The path to the northern rocks turned out not just long, but fucking exhausting. The fog that had shrouded the City of Flowers finally dispersed only on the approaches to the foothills, replaced by the sun beating the fuck into the eyes. The mountains of Wano seemed like gray, unsociable giants, rooted into the sky. The trail they were walking on wound now along the edge of cliffs, now went into dense bamboo groves, where the air was saturated with the smell of dampness and something sharp, almost metallic.
Old man Takumi groaned, but stubbornly walked forward, leaning on his new stick, which Muichiro had made. He whispered something under his breath, sometimes glancing at Muichiro, who moved silently, like a shadow, not noticing any fatigue, nor the difficulties of the path at all. Muichiro, despite his outward calm, was internally tense to the limit. Every tree, every stone seemed specially highlighted in his "Transparent World," betraying invisible flows of energy, and he had to fucking suppress this feeling. Of course this was habitual for him, after all which time he uses this ability—can't even count.
After three hours of ascent, when the sun was already at its zenith, they finally reached the plateau. Here the mountains parted, opening a view of a jagged basin, from which thin streams of smoke rose. The air became denser, hotter, in it appeared a characteristic, acrid smell of burning coal and red-hot metal.
"Well, we've arrived," Takumi uttered hoarsely, pointing with his stick at several inconspicuous buildings stuck to the cliffs. "This... is the village of blacksmiths. Here live those who are not afraid of fire and the ring of blades. And among them—that very psycho you're looking for."
They descended onto the plateau. The village turned out to be small, more like a cluster of roughly made stone and wood houses, pressed against the cliffs. From every second structure came a furious pounding of hammers, grinding of metal, sometimes—explosions of steam. On the ground lay pieces of ore, half-finished blades, fragments of tools. Everything around was blackened with soot.
The villagers—sturdy, broad-shouldered men and women in rough leather aprons—threw brief, wary glances at them. Muichiro caught in them a mixture of distrust and habitual tiredness. No one smiled.
"Listen, Yui," Takumi lowered his voice when they stopped at an improvised square by a small well. "I need to go to relatives. My sister... Well, we haven't seen each other for about ten years, and she needs help around the house. So I'll be gone for a couple of hours. If you want, you can wait for me there, by the cliff," he waved his hand towards a large, blackened stone on the edge of the precipice. "Or... you can start the search."
Muichiro nodded.
"I'll go to him. How will I recognize him?"
Takumi smirked. "Oh, you'll recognize him right away. He's the only one in all of Wano who wears that fucking stupid Tengu mask and yells so that stones crumble. And his forge... it's the most shithole one, but from it always comes the blackest smoke. Temper like an enraged wolf, but hands—golden, they say. Although... no one has seen his creations for a long time now."
The old man rummaged in his battered bag and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped in cloth bundle. "Here. This is for him. Onigiri. Specially for Haganezuko. He adores them. Just look, don't give it right away. Let him yell first, and then. Maybe then he won't immediately bash your head in with a hammer."
Muichiro uncertainly took the bundle. "Why do I need this?"
"Because he's fucking mentally unbalanced, and going to him empty-handed is asking for trouble!" Takumi slapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, I'm off. Good luck, Yui. And don't let him shackle you alive."
With these words, old man Takumi dissolved into the narrow passages between the houses, leaving Muichiro alone in the middle of the smoking blacksmith village. In his hands was a bundle of onigiri, and somewhere ahead waited a person capable of either throwing him a challenge, or simply chopping his head off.
Muichiro sighed. "Fucking stupid errands again. That asshole again..."
He moved forward, looking for that very "shithole forge" with the blackest smoke. It was impossible to pass by it. It stood at the very edge of the plateau, almost overhanging the precipice, as if ready to collapse into the abyss at the first push. The walls were laid of rough stone, half the roof was slanted, and the broken windows were stuffed with whatever. But from it poured such thick, black smoke that the sky above it seemed cut out of night in the middle of the day. And through this smoke, through the roar of hammers from neighboring forges, came... shrieks.
These were not just shouts. It was something between the growl of a predator, a hysterical fit, and an angry motherfucking curse that could only be heard from a blacksmith deprived of his last ingot of valuable ore.
"IT'S ALL YOU! YOU, TALENTLESS PIECES OF SHIT! HOW CAN YOU TREAT A BLADE LIKE THAT?! IT'S LIKE THE MASTER'S OWN SOUL! EVERY STRIKE IS LOVE! AND YOU! YOU KILL IT! KILL IT!"
Muichiro, approaching closer, felt the heat emanating from the forge even through his thick clothes. He stopped at the slanted wooden door. "This one is exactly the same. Or almost. Let's check," flashed through his thoughts.
He knocked. Barely audible.
From inside came a new roll of rage.
"WHO'S THERE?! DAMN IT! IF IT'S THOSE FUCKING HALFWITS FROM THE UPPER FORGE AGAIN, ASKING ABOUT THE NEW ORDER FOR OROCHI, I'LL SHOVE THAT ORDER UP THEIR FUCKING ASSES ALONG WITH THEIR STUPID HEADS!"
Muichiro waited a second.
"I need the blacksmith Haganezuko," he said in a calm, even voice.
Inside there was a sudden, deafening silence. It seemed even the burning coal stopped hissing. Then a hoarse, slowly uttered voice came:
"Who... are you?"
Muichiro carefully pushed the door. It swung open with a creak and a cloud of hot steam. The forge was a gloomy, cluttered room. In the center burned a furnace, throwing out fiery flashes, illuminating piles of coal, metal blanks, bent tools, and kitchen utensils heaped in piles. The air was heavy, saturated with the smell of soot and sweat.
And in the middle of all this chaos stood he. A short, sturdy man, completely hidden under a Tengu mask, from under which only disheveled black hair stuck out. He held in his hands a huge hammer that seemed to weigh more than he himself. And his body trembled slightly from it. This Haganezuko was like an alien, but painfully familiar copy.
"I... have business," began Muichiro, keeping an impassive face. He pulled out the bundle with onigiri. "Old man Takumi told me you are the most... skilled blacksmith here. And that you really love onigiri."
Haganezuko shuddered. The Tengu mask remained motionless, but his shoulders tensed. He stared at Muichiro's hands, but his gaze seemed to burn through the fabric of the bundle.
"Onigiri...? Ta-ku-mi... That old geezer... He still remembers my favorite recipe...!" – something like a tremor sounded in his voice, which was completely uncharacteristic of the screaming creature a second earlier. But then Haganezuko's gaze became hard again. "That's no excuse to distract me from work, idiot! Tell me what you need, quickly!"
Muichiro understood: this blacksmith, though similar, did not recognize him. There was no instant recognition, no name, no style, nor that crazy gleam in the eyes that could betray a connection to the past. So, this is not that Haganezuko. A feeling of slight disappointment flashed barely noticeably in his usually empty eyes, but he immediately suppressed it. He needed a blacksmith, not a ghost from a long-gone life.
Slowly Muichiro untied the rags, took the sword from his back, and pulled the black blade from its sheath. The blade flashed in the light of the furnace.
"I need help. And possibly repair. This blade... it's kind of unbalanced. But I think if you help me, it can handle any task."
Haganezuko froze, forgetting about the onigiri. He slowly lowered the hammer. His gaze through the slits in the Tengu mask fixed on the blade. He stretched out a trembling hand and carefully took the sword from Muichiro's hands.
"A b-b-black blade... What the...A Swordmaster? How cool the sword looks..... with red veins… the h-h-hilt… and th-this… th-th-these sheaths!" – Haganezuko sniffed the blade, his body began to tremble. Then he sharply pulled his hand back, as if shocked. His voice sounded faltering, rage growing in it, this time without the previous restrained delight, but with pure, genuine malice. – "What… WHAT IS THIS?!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FILTH?! THIS IS AN UNFINISHED SWORD! HALF-BAKED! WHAT THE FUCK?! THIS… THIS IS A MOCKERY OF REAL BLADES! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS HORROR?! KID! I'M SURPRISED YOU'RE ALIVE.....DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT'S WRONG WITH IT?"
"No, it wasn't my fucking business to find out what's wrong with it..... I seem to take care of it constantly..... What's wrong with it?" Muichiro to Haganezuko
He turned the blade in his hands, studying it millimeter by millimeter. His fingers, accustomed to the perfection of steel, clenched from disappointment, from the insult he felt from this blade. He saw a flaw in it and that's why his face was red.
"Who forged this piece of shit?!" roared Haganezuko, his voice was dull with rage, but genuine passion for the purity and ideal of the blade rang in it. "And what… idiot… brought the blade to such a state?! This… this is not a blade, it's ABUSE of steel! HOW DARE YOU SHOW ME SUCH A FAKE?!" He carefully turned the blade under the light of the furnace. "Who gave this to you? GIVE ME THE NAME, SO I CAN STAB HIM WITH A KNIFE AND TURN HIS GUTS INSIDE OUT!"
Haganezuko threw the blade onto the dusty anvil with such force that an echo spread through the forge. He grabbed the huge hammer.
"You… you insult me! Bringing me THIS! Get the hell out! Or I'll chop you in half right now along with this wretched thing!"
Muichiro remained unperturbed. He stepped to the anvil, took his blade.
"I came for help. Not for cursing. And this blade… it's not a fake. It's… a real blade. As I say...I don't understand what you're talking about...."
Haganezuko's face under the Tengu mask seemed to twitch with rage.
"HOW CAN YOU NOT UNDERSTAND! DON'T YOU SEE?!" He suddenly fell silent, his gaze fell on the onigiri lying on the edge of the furnace. From there came a warm, pleasant smell. The rage in his eyes subsided slightly, replaced by a hungry gleam. He took one onigiri, bit into it. Chewed.
Then looked at Muichiro again.
"Alright… alright, you silent freak. Takumi was always too kind. But I… I can't pass by such a challenge." He pointed at the blade. "This… this is not just bad work. This… is potential, ruined by incompetence. And I… I can't allow this. No blacksmith can! NO ONE!"
Haganezuko snatched the blade from Muichiro's hands, but with a different energy now—the energy of obsession.
"I… I'll fix it. I'll show you what a real blade is! And how you must wield it so it no longer insults my eye with its pitiful appearance!"
He approached the furnace, his movements became fast and precise, despite the mask.
"Sit down, freak! And don't interfere! I'll show you now what TRUE SHARPENING is!"
A shadow of a smile appeared on Muichiro's face, barely noticeable under the bamboo hat. He got what he came for—access to a blacksmith who might give him answers without asking too many questions about the past. For now.
He nodded. "Okay. I agree."
Haganezuko growled something again and, without looking back, began to fan the furnace to start work on the blade. The smell of red-hot metal and coal again filled the forge.
Muichiro sat on the chair offered by a fist. For the first time in a long time, he felt that this world could be more interesting....
But he didn't appreciate the insults against himself.
"Let's see, old man, what you're capable of." Muichiro to himself and watched Haganezuko.