In the four decades of my first life, my bad naming sense was the only weakness I hadn’t gotten a chance to rid myself of. I should’ve had the Watchdog fix it, but it was too late to be remembering that now.
“Even if you don’t like your name, your family gave it to you,” I said after Samya recovered from her fit of laughter. “Besides, I think it suits you.”
“Oh, um, thanks,” she replied. Back in Japan, there was a saying: “the crying crow is already laughing.” In this case though, “the laughing tiger is already bashful” would be more accurate. Basically, it meant that a person’s moods are quick to change.
“All right, I’m going to go refill our water supply. It’s a ways from the cabin. Will you be okay by yourself?” I asked.
“Before you go...” She trailed off.
“Hmm? What is it?”
“You haven’t told me your name yet.”
“Oh. Right. I’m Eizo Tanya.” Eizo was my given name, though in my old life I’d introduced myself the other way around.
“It sounds Nordic. You have a family name and everything.”
“If you say so.”
According to the geographic data, in this world, the region similar to Asia was in the north, not the east. The people who lived there were called the Nordic people.
“My bad, I didn’t mean to pry. Family names are rare here.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I suppose you’ve already guessed why I’m setting up my workshop in an isolated place like this.”
In this world, it was rare for a man with a family name—in other words, a man from an established family line—to move to another region of the world, and to work as a blacksmith in a remote forest no less. It was unthinkable for someone of such status to choose the life of a recluse for themselves. Samya had connected the dots and drawn her own conclusions about my background.
“Looks like you’ve got it rough too,” Samya said in camaraderie.
“I’m doing all right for myself.” For now, at least. “Can you help me out and only use my first name?”
“No problem, Eizo.”
“Thanks, Samya.”
I left Samya to rest in bed so I could go fetch water. It was a vital commodity since it was the foundation of all life. I planned to go back to the lake with two empty medium-sized water jugs I’d found in the cabin. They hung from both ends of a shoulder pole and had ropes threaded into their mouths for easy carry.
“They look pretty heavy,” I mumbled, but this was a necessary task to pave the way for a slow life. I could’ve gotten Samya to help me, but she’d be annoyed if she wasn’t able to lift them. So, I steeled myself and hefted the carrying pole onto my shoulders.
Contrary to my expectations, the jugs were light. Not light as a feather, per se, but about the same weight as a large plastic bucket from my old world. What kind of ceramic were these made of?
“Wait, that’s not it...”
The jugs weren’t light; I was just strong. Had the Watchdog judged this to be the minimum amount of strength I’d need to survive in this world, or maybe...? I left that question for another time. Right now, I had to retrieve water, so I headed out to the lake.
The trip took about thirty minutes from start to finish between travel time and filling the jugs. I’d be coming back every day from now on. The containers never became too heavy for me to carry, despite their volume. There was no doubt that I could lift more than before.
When I returned to the cabin, I ate a breakfast of tofu and cured meat soup with Samya. Afterward, I ushered her back to the bedroom for rest and recovery, before turning to the workshop.
There, I found the answer as to why I was now so strong.
I thought about what I should try to smith first and settled on a small knife. A larger project would’ve taken more time, and my muscle memory needed the opportunity to sync up with the installed blacksmithing data and experiences. I figured I should start with a series of small items.
“But before that, I need a bit of magic,” I said. I conjured fire to light the hearth, and the forge readily responded to the magic. The bed of charcoal started to smolder and a deep red light glowed from between pieces of coal. I knew that the forge would automatically circulate the flames I’d produced in order to maintain a stable temperature throughout the hearth, but I didn’t know exactly how it worked. As expected of a magical item, I suppose. Thank god I didn’t have to build the fire from scratch.
With the forge going, I directed my magic toward the bellows. I pictured myself pumping power through my body and summoned a wind that blew out of my palms. It was just a momentary breeze, nothing so powerful as to blow a person away. Like the forge, the bellows took up the thread of my magic and started to work—it used my wind as fuel without needing any more manual intervention from me.
I manipulated my magic and worked the forge and bellows to slowly raise the temperature of the fire hotter and hotter. I was planning to use the four-centimeters-wide by one-centimeter-thick iron bands from the raw material storage. I guessed they’d been provided as freebies. I picked one up with the tongs and thrust it into the firepot.
“I thought I was prepared, but it’s really sweltering in here,” I said to myself.
At 800°C, the iron began to change color. It needed to be even hotter before it became malleable though, so it was only natural that the air near the forge was scorching. I was dripping with sweat, so I removed my leather vest. However, I kept on the hemp shirt to protect myself from stray sparks.