the metal inside the furnace, he felt determined to learn his family’s forging techniques and honor their name; yet as he thought of the living-sword that metal would become, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if he could honor his given name too.
A warrior blacksmith, he thought, smiling at the idea. I like the sound of that!
Chapter I: Census and Excise
“They call them ikiteiruken, a word which roughly translates to ‘living sword,’ yet there’s more to the name than mere tradition. The weapons forged by the Nipponese forgemasters are, in spite of a better description, alive. Unlike our vessel blades, the living swords possess a will of their own, leading them to form a preternatural bond with their wielders. What sorcery is involved in the creation of these demonic weapons is, perhaps, best left unknown.”
-Deacon Orestes Militides, in “Metallurgia Arcanum – The Demon Blades of the East.”
“The storm is growing stronger!”
“Damn it! Senshi, secure the crates – we cannot afford to lose the ikiteiruken!”
“Aye, sir!” He deftly jumped over the broken mast before sliding under the tattered sails of the warship. His captain was right – if the living swords were lost to the storm, the Goguryese would step on them as they would upon cockroaches. Senshi took one of the ropes from a mast and wound it tightly around the weapon crates. “DONE SIR!”
“Good, now get your arse back here before—” His captain was interrupted by a massive wave towering above the ship. “SENSHI!” He screamed before the wave crashed upon the vessel.
Senshi had no time to react as the watery wall hurled him away from the ship, sinking him into the depths of the ocean. He felt powerless as his body was violently tossed and turned around by the tremendous might of the typhoon. Air, he thought, I need air, now! His body refused to respond as he kept being dragged to the depths.
A lightning illuminated the turbulent water surface. There! he thought, struggling to break the surface and draw breath, but before he reached the blessed air above, a solid object struck him violently on his right temple and skidded down to his cheek.
The impact made him lose consciousness. The last thing he was aware of was a distant voice calling “Hey!
Wake up. We’re here. Why are you shaking? Are you okay? Wake up!”
***
The knife was in his hand, and his hand was close to the man’s throat before he became aware of his actions. “He-he-hey there, fella, I didn’t mean to upset you!”
His eyes rested upon the man’s frightened expression. He let out a relieved sigh and returned the knife to its holster hidden in his sleeve. “Apologies,” he said curtly.
“No worries. You were dreaming, not even last night’s storm could wake you. What’s your name?”
Kajiya Senshi, he thought before quickly amending no, not here, not anymore. “Kain. Kain Smith.”
The man offered his hand. “Rupert Jones, a pleasure.” Kain nodded and said nothing, Rupert continued, “I heard them say we’ve reached Nagasaki. At long last, if you ask me!”
Nagasaki, Kain thought closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, I’m home.
“Say, friend,” Rupert added, “Are you here on business, or leisure maybe?”
“Neither,” Kain replied, rummaging through his luggage. “Why?
“Man of few words, eh? Well er... Your accent, friend. You look Nipponese, yet you speak as an Albionese. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes, I have. Spent ten years there, in fact.”
“Ah, I see, I see, I see. Makes sense that some of their ah... quirks would rub off on you. Say, Kain, why have you come back to Nippon, then?”
“I came back home.”
Rupert sucked on his teeth. “Well, I hope you don’t plan to go further inland, eh?”
“I am traveling to Shinano.”
“You may think about reconsidering, Kain. Inlanders aren’t exactly fond of outsiders, you know?”
From his rucksack, Kain produced a pair of linen pants and a loose tunic; he quickly donned the pants, but before wearing the tunic, he removed a neatly-folded vest made of interwoven metal plates and placed it over his shoulders, rolling them easily under its weight before tying its leather cords. When he finished tying his tunic’s sash, he turned towards Rupert and said, “I know.”
“A-ah I see! Well, now you’ll certainly blend in with the locals, but I’d still advise you er...”
“Hmm?”
“Well, I don’t want to be rude, but, er, I mean—”
“Out with it, please,” Kain said not unkindly.
“M-m-m-mind your accent?”
Kain blinked rapidly, smiled and softly said, “Thank you, Rupert.” Then he bent down once again and retrieved a cloth bundle under his bunk; he unrolled the bundle and from it produced a deutsche Zweihänder, its blade one and a half meters long and eight centimeters wide, with a remaining thirty centimeters to its pommel (the sword itself was longer than Kain was tall, which prompted him to design a peculiar, slotted scabbard attached to a baldric.)
The young man slung the baldric over his shoulder, lifted the weapon with his left hand and slid it through the slot cut along the length of the scabbard, setting the greatsword in place.
Rupert stared gape-mouthed at the whole scene. “That’s quite a large sword you’ve got there, my friend! I hope it’s not compensating for a smaller sword?” Kain stared at Rupert, who shuddered, lifted his hands in a placating gesture and hastily said, “It was a joke, I swear!”
Kain scoffed, smiled and said, “I know, it was funny.” He walked towards the exit of the room, and before leaving he added, “Rupert?”
“Hmm? Yes?”
“Please be careful. Nippon is a land of war and poetry and, as you duly noted, unkind to outsiders.”
“I...” Rupert was rendered speechless, and he merely said, “Thank you.”
Kain nodded and left the room. He walked the length of the middle deck’s hall towards the staircase leading to the upper deck. After the storm Rupert mentioned, the air outside was cold, crisp and clean. The sky above was overcast, keeping the day pleasantly cold. Ships of various nationalities and makes, patterns hailing from Albion and Hispania to Zhongguo, Bharat and—Kain grimaced—Goguryeo, were moored in the Nagasaki piers, colorfully decorating the otherwise drab locale. Sailors dressed in garbs of various shapes and colors unloaded their ships’ cargoes and took them ashore to be inspected by the excise officers busily writing on their ledgers.
The young man took a deep breath, enjoying the aroma of salt water, seafood, and spices which permeated the pier. “I am home,” he murmured, making his way towards the descent plank. Kain made his way down the wooden length and onto the pier where the ship he had purchased passage on was moored; he strolled forward with the confidence of a man accustomed to combat – a trait which, he realized, was bringing undue attention towards him. Must be careful, he thought, assuming the slower gait of a commoner.
“Halt!” cried a census officer walking to him along the pier. “Come here, you!”
Kain turned towards the officer, a dour-faced man in his forties wearing a drably decorated kimono; his hair was tied in a shabby top-knot and by his side he wore an ancient looking scabbard—No, these are called saya—holding a katana. “Good afternoon, mysir,” he declared amicably.
“Are you... one Kain Smith?”
“I am, is there any problem, officer?”
“No... Not per-se. Hmm, your appearance is Nipponese, but your language says otherwise. Anyhow, there’s an issue with this ship’s ledgers. They hold records of your passage from Portus Cale to Nagasaki, but they say nothing of your origins. Where do you hail from?”
Shinano, under the rule of daimyo Yorunokenshi Ishida, he thought instinctively, but replied, “From Albion, in the Caledonia region.”
The officer blinked rapidly in confusion. “From Caledonia? Boy, that’s half the world away! What strange winds have brought you to Nippon?”
“My father was a venerable Nipponese, sold to the Albionese as a slave by a Zhongguese fisherman who rescued him from a storm. He raised me with tales of Nippon, and I wanted to experience this land on my own.”
The officer nodded, convinced of the veracity of his story – the lie came quite easily, especially since it was based on reality. “Quite a tale, sir. And the scar?”
Kain unconsciously touched the marred right side of his face. “What about it?”
“Does it have a story?”
The boy shrugged and matter-of-factly said, “A terrible accident on a boat.”
“On a boat?”
“Just so.”
“I see. Anyhow, I must warn you that inland Nippon isn’t as... accepting as Nagasaki or the Kyushu domain as a whole.
Outlanders are seldom welcome, and often killed on sight in most. As such, I would recommend you refrain from going too far from Kyushu.”
Kain nodded and said, “Thank you, but I believe my appearance may help me blend in with the locals.”
“Hmm, yes. As long as you don’t speak neither Nipponese nor Albionese.”
Kain blinked rapidly and asked, “Pardon?”
“Though your Nipponese skills are commendable, your guttural accent and stunted pronunciation reveal you as an outlander – no offense intended.”
“But I’m not...” He stopped, recognizing his own voice. But I am speaking Nipponese! It had been over ten years since last he had uttered a word in his birth language, and though it remained alive in his heart, his tongue twisted clumsily around the language’s elegant syllables. “Thank you for the compliment,” he said, formally bowing forward. “My father lectured me well on the language, but as you may understand, there weren’t many Nipponese I could speak with.”
“Understandable. Well, if you want to delve further inland, I can’t stop you – I’m merely offering you a friendly bit of advice. What you do in our land is your choice, as are the consequences of your actions. There’s er... one last thing I must ask about.”
“Yes, mysir?”
“That strange artifact on your back, is it a weapon?”
“It is. Why?”
“Every outlander weapon must be registered under their owner’s name, and tested for alien forms of magic. I hope you understand, yes?”
A pit formed in Kain’s stomach as he asked, “What forms of alien magic are you wary of?” A frown creased the officer’s brow, and Kain hastily added, “If, of course, I may ask.”
“Well, recently there’s been an influx of contraband weapons from the mainland, forged by the weird, barbarous methods of outsiders.”
“Weird and barbarous?”
The officer tilted his head and said, “You seem to be quite... uninformed, considering you wield a weapon. I speak of the vessel blades used by western warriors and... I can tell from your expression that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Heretic's Forge: A Crafting Fantasy Adventure (The Warrior Blacksmith Book 1) Page 1
