Volume 6 Chapter 71 Blacksmith Of The Other World
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
I felt my way along a narrow gravel path through the bamboo grove and parked my car next to a small white kei truck.
Is this really a parking lot? Old bulldozer buckets were piled up in one corner of the empty space.
Green leaves grew thick over everything — the wild and scary Kuzu vine. From its roots, people get good starch.
That Kuzu vine stretched over the bamboo, fighting hard against the Moso bamboo for space and power.
Moso bamboo was also a troublemaker in empty areas. Its underground stems spread far and wide, even breaking through asphalt — a real monster. But taro shoots from it taste good.
”The forest is crying, you know. Because we forget to take care of it,” Uncle Keisuke said.
It sounded like a good point, but when Uncle said it, something felt off.
At the top of stone steps stood a forgotten shrine. Uncle clapped his hands and dropped a banknote into the offering box.
”Huh? A ten-thousand-yen bill? What big wish did you make?” I asked.
I’d seen money in boxes before, but never watched anyone put in such a large bill.
”Haha, respect the gods but don’t depend on them,” he said with a grin. “That’s how it should be.”
”That’s Miyamoto Musashi, right?” I said.
He told the story from Musashi’s famous duel at Ichijō-ji Shigarimatsu, the one they made a movie about.
”Hey, Sab-Sab knows that too? Honestly, I want to show off a little with money. On New Year’s visits, dropping a ten-thousand-yen bill makes a splash. For that, it’s cheap,” Uncle said proudly.
A strange kind of bragging.
”Well, we’re the only one here now,” I added.
”I know. But if you don’t do it regularly, it feels weird. Doing it naturally looks cooler,” he shrugged.
I sighed. Uncle had his own stubborn ways. His reasons might be a bit selfish, but in the end, it wasn’t a bad thing. The gods were probably just tired of him.
I didn’t feel any godly presence, but the mana around here was a little thicker. This place was a power spot.
The Earth’s mana here was thin compared to some places, but it often grew strong near shrines and temples. Probably, old people built their sacred sites on these spots on purpose.
Deep rumbling sounds came from beyond the bamboo grove. Uncle must be heading that way.
The sound was closer than I thought. The bamboo leaves swallowed most of the noise, like a natural soundproof wall.
The noise came from a shed with a rusty corrugated iron roof. A huge industrial fan roared in front of its open door. Electricity even ran deep into this grove.
An old television antenna stood nearby, its rods like fish bones — a Yagi antenna. It was long unused and wrapped in Kuzu vines, giving it a spooky, haunted look I liked.
”Mr. Ono, I’m coming in,” Uncle called as he pushed open the shed door without hesitation.
Inside, a middle-aged man in work clothes held a piece of metal before a mechanical hammer.
”We don’t do knife-making lessons anymore,” Mr. Ono said calmly.
”It’s me, Mr. Ono. Keisuke, the one you helped before,” Uncle said.
Mr. Ono didn’t seem to remember Uncle Keisuke, which made sense—they weren’t close. Still, he let us stay. He was a kind man.
Uncle watched the modern forging work closely, clearly impressed. It was very different from how things were done in the other world. I was curious too.
The mechanical hammer called the “Belt Hammer” caught my eye most. Mr. Ono worked it calmly, like sewing with a machine.
Swinging a heavy hammer by hand in a hot forge was hard work. Honestly, this machine was a genius invention. The parts weren’t complicated — maybe a water wheel could power it in the other world.
Though the dwarves with their super strength probably didn’t need one.
There were plenty of other helpful tools too.
The gas-powered compact furnace was great. Turning a lever changed the heat easily, making blacksmithing much simpler.
In forging, you need to control the fire perfectly. This machine made it so easy it almost felt boring. But convenience was key.
Mr. Ono showed me how he joined steel to iron. The exact temperature of the steel during work was a secret, but he seemed a bit too relaxed telling me, a stranger.
You could guess the temperature by the metal’s red glow, but staring at it hurts your eyes. Blacksmiths often lose their sight from this — a common risk of the job.
I could feel the temperature without looking, thanks to a cheat ability. Maybe an infrared thermometer made my skill useless now.
Mr. Ono hammered the iron at the right heat with the belt hammer, using a foot pedal to control it.
His strikes were quick and steady, which was good. You had to shape iron while hot. If it cooled, you’d need to reheat it, wasting time and fuel.
The belt hammer’s power couldn’t be changed, but because it hit with the same strength every time, you could manage it easily. A machine was more reliable than a clumsy partner who just nodded along.
Mr. Ono turned the metal quickly, shaping it closer to a knife.
Forging often means pounding out metal impurities, but he skipped that step and went straight to shaping. The steel must be very high quality.
Japan was a technology leader. Their metal refining was far better than in the other world. You could cut and harden steel plates without forging and still get a decent knife.
Until a few hundred years ago, Japan was probably no different from the other world. Without magic, we might have been at a loss.
Through craftsmanship, they forged amazing swords, but it was far from modern mass production.
The Meiji Restoration brought huge changes, just like England’s Industrial Revolution. Technology leaps forward fast when something triggers it.
Bringing a belt hammer to the other world might shake it up. Easy blade mass production would change life and war alike.
Maybe the world before Meiji or that other world was how things should be. No, but technology does grow over time.
When Mr. Ono finished shaping the knife, the shelf held many similar unfinished blades.
”You split the work into steps and handle each part separately,” I said. “That’s smart.”
He nodded. “With enough people, you could set a line and do assembly work. Conveyor belts would boost speed.”
As a craftsman, I didn’t want that. Conveyor belts were efficient, but working at my own pace was more fun.
I hoped this world wouldn’t turn into one of mass production and waste. Maybe stopping civilization’s rush wasn’t so bad.
When Japan fought America, it’s said craftsmen filed plane engine parts while praying for victory. I used to laugh at that, but in a medieval world, that was normal. It’s hard to say what’s right.
Looking around, Mr. Ono wasn’t doing any quenching today.
That was a secret skill, not to be shown to outsiders.
Steel’s hardness depends on the material and quenching. Hard steel cuts well but breaks like glass.
If you make it sharp, it’s fragile. If tough, it won’t cut well. A perfect tool is a contradiction.
Japanese swords balance this by wrapping a tough core with a hard steel blade. I knew that well.
Wajo knives use two types of steel too, but with a simple two-layer method to speed up production. You only sharpen the front, which saves time.
It’s harder for beginners, but easy once you get used to it. The simple design felt satisfying.
* **
In about an hour, Mr. Ono shaped three knives. I guessed he didn’t make much money at this speed.
There was still heat treatment, polishing, handles, and packaging before sale. Materials and fuel costs added up too, so the price was high.
”Boy, you’re watching close. Want to try making a knife?” Mr. Ono asked.
”Really? Is that okay?” I said.
”If you mess around, you could get hurt. You’re responsible for yourself.”
Handling hot metal and hammers was dangerous.
By the way, where was Uncle? I couldn’t see him, so I used Radar Scan.
He’d gotten bored watching and was teasing a sleeping cat outside. Better leave him be.
I saw him placing steel in the furnace earlier. Mr. Ono was quiet, just watching.
Ah, maybe Uncle was meant to do this step. A novice messing up the furnace would be disaster.
I had no right to stop him, but I wouldn’t let others touch my tools. Only trusted masters could. I wasn’t that trusting.
Thanks to my cheat, I knew the steel’s core was red-hot. I pulled it out with Mr. Ono and hammered it flat with the belt hammer.
At first, I was lost, but the belt hammer was super easy — no, it was really fun.
Since it was a machine that didn’t think, it felt different from working with a person, but it was steady and reliable.
Remembering Mr. Ono’s skill, I tried my own style.
Copying exactly was hard, and I was a full blacksmith now. I thought I handled the metal well enough.
If I stretched it too far, I couldn’t fix it, so I had to be careful. But being too careful didn’t work either. Knowing when to be bold was a craftsman’s skill. Even if I failed, I wouldn’t die, like Mr. Zenom said.
Alright, I made something that could stand next to Mr. Ono’s work. It took less than ten minutes, but I was really focused. Not bad for a first try.
It felt good to be back at blacksmithing. Making something made me feel alive.
”I’m surprised. No, it’s weird. Were you training somewhere… or are you a genius? If it’s you, boy, you could start work tomorrow. It’d be cool if you took over — though a master losing to an apprentice isn’t stylish,” Mr. Ono muttered seriously.
Well, no amateur suddenly does this well. Blacksmithing wasn’t easy.
Even with cheats, it took me a year to be fully skilled. I made a mountain of prizes at Uno’s place. In work hours, that’s like decades of experience.
Thinking that way, I’d put in a lot of effort.
Since Mr. Ono kindly showed me his skills, I wanted to give back a little.
”May I take this iron? Also, can I borrow that anvil and hammer?” I asked, picking up a scrap piece of iron.
”That’s fine if it’s just that,” Mr. Ono said.
The rusty anvil looked like a short piece of old railroad track. It was worn smooth and rounded on the edges. This was called a rail anvil.
The hammer looked old too, rusty and unused recently. It was bigger than a regular mallet but smaller than ones I used in the other world. Too light would tire you out, but this had good balance. It should work.
Well then, if I made something, it would be a tamagoyaki pan — a small square frying pan.
I made a few in the other world — bending copper plates, casting, even forging some. I’d keep making them until I was happy.
I heated the iron in the furnace, held it with tongs, and placed it on the anvil. Then I hammered it nonstop.
If you’re careless, iron cracks. Though I wasn’t at that level anymore, basics always mattered.
There was nothing like swinging a hammer with skill. The image flowed through my arms with every strike.
A feeling that I could make anything. Even if it was just a tamagoyaki pan.
”Hmm, can you really shape it well with such simple tools? That’s skill.” Mr. Ono said.
Simple? Well, coming from the owner, I guess it was.
Alright, new plan. I’d make a hammer next.
Making your own tools was basic for a blacksmith. It also had meaning.
Showing Mr. Ono a tamagoyaki pan first might have confused him.
I shaped the hammer with a handle attached.
”Compared to the belt hammer, you can control the strength fully. Once used to it, it’s easier,” I said.
For those used to machines, hand tools might be easier. But tools only work as well as the user.
People fix their weak spots with tools, and when tools fail, people adjust. Wisdom and effort, meeting halfway — it’s not so different from human relationships.
”Well, Sab-Sab, looks like you’re doing something fun,” Uncle Keisuke said as he showed up, looking tired of cats.
Cats don’t change. Some folks say they ignored him completely. Yeah, cats are really good at that.
A second visitor, an old man wearing short pants under a kimono, leaned in from the entrance to the workshop.
”I thought the banging noise sounded nice—you’re Take-Take, right?” the old man asked, calling Mr. Ono by a name only close friends would use.
Is he a blacksmith too? From the way he praised the hammering, it didn’t feel like something a normal person would say.
Better stay focused. If I let my mind wander, I might mess this up. But I think… I’m close to making something really good.
* * *
After showing off my forging like a street act for the three guests watching, everyone helped clean the place.
Uncle mostly got in the way, but I think Mr. Ono understood what he was trying to say.
Later on, Mr. Ono invited us over for dinner. Of course, Uncle tagged along.
We left the workshop and walked about ten minutes through a bamboo path and across rice fields until we reached a small group of old houses. One of them was Mr. Ono’s.
A narrow waterway ran past the yard, and tiny fireflies blinked on and off near the edge. The water must’ve been really clean.
When we slid open the door, loud music from a popular net anime blasted out. It’s the kind kids in junior high and high school love. Coming back here after a whole year, I kind of felt like Urashima Tarō.
Mr. Ono and Uncle clinked their beer cans together, clearly enjoying themselves. But the family didn’t seem too excited to have surprise guests.
Especially the daughter. She looked completely annoyed. Can’t blame her—the dinner was tonkatsu.
The house had three people, but now there were five at the table. The pork cutlets were already two-thirds gone.
For a middle schooler with a growing body, that’s a huge deal. Having your share of side dishes vanish is no small thing.
Maybe it’s because my sister eats a lot too, but I don’t dislike kids with big appetites. I used to be chubby when I was younger.
It’s not great to overeat, but what’s wrong with being hungry?
”Um, would it be okay if I used your kitchen?” I asked, glancing at the lady of the house. “We caught something earlier. I’d like to share it. It’s swordfish, so I’ll slice it up into sashimi.”
”Sashimi?” the girl said, her eyes suddenly sparkling.
Looks like she likes fish. Good—maybe this will make things smoother.
With help from the wife—plump, no, let’s say full-figured—I thinly sliced the swordfish and laid it out nicely on a plate.
She grated ginger straight from the garden and chopped up fresh green onions from the yard. Having a backyard like that… I’m jealous.
With soy sauce and ginger, most fish end up tasting kind of the same. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. Even raw swordfish has its charm. Ginger really does wonders.
”Whoa, that’s so good! Is this tuna?” the girl asked between bites.
She seemed to like it. She even forgot about her tonkatsu.
”Mmm—amazing! You can tell the taste of sashimi changes with how the knife moves! You can’t cut like this with just any blade!” Uncle said proudly, puffing out his chest.
Mr. Ono’s family smiled at the compliment. Looks like even Uncle can read the room sometimes.
”Ohh, you’re doing it—keep going!” the old man in the short hakama called as he walked in, holding a big bottle of sake tied with string.
He didn’t look like a relative. More like an old neighbor who dropped by often enough to feel at home.
Maybe that’s how countryside neighborhoods work. Still, you could mess up fast if you misread those lines.
”Wow, what a nice bottle! Thank you so much,” I said politely.
I didn’t know the brand, but Uncle’s grateful face said everything—it was probably expensive. Could this old man be rich?
Since he brought it, I figured I’d slice up some mackerel too, freshly caught.
”This is amazing! This is really mackerel? I can’t believe how good it tastes!” the old man said with wide eyes.
The girl and her mom started eating fast, like they were racing.
Mackerel’s always tasty, but it spoils quick. This one was still fresh—less than a minute since it died.
I tried a piece myself. The flavor stood strong, even with the ginger soy. It was out of season, but still fatty and rich. Delicious.
”If it tastes like this, I should’ve caught more mackerel,” Uncle said, looking a little regretful.
He might get sick of it quick though. Balance is key.
”Are there any good crucian carp around here?” I asked.
Gifu’s inland, so fish from another world might taste different. Still, if there are carp dishes, I want to try them someday.
”Eww, crucian carp are nasty,” the girl said, making a face.
Middle schoolers toss around the word “gross” way too fast. Hits harder than you’d think.
Is crucian carp really gross? They’re close to goldfish, after all.
”We don’t have crucian carp here, but I eat sweetfish a lot,” Mr. Ono said.
So even in Gifu, fish preferences change by area.
”When I was a kid, we ate carp,” the old man in the hakama said, nodding. “But I liked pond smelt more. Also loaches, eels, catfish… but in school, I learned about pollution stuff like itai-itai disease. That’s probably when I stopped eating river fish.”
Sounds like local fish carry risks too—pesticides, pollution, all that.
”Simmered in sweet soy sauce, right?” I asked.
”Exactly. You can buy sweetfish like that at the supermarket here. It goes great with sake,” he said.
If the Dukedom sells soy sauce and syrup, sweetfish would be easy to preserve. Maybe it’s a specialty there too.
”Boy, you’re not just good at smithing. You cook well too,” Mr. Ono said with a grin.
”Yeah, the way you cut the mackerel so clean without breaking it… just like Miyamoto Musashi,” the old man added.
Musashi again. Must be a Showa-era thing. Probably loved from when he was serialized in the newspapers.
I don’t feel a big gap, though. I’ve read plenty of old books from Dad’s shelf. Timeless stuff.
”Hey, Boy, how about becoming our son-in-law? You can take over the house,” Mr. Ono said, now fully drunk.
”Gross! I hate you, Dad!!” the girl shouted, her face red.
She stormed off, stomping up the stairs. Then slam!—a loud door shut that echoed through the house.
”Take-Take, you idiot. Don’t you know girls that age are sensitive?” the old man with hakama laughed.
Mr. Ono sat slumped over, mentally crushed. The sake bottle was probably empty. They really drank a lot.
The wife looked confused but started tidying up, so I joined her. I also resharpened the kitchen knife I’d borrowed.
”I tried to restore the knife to how it was sharpened before,” I said.
”You’re such a serious one. As long as it cuts, it’s fine,” she replied.
Did I overdo it? Hope I didn’t make her feel awkward.
* * *
While I cleaned, the three drinkers sat watching a video—of course, still drinking. They munched on rice crackers, and the second bottle was already half gone.
That’s almost a full liter of sake. Just the three of them. Crazy. I can’t even drink that much water.
The video showed Grandpa forging a sword. He might really be a swordsmith.
On screen, he wore proper work robes, not the short pants. His back was straight. He looked impressive.
He worked the bellows to adjust the charcoal flame, folded the steel again and again. Strange box-shaped bellows caught my eye.
Each strike knocked away black flakes—impurities. But some are needed. Too much forging might ruin it.
If I searched online, I’d find the impurity types easy. Feels like cheating.
Uncle and Mr. Ono got bored halfway and stopped watching. But I watched to the end. Then I rewatched from the beginning.
Even through video, I could learn a lot. If I searched more, I might find blacksmithing from all over the world.
Kinda dumb to share such rare knowledge online, but swords aren’t weapons anymore. They’re not secrets now.
”The boy’s something else. Watching that without getting bored takes talent,” the old man said.
Getting praised by a real craftsman feels nice. I heard swordsmiths struggle to find apprentices.
If I wasn’t planning to go back to the other world, I’d honestly consider staying.
I thought about life as a swordsmith in a small town… If I’d taken Nina with the life machine, maybe we could’ve lived quietly here.
But… I’ve met important people in that world too. Family here matters, but so do they. Can’t protect both. It hurts.
”No, I’ve got a long way to go,” I said. “Watching the video was a big help. I heard you can even stream these now.”
What a time we live in. Even people out here can share their work with the world.
I wonder if it’s okay, sharing secret blacksmith skills so easily.
With cameras this good, it’s like seeing it in person.
These days, doctors even diagnose online—wait, hold on.
You can’t cross another worlds alive, but items can go through. That’s allowed.
So you could send memory cards or letters freely.
”The Bureau already trades across worlds. So something like that should work.”
Even if people can’t meet again, sharing letters or videos is fine, right?
Once they’re adults, they only meet at Obon or New Year anyway.
Just like ther Jirou, always overseas. Sometimes, no news is good news.
Wait, I got it. Not full back-and-forth travel—but a two-way postal system. That’s it!
Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
No, maybe I did. Somewhere in the back of my head.
But now I see it clearly.
”Starting from nothing is tough, but if I copy what the Bureau’s doing, it’ll work. The only question is whether the gods allow it.”
But since the Bureau does it, it should be fine.
I’ve learned how to read the gods’ signs. If they say no, it’ll be obvious.
I should write this down before I forget.
* * *
After the bath, the wife had laid out a fluffy futon. The room was huge.
”Old farmhouses are so big. Must’ve been made for big families.”
Uncle was already snoring.
”I owe Mr. Ono’s family a lot. I should find a way to thank them,” I muttered. “Uncle could help with Earth-side things if I trade with the other world. He’s a bit unreliable, though.”
Brother Jirou’s reliable but busy. Uncle might change jobs again soon… or maybe he’s planning to settle down?
Looking toward the sound of wings, I saw large white moths on the screen door.
They were Oomizuao moths—pretty but creepy. They had another name: Yuugao Byoutan.
Their caterpillars ate walnut leaves. Maybe they’d grow well in the other world too.
Oomizuao, Kususan, Ustawabi—all wild silkmoths. Their silk is super strong.
Bringing them over… would it cause problems? If they mix with local silkworms, things could get messy.
If I take insects, I’ll hide them in my Magic Bag. Moth eggs should slip through.
Plant seeds or mushroom spores are more fragile… but I won’t know until I try.
Oh right, someone asked for Japanese koji mold. Where do you buy the starters?
The red-eyed bugs on the door were oddly pretty. Watching them made my eyelids heavy.
A gold bug flew past. Was that a beetle? Not a stag or rhino beetle, but a rare kind. Like a summer bug party, with all of them flying to the light.
Japanese bugs are crazy varied. Not as big as monsters, but not lacking either.
Now that I think about it—have I fought real monsters there?
Just quails and that big pig.
The pig tasted great.
I want to eat bacon tomorrow.
Notes:
• Keisuke – Saburou’s Mother’s younger brother. Saburou’s uncle.
• Musashi – The four who enter the valley of trial. Justice’s underling, the thief, who assists in trying to enslave the protagonist.
• Mr. Zenom – Tough dwarf blacksmith from Toyoata Village. Repairs weapons, improves accuracy. Charges 100 gold/arrow. Becomes protagonist’s strict master. Assigns hard tasks like pre-dawn cleaning, firewood, water pumping. Owns well-equipped forge. Challenges protagonist to prove ideas.
• Nina – Doll Princess (Auroora 217), renamed by the protagonist. Beautiful blonde, ~168 cm, slim waist. Wears adventurer attire. Made from artificial parts and wooden limbs, resembling a princess. Knowledgeable, can read, write, and use basic healing magic. Reliable partner, often saves the protagonist with her skills.
• Jirou – Male. Saburou’s other older brother. He is a shady businessman with a villainous look. He is more understanding of Saburou’s experiences in another world due to his exposure to light novels and anime. He is also tight-lipped, which makes him a good confidant for Saburou’s secrets.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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