In the early morning, while Elent was doing his daily training in the backyard, the broken sword in his hand shattered.
The weapon that had been with him for three years was already covered in cracks from previous battles, leaving only half of the blade.
Now, facing a piece of oak wood with slightly higher hardness, this scrap metal finally succumbed and snapped in two.
Holding the bare hilt, Elent stood in front of the unfinished pile of firewood, a little stunned.
Celia walked out of the hall holding a glass of freshly made Iced Happy Water. Seeing this, she stopped.
“Broken?” Celia asked.
“Yeah.” Elent lowered his head, looking at the broken sword.
“It was already damaged when I was cutting the Flame Demon yesterday. I thought I could still use it a bit, but I didn’t expect it couldn’t be repaired.”
Celia glanced at the debris on the ground.
The fractures were uneven, and the internal structure had been completely destroyed by the high temperature, showing a charcoal-like black color.
“To do a good job, one must first sharpen one’s tools. Using this scrap metal, the efficiency of chopping firewood is too low.”
Elent reluctantly rubbed the leather on the hilt.
“But Priestess, I need money to buy a new sword. Even an ordinary fine steel sword in Baker City costs five gold coins. The current budget…”
“Who said anything about buying a new one?” Celia turned and walked towards the hall. “Knock off that remaining horn from the ice sculpture and go find Barton.”
The blacksmith shop in the village was hot with rolling heat waves.
Even in this weather, Uncle Barton was still shirtless, swinging his iron hammer in front of the furnace.
His arm, burned by the Flame Demon, was wrapped in bandages, but it didn’t seem to affect his strength.
“Yo, rare guests.” Seeing Celia and Elent arrive, Barton put down his work, a smile spreading across his smoke-blackened face. “Finally came around? That piece of…”
Elent placed the Demon Horn on the anvil.
The moment the ice crystal touched the anvil, a layer of frost formed in the surrounding air.
Barton’s eyes lit up. He reached out to touch the horn, but stopped an inch away. His fingers felt the biting cold and the contained mana.
“Good stuff.” Uncle Barton circled the anvil twice, his gaze somewhat fanatical.
“Top-tier high-level Magical Creature material. Hardness and Magic Conductivity are both S-class. It would be a waste to use it for a hoe. What do you want to forge?”
“A sword,” Elent replied, “one that can withstand intense combat.”
“Ah…” Barton stroked the stubble on his chin, looking Elent up and down.
“Your body has changed after that fire. Ordinary standard swords won’t suit you. This horn is extremely dense; the sword forged from it will be very heavy.”
The old blacksmith took a soft measuring tape from the wall and tossed it on the table.
“I’ll need to remeasure your stats—arm span, palm span, and the expansion coefficient of your muscles when exerting force. If the data is off, the hilt will split your tiger’s mouth.”
With that, Barton turned to find high-temperature-resistant tongs and gloves, preparing to handle that difficult material.
“Measure yourselves and report the data to me.”
Elent picked up the measuring tape, looking clumsy. Using one hand to measure his own arm span was extremely awkward, and the other end kept slipping.
Celia placed her half-drunk Happy Water on a nearby wooden rack.
“So dumb.” The young girl walked over and snatched the tape from Elent’s hand. “Stretch out your arms.”
Elent immediately stood straight, arms extended horizontally, waiting.
Holding the tape, Celia went around behind Elent. To read the scale clearly, she had to step forward, almost pressing into Elent’s arms.
The distance closed.
Elent could clearly see Celia’s lowered eyelashes and the tip of her straight nose.
The faint cool mint scent of the young girl was especially distinct in this sweltering blacksmith shop.
“Don’t move.” Celia’s fingers pressed one end of the tape against Elent’s left shoulder, while her other hand pulled the tape across to his fingertips.
“Arm span increased by two centimeters.” Celia read the data and casually reported it to Barton over there.
Next came chest circumference and muscle circumference.
Celia put away the tape and directly reached out. Her cool fingers pressed onto Elent’s forearm, sliding upward along the muscle fibers.
“Here…” Celia’s fingers stopped at Elent’s triceps, squeezing hard. Hard as a rock.
Elent’s muscles instantly tensed all over.
The Priestess’s hand was very soft and very cool. This sensation transmitted through his thin sweat, sending a fine current through him.
Sensing the stiffness under her hand, Celia smacked his arm in displeasure.
“How can I measure properly if you’re this tense? Do you want the hilt to be made too small so you can’t hold it later?”
“S-sorry…” Elent tried to relax, but his body’s instinctive reaction was completely uncontrollable.
Celia sighed and simply moved behind him. Her hands reached around from under his armpits, pressing against the tendons on his sides.
Her entire body was almost pressed against his back.
Celia’s small head accidentally brushed against Elent’s back, where there was a healed new scar.
The young girl’s fingers lingered on that scar for two seconds, gently stroking it.
“Does it still hurt?” Her voice was very soft, right by his ear.
Elent’s brain nearly crashed.
Hurt? He had long stopped feeling pain. All his senses were focused on those two little hands on his back.
“No… no pain,” Elent replied with a trembling voice.
“That’s good.”
Celia grabbed Elent’s right hand and stacked their hands together. Her hand was very small, barely covering half of his.
Seeing this size difference, Celia suddenly felt a strange displeasure bubble up inside her.
‘Back in the day, I was a proper one-meter-eighty burly man. Now look at me— even my hand looks so small and delicate next to his?’
Somewhat sulkily, Celia forcefully shoved her fingers between his, trying to stretch his palm wider, as if that could reclaim a bit of her past-life dignity.
The palm span didn’t change.
Puffing with irritation, Celia flung away that powerful big hand, leaving the utterly bewildered Hero behind.
Done with all that, Celia let go and reported a series of data to Barton, who was stoking the fire.
“Got it all?”
“Got it, got it.” Barton didn’t turn around, just waved his tongs. “These young people, measuring turns into flirting… tsk.”
Elent’s face was as red as the coal in the furnace.
But Celia acted as if she hadn’t heard, picked up her half-drunk Happy Water, took a sip, then walked to the anvil.
“Uncle Barton.”
“Go on, what requirements do you have for the sword? Sharpness? Armor-piercing?” Barton picked up that horn, ready to put it into the forge.
“That’s not important.” Celia held up one finger. “First, this sword must have a built-in cooling function. I want to stick it into a bucket of water and have it freeze the water in five minutes.”
Barton’s hand jerked, almost dropping the horn on the floor.
“Second, the blade should be wide, preferably flat. That way it’s convenient for cutting watermelon, and it can handle smashing garlic.”
“Third, and most importantly.” Celia pointed to the cart in the corner filled with ice blocks.
“The blade material needs special treatment. I don’t want any metal shavings falling in next time I use it to cut ice or make shaved ice. That would really affect the taste.”
An eerie silence filled the blacksmith shop.
Uncle Barton stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at the Priestess who looked completely serious.
Then he glanced at Elent, whose face was still bright red but who didn’t contradict her at all.
“You…” The old blacksmith took a deep breath, then slammed his tongs heavily onto the anvil.
“You want me to use an S-class Flame Demon Horn to forge a kitchen utensil for cooking?!”
“Is there a technical difficulty?” Celia tilted her head with an innocent look. “If it’s not possible, we can add money. Or…”
The young girl pointed toward the church. “That ice sculpture still has a thigh. Want it as fuel?”
Barton looked at the horn radiating top-tier mana, then thought about that equally top-tier Flame Demon thigh.
As a blacksmith with professional pursuit and integrity, he should have refused such a request that profaned a divine weapon!
But… that was a Flame Demon thigh!
“Deal!” Uncle Barton picked up his hammer. “What’s so hard about a cooling-function kitchen knife? I’ll forge it!”
What a silly girl