Midnight's Edge

A little girl was holding her mother’s hand when she pointed at something.

“Mommy, what is that?”

“What is it, honey?”

HONK HONK

The little girl shielded her eyes from the blinding lights.

When she opened them, she saw a magical world. People stood on flying swords like skateboards while Demonic Beasts roamed freely in the distance.

The girl’s eyes filled with wonder.

Then she looked down.

Her mother’s soft and delicate hand was suddenly replaced with a big, scary one.

Tears welled in her eyes.

drip

The owner of said hand, Grandpa Song, knew he wasn’t equipped to deal with this and instantly called for backup.

Meanwhile, her eyes darted around the room, analyzing everything. As her crying subsided, a woman with a kind expression entered the room. She didn’t recognize this person.

“My little Mei Yue, what is it, honey?”

“WAHHHH”

Chapter 1 – A Peculiar Blacksmith

[Eternal Dusk Refinery]

A small shack was obscured by heavy smoke. It had no chimney — just four long windows near the top of each wall, letting the smoke escape.

clang clang

A blacksmith worked at the forge, his hammer striking metal in a steady rhythm. Each swing was like throwing a new log onto a campfire, briefly disturbing the smoke and sending a dozen orange sparks into the air. They glowed brilliantly, their short lifespan only added to their beauty.

Most blacksmiths would be hard pressed to produce four or five sparks on a good day. This old man casually made twelve. He did this while swinging absent mindedly, barely paying attention.

Ash accumulated on every surface. It was so thick that dragging a finger across it would reveal a different color underneath.

A tall man was dragging a massive chunk of iron ore by rope while leaning forward at a 45 degree angle.

Grognak’s progress was slow, moving forward one inch at a time. The jagged chunk plowed through the earth, leaving behind a strip of farmland wherever he went.

The ore chunk had to be left outside; the only way it would fit was if you removed an entire wall, part of the ceiling, and everything inside the building. And even then, only barely.

Most deliveries came by ox. This one came by man. In his entire career, Rofgar had never seen a chunk of ore this big. He wasn’t even sure two oxen could have hauled it.

The walls were sparsely decorated with the occasional weapon, but most of the shop sat empty. It was clear the business was struggling. The forge, however, was outfitted with high quality equipment. It felt strangely out of place in such a rundown shop in the middle of nowhere.

“Got another shipment,” Grognak said as he sat down.

The wooden chair let out a short dying scream, then collapsed under his weight.

crash

“Not again you idiot! Get out of my shop before you destroy it.” Despite Rofgar’s angry tone there was a warmth in his eyes that couldn’t be concealed.

“Aww, I wanted to get a new sword!” Grognak pouted and bounced up and down in a childish manner. It wasn’t cute at all—it shook the ground.

“What happened to the one you got last time? Don’t tell me you lost it.”

Grognak lowered his eyes like a dog caught chewing on the couch.

“It broke after two swings.”

“With the quality of my work that’s impossible. I won’t tolerate this slander, boy.”

“I’m telling the truth, I swear.”

Grognak reached into his bag and pulled out a broken blade. While originally sharp, its edge had worn down, turning it into a blunt weapon. The only sharp section left was closest to the hilt.

It was covered in scratches—some followed the blade while others cut across it sporadically. It was the kind of pattern that implied it had seen hundreds of battles. It prompted Rofgar to wonder what the kid had been through, but after some hesitation, he decided not to ask.

“It can’t be helped. Just pick something from the menu.” Rofgar pointed to a wooden sign above him.

Short sword 20g

Long sword 40g

Great sword 80g

Mace 40g

The old man was lost in thought, taking a slow sip of brandy.

“I can’t read.”

PFFTT

“What are you, 12? I’m not in the mood for jokes today.”

“Not quite. When do you think I will learn, mister?”

Confused and unable to register what he was hearing, the old man simply responded:

“Most people learn when they are maybe… 14.”

The deliveryman stuck out his burly fingers and began counting. 1, 2, 3 — until he reached a conclusion.

“That’s… um… a long time from now.”

The old man’s tone shifted, becoming grave.

“Are you seriously claiming that you… are eleven years old?”

“11 and 3 quarters! My dad says if I work hard I can get all the candy I want!”

crash

“How can this be?”

This man standing at six foot one, hauling iron ore through bandit infested mountains — was eleven years old. Could this be considered child abuse? But what sane person would call him a child? What kind of demon was this family raising?

Out of curiosity he asked: “Why would your father make you do physical labor?”

The kid recalled a conversation and retold it to the blacksmith.

[Small Village]

In a small hut, lived a couple of ordinary stature.

Kid: “I’m hungry.”

Dad: “We are out of food.”

“Why can’t we get more?”

A vein started to appear on his father’s forehead.

“Because we are out of money.”

“Why?”

“BECAUSE WE SPENT IT ALL FEEDING YOU!”

The old man let out a sigh. ‘That must be tough.’

“How do you get money then?”

“You have to work.”

“So if I work I can eat all I want?”

“Are you sure you want to work in the mines? It’s back-breaking labor…”

“Please please please! Can I?”

The old man had a change of heart — from thinking this father must be abusive, to thinking he was a wise and reasonable man.

“WAIT!” a woman yelled from across the room. “There is no way I’m letting my baby work in the mines. It’s too dangerous. He should earn money doing something else.”

After some contemplation the father realized they also needed help transporting ore, which got immediate approval from the mother who was now all smiles.

The old man couldn’t help but laugh. An equally back-breaking job that was only marginally less dangerous is somehow fine in this family.

“My baby’s grown up so fast!” she said with pride.

Any person overhearing that would recognize it as a common figure of speech and think nothing of it. The old man found this highly amusing.

“Haha—”

hck

The old man doubled over.

Grognak: “Are you okay?”

[4 years later]

Cough

“Are you kidding? I’m as youthful as a spring chick—”

COUGH COUUGGHH

The old man spat up blood and had to rest for a moment.

When he reopened his eyes the kid saw a sad resignation which was quickly replaced with determination.

“Kid. From this day forward, I don’t want you ever asking me for another sword.”

The kid became disheartened. He knew that despite the old man’s dirty appearance and playful nature, Rofgar was the greatest blacksmith the kingdom had ever known. Great warriors from distant empires would travel all the way to this backwater nation to make a request.

He had only sunk into obscurity because of his strange practices.

He refused to make a legendary sword for a weak warrior, saying it would be like a toad lusting for swan meat. That alone wouldn’t deter great warriors though. In the past they had gathered to deduce what criteria he was actually looking for.

They tried asking. He refused to elaborate. They demonstrated mastery of swordsmanship, the prowess of their martial arts, the density of their qi. He would act impressed, agree to make them something befitting a warrior of their caliber. Then halfheartedly produce a normal sword.

“You think I traveled a thousand miles for this TRASH?”

An angry martial artist. Another sword thrown on the ground. It was a regular scene at his shop. But what could they do? He was genuinely claiming he had tried his best. It made many of them question whether they had the right man. Maybe there was another blacksmith named Rofgar. Maybe they had the wrong kingdom.

After all, what Grandmaster could stand being disrespected day after day?

Rofgar could. Because none of it mattered to him. His life’s work — this sword he was making — could only shine in the hands of the right warrior. To anyone else, its weight would be a liability. He had begun to accept that he might never find that person. Like a father who refuses to let his daughter talk to men until she is 30.

“Because I’m going to make you a sword that won’t break no matter how hard you swing it.”

Despite the near whisper, every word rang in the kid’s ears like a thunderclap. It almost made him emotional. He had broken more swords over the years than he could count.

At fifteen, Grognak was over seven feet tall with a full beard and muscles covering every inch of his body.

He lived his life hauling ores through the mountains and had to kill bears in the woods for food.

When the bridge went out, he was forced to climb up a cliff with a full load strapped to his back. This would have been manageable if he wasn’t terrible at rock climbing.

He chose a route that went completely vertical for one section.

He had reached a point where he had to be careful around wooden furniture. The slightest lapse in focus and something would get smashed. His parents eventually kicked him out of the house for it, which he found relaxing — no need to worry about getting yelled at.

He lived mostly outdoors. The few times he passed through towns, women and children would scatter, clearing a path without him saying a word. Every step he took shook the ground. Battle-scarred criminals would spot him and nod respectfully, like recognizing one of their own.

I don’t know you. Please stop. I am only fifteen.

His explanations to the townsfolk were always met with the same skeptical looks. Eventually, he gave up on explaining altogether.

Rofgar: “There is a metal much heavier than anything else. It is called Obsidian. It is extremely dense and hard, perfect for making weapons.

But it has one flaw — it’s too heavy. So heavy in fact, that there is an expression among blacksmiths: ‘making an obsidian greatsword.’ They use it to mock overly-ambitious ideas. Things that sound good in theory but will never happen in reality.

My dream as a young lad was to turn that sarcastic expression into reality.

I took thousands of trips to the gravity mines, carrying a little obsidian on my back each time. Unfortunately my strength was nowhere near your level. If I had your strength I probably could have done it in hundreds of trips, not thousands. HAHAHA-”

HACK wheeze hhhh

He let out a turbulent breath of air, trying his best to stabilize himself. Grognak, who had been listening intently was thrown off by how this old man could hurt himself laughing at his own joke.

“Anyway. I’m not going to get into the specifics of what I had to do to make this. The sword’s name is Midnight’s Edge. If you want it, all you have to do is get it out of the shop.” He paused, then added — “without moving the shop around it.”

That would be easier? Grognak suddenly remembered the theoretical hundreds of trips it would take him to transport the metal. He wondered if that was a realistic estimation rather than an exaggeration.

Rofgar pulled a mechanism which retracted the front desk.

The sword emerged from the darkness, massive and black. Its blade barely narrowed from hilt to tip, more wall than weapon.

The edge didn’t look particularly sharp. It didn’t need to be. Any contact with this sword meant instant death — a weapon that could only be countered by dodging. Blocking it or trading blows was not a valid strategy.

It was like trying to block a train by stepping on the tracks. Would people think the victim was making a legitimate attempt at stopping the train? No, they would just assume the person was suicidal.

The surface looked like granite — smooth, cold, something in the touch told you the density was at an absurd level.

It was mostly black, but scattered across it were discolorations of orange, yellow, white and gray. Like dying stars circling a quasar, brilliant in their final moments, hundreds merging near the center into something brighter than a sun, the void behind them highlighting their brilliance and making it impossible to look away.

Rofgar frowned. “Are you going to stare at it all day or...?”

Woken from his daydream, the kid wrapped his hands around the handle and attempted to lift it.

Nothing.

Ok, forget lifting. Just drag it.

Still nothing.

Grognak tore off his shirt, revealing the body of a Greek god. He ripped the shirt in half and wrapped it around his hands for grip.

AND PULLLLL

There was a trace of movement, less than a hair’s width. Its position was practically unchanged.

He knew that if he couldn’t move it while fresh, his chances would only get worse.

He rested his hands on his knees and panted. As he caught his breath, the colors caught his eye again. Orange, yellow, and white scattered across the black surface like stars trapped in a moonless sky. Looking at them for too long, one could swear they were moving, being drawn toward the center by some invisible force.

“What’s with the colors?”

Rofgar snorted.

“What do you know about smithing? Explaining it to you would be useless.”

The obsidian gave the blade its black color. The other colors came from the alloy he used.

A novice would assume you take the strongest material and use only that. Blacksmiths know better — a pure blade is a brittle one. Steel exists for a reason.

A chemist would go one step further, pointing out that strength comes from the bonds between non-uniform atoms.

But creating the ideal alloy for Midnight’s Edge was not as simple as figuring out how to make steel from iron. The metals had to be heavy enough to complement obsidian or the sword would be unstable. Heavier metals are obscure and hard to work with.

And finding the right metals was only half the problem. You also need the right ratios to complement them.

Rofgar had many doubts: What if he stumbled onto the optimal ratios for his second best solution, while the best solution sat untested? It was impossible to know, he didn’t have the money to try every combination.

Decades of successes and failures had left deep marks on Rofgar’s mind. Many things that once required careful thought now came naturally to him. A slight change in color, a subtle shift in texture, the way molten metal flowed through a mold— all of these things were clues that guided him.

When he finally narrowed it down to a few possible brews, he spent his remaining fortune testing every ratio. He sold his grand workshop in the city, moving to a tiny one in a small village.

People assumed he had gone mad.