"A king's destiny is not inherited. It is earned in blood, choice, and unbroken will." - General Haemosu
The Iron Chamber. In the drama, this place was the heart of Buyeo's military struggle, a smoky, clanging hellscape where the kingdom's hopes lived and died on the quality of a sword's edge.
Standing at the entrance, the heat hit me like a physical wall. It smelled of sulfur, sweat, and burning charcoal. To Jasper, the modern medical resident, it was an OSHA violation nightmare. To Jumong, the Prince of Buyeo, it felt… like a playground.
"Prince!"
A short, stout man with wild hair and a face perpetually smeared with soot came waddling towards me. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, which, if memory served, was his default state when dealing with me...
[A.N: If you've seen the series, you know what I'm talking about...]
Mo-Pal-Mo. The head blacksmith. The man whose loyalty to Jumong was thick enough to stop an arrow.
"Oh, Prince Jumong! Why are you here?" Mo-Pal-Mo wailed, dropping to his knees. "I heard you were bedridden! You should be resting! The air here is bad for your lungs! Musong, you fool, why did you bring him here?"
Musong scratched his head, looking guilty. "The Prince… insisted."
"Get up, Mo-Pal-Mo," I said, my voice cutting through the din of hammers.
Mo-Pal-Mo stopped blubbering instantly and looked up, surprised by the weight of authority in my tone.
"I need a sword," I stated simply.
Mo-Pal-Mo blinked. "A… sword? But Prince, the armory is full of them. I can fetch you a ceremonial blade with gold inlay and..."
"No," I interrupted, walking past him toward the nearest anvil. My eyes scanned the racks of finished weapons. "Those are toys. Pretty, shiny, and useless against the Han Empire's steel. I need something real."
As I looked at the weapons, a strange overlay appeared in my vision like an augmented reality HUD, but purely mental.
Object: Standard Buyeo Sword.
Quality: Low.
Flaws: Uneven carbon distribution. Micro-fractures in the tang. Brittle.
The Essence of the Crafter was speaking to me. And..... it was intoxicating. I didn't just see a sword; I saw its atomic structure, its history, and exactly where it would break if it hit a hard object.
"Prince?" Mo-Pal-Mo looked nervous. "You speak… differently."
"I see differently," I corrected. I reached out and grabbed a pair of tongs. "Mo-Pal-Mo, what is the strongest steel you have right now?"
"Well," the blacksmith hesitated, wringing his hands. "We have been experimenting with a new alloy, trying to replicate the Han Iron Army's durability. But… it is difficult. It keeps cracking when quenched."
"Show me the failures," I commanded.
He led me to a pile of discarded blades in the corner. To him, it was a scrap heap. To me, it was a puzzle waiting to be solved.
I picked up a jagged, broken blade. The Essence analyzed it instantly.
Problem: High phosphorus impurities.
Quenched too rapidly. Temperature control insufficient.
"Fire up the forge," I ordered, taking off my crimson silk outer robe and tossing it to a stunned Musong. "Hotter than usual. And bring me charcoal. Finely ground."
"Prince, you cannot mean to..."
"Do it!"
Mo-Pal-Mo scrambled. He barked orders at his apprentices, and soon the bellows were groaning. The fire roared to life, turning from orange to a blinding white-yellow.
I took a billet of iron. The moment my hand touched the hammer, the world narrowed. The noise of the workshop faded. It was just me, the metal, and the rhythm.
Clang.
My first strike was tentative.
Clang.
The second was confident.
CLANG.
The third was perfect.
I wasn't just hitting metal; I was aligning it. The Essence of the Crafter guided my muscles, adjusting the angle of impact by fractions of a millimeter to drive out impurities. I folded the metal, hammered it, folded it again. I could feel the carbon migrating into the iron lattice, hardening it.
"By the Gods…" Mo-Pal-Mo whispered.
I ignored him. I was in the zone. Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes, but I didn't blink. I was rewriting the destiny of this steel.
I worked for hours. My arms burned, but the Essence of Blank, my limit breaker kept pushing energy into my muscles, preventing fatigue from stopping me.
Finally, it was time to quench.
In the show, they always struggled with the quenching liquid. Mud? Water? Oil?
My instincts told me exactly what to do. I didn't have modern polymers, but I had oil and water. I performed an interrupted quench, oil first to cool it past the pearlite nose, then water to harden it.
Hiss.
Steam exploded upward.
I pulled the blade out. It wasn't shiny. It was a dull, matte grey, with a subtle ripple pattern running down the spine, a primitive form Damascus steel. It looked mean. It looked hungry.
I fitted a simple wooden hilt to it, wrapping it in leather strips. No gold. No jewels.
"Prince," Mo-Pal-Mo approached cautiously, his eyes wide as saucers. "That technique… the folding… the cooling… where did you learn that?"
"In a dream," I said, wiping soot from my forehead. "Let's test it."
I walked over to the rack where a standard soldier's sword hung.
"Prince, be careful!" Musong warned. "That is a guard's blade!"
I didn't hesitate. I swung my new creation.
Schwing-Clack.
There was no resistance. It felt like cutting through hard butter.
The top half of the standard sword slid off and clattered onto the stone floor. The cut was clean, mirror-smooth.
Silence descended on the Iron Chamber. Every hammer stopped. Every bellows paused.
Mo-Pal-Mo stared at the severed sword, then at my blade, then at me. His lower lip trembled. Then, he burst into tears. Again.
"A MASTERPIECE!" he howled, falling to his knees and grabbing my leg. "The Prince has forged a masterpiece! It cuts iron like mud! The Heavens have blessed Buyeo!"
"Get off my leg, Mo-Pal-Mo," I said, though I was grinning. I inspected the edge of my blade. Not a chip.
"What will you call it?" Musong asked, looking at the weapon with newfound fear and respect.
I twirled the sword, feeling its perfect balance. In the original story, Jumong eventually wielded the Sword of the Damian Mountain or something similar. But this? This was mine.
"Restraint," I said.
"Restraint?" Mo-Pal-Mo asked, wiping his nose. "A humble name for such a fierce weapon."
"Because if I don't use it with restraint," I sheathed it into a plain scabbard I grabbed from a table, "I'll run out of enemies too quickly."
Okay, that was a cheesy line, I thought. But I earned it. I'm cool as fuck... Was like clang and clang then swish, then voila....nerfed damascus steel biatch😂
"Musong," I said, grabbing my silk robe. "We leave at dawn. Daeso and Youngpo are expecting a victim. I'm bringing them a predator."
The next morning, the mist was still clinging to the palace grounds.
Prince Daeso and Prince Youngpo were already mounted on their horses, surrounded by a dozen royal guards. They looked regal, impatient, and smug.
I walked out, dressed in travel gear I had slightly modified the night before to allow for easier leg movement. 'Restraint' was strapped to my back, looking like a stick of firewood compared to their ornate, jewel-encrusted scabbards.
"You're late," Daeso said, looking down from his horse.
"The sun has barely risen, Brother," I replied, vaulting onto my horse with a grace that surprised even me. The Essence of the King included proficiency in riding, apparently. I sat in the saddle as if I'd been born there.
Youngpo scoffed, eyeing the dull handle of my sword. "Is that what you're bringing? Did you steal a rusted poker from the kitchen? If we run into bandits, do you plan to beat them with a stick?"
The guards chuckled. Daeso smirked.
I touched the hilt of my sword. I could feel the cold steel humming against my palm.
"It serves its purpose," I said calmly. "Lead the way, Brothers. Damul Mountain awaits."
As we trotted out of the palace gates, I took one last look at the Iron Chamber in the distance. I saw a small, stout figure waving frantically from the roof.
I faced forward, my eyes locking onto the forest path ahead.
The swamp trap was coming. The assassins were waiting.
Bring it on.