I'm not a Witcher anymore.

Chapter 154 You are the Sword Saint Skarlitz?

The moment I stepped out of the castle, a pungent smell of damp earth, animal dung, and the distinctive, acrid smell of sulfur and charcoal wafted towards me.

The town of Skarlitz is right next to the castle and stretches down the hillside.

From where Zig stood, one could see rows of wooden and stone houses scattered along the winding streets, their roofs covered with thatched roofs or blackened wooden tiles, and wisps of smoke rising from countless chimneys mingling with the black smoke from distant smelting furnaces.

There were already quite a few pedestrians walking around on the street.

Early-rising peasant women carried bamboo baskets to the well to fetch water, while sturdy miners with faces covered in soot carried their tools toward the silver mine.

Several barefoot children chased and played in the mud, occasionally letting out a few clear laughs.

Everything seemed calm and normal, as if the murder in the castle last night had never happened.

Zieg strode forward, with Haitar close behind half a step behind, while two soldiers stood guard on either side, vigilantly observing their surroundings.

They hadn't gone far from the castle gates when Zig's gaze was drawn to a building not far away.

It was a blacksmith shop.

The blacksmith shop is in a very special location.

It was not built on the main street of the town, but rather on a separate plot of land between the castle and the town, less than two hundred meters from the castle gate.

This location is closer to the castle than any other house in town, which clearly indicates that it has received some kind of special permission.

"What place is that?" Zieg asked, pointing to the blacksmith's shop.

Matos looked in the direction Zieg was pointing, a hint of respect appearing on his face.

"Your Highness, the owner of that blacksmith shop is named Martin, and he is the most famous swordsmith in the area."

He paused, then continued, "The most trusted blacksmith in town is Master Martin's shop. On a daily basis, most of the farm tools, horseshoes, miners' picks, and soldiers' swords pass through his hands."

Hinek also spoke, his tone tinged with pride.

"Your Highness, Master Martin's craftsmanship is among the best in all of Bohemia. I've heard that even the master blacksmiths in Prague and Kutenberg may not be able to match his skill in forging swords."

He paused, then lowered his voice and added, "If Your Highness wishes to forge a truly suitable sword, Master Martin is the right choice. The swords he forges are sharp, resistant to dulling, and are genuine weapons capable of drawing blood on the battlefield, not just those fancy but useless ornaments."

Zieg nodded slightly: "Really? Let's go take a look."

As the distance closed, the heat from the forging furnace grew stronger and stronger; even before getting close, the rhythmic clanging of metal could be heard first.

when--!

when--!

The sound was crisp and deep, each strike like a beat of the heart.

The stove in the shop was burning bright red, and the heat was oppressive.

The Master Martin that the soldiers were talking about stood in front of the anvil.

This man, who had traveled far and wide, wore a red soft hat, revealing a face weathered by wind and fire beneath the brim. His thick beard almost covered his jaw, making him appear more mature than his actual age.

He wore a yellow craftsman's short jacket, slightly worn from smoke, with a leather apron tied around his chest, and the cuffs rolled up to reveal his strong, calloused forearms.

The firelight made his face glow red, and fine beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and temples.

His expression was so focused it was almost pious, and the hammer in his hand seemed to be an extension of his body.

Each rise and fall resulted in a precise strike onto the long strip of steel, which had been heated to a cherry-red color.

Sparks flew everywhere.

That was no ordinary piece of iron; it was Lord Radji Kobila's sword, the pinnacle of his blacksmithing career.

Opposite him, his son Henry was pulling the lever of the bellows.

Compared to his father, young Henry seemed somewhat nonchalant.

He was wearing a slightly loose green linen shirt, and his face was smeared with two streaks of black charcoal ash, making him look somewhat childish.

Although his hands were mechanically pulling the bellows to maintain the temperature of the fire, his eyes would occasionally drift toward the tavern not far away, or toward the patrolling guards.

His eyes were filled with longing, a longing born of being trapped in this small place, forging iron, yet unable to see the outside world.

"Don't get distracted, Henry."

Without turning his head, Martin said in a deep voice, "Keep the bellows steady. If the heat is not right, this piece of steel will have been forged in vain."

Henry jumped in fright, quickly averting his wandering gaze and frantically readjusting the rhythm of the bellows, muttering under his breath, "Understood, Father—forging a sword for Lord Radji, of course, every strike must be perfect."

He took a soft breath and couldn't help but add, "But we've been working by the stove for so many days, and the adults haven't even come to take a look."

The sound of four people's footsteps broke the rhythmic hammering in the blacksmith's shop.

Martin held the hammer in mid-air and turned to look at the visitor.

The two guards' faces instantly darkened.

Hinek glanced at Henry, his tone carrying a hint of reproach between acquaintances.

"Henry, watch your words."

"Lord Radzi has barely slept these past few days, his mind preoccupied with how to prevent Skalitz from being burned to ashes by the Hungarians. Your words here will only cause trouble for Master Martin if word gets out."

Matos also frowned.

"Your father is forging swords for Lord Radji; this is an act of trust. Don't let a single complaint make others think you're ungrateful."

Henry's face instantly turned bright red.

He opened his mouth, wanting to explain something, but when he met the stern gazes of the two soldiers, he swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue.

"I—I didn't mean that."

He lowered his head, his voice becoming slightly stammering, "I was just—just saying it casually, I didn't mean any disrespect to Lord Radji."

Martin put down the hammer, strode over to Henry, grabbed his son by the back of the neck, and made him lower his head.

"Apologize."

Henry gritted his teeth and whispered, "I'm sorry."

Martin then turned to the two guards, his voice low and menacing: "That kid talks faster than he thinks. I'll teach him a lesson later. Don't take it to heart, you two."

He knew his son's personality all too well.

He's always absent-minded, his mind filled with the outside world and those unrealistic knight tales. Sooner or later, he'll get into trouble because of his uncontrollable mouth.

Just then, a voice came from behind the two soldiers.

"Forget it, it's just a teenager's rant, why take it so seriously?"

Upon hearing this, Hinek and Matos said no more and silently stepped back to either side.

Martin then realized that the real storm did not come from the two sword-wielding guards.

His gaze unconsciously fell on the young man. His eyes were first momentarily captivated by the overly handsome face, then, as if drawn by a magnet, they were fixed on the chest of the dark blue velvet robe.

There was an exquisite and intricate coat of arms embroidered there, the very symbol of the Duchy of Görlitz.

Martin's pupils suddenly contracted, his breath caught in his throat, and he froze on the spot.

As a craftsman who had traveled through much of the Holy Roman Empire in his youth, he knew all too well the significance of this coat of arms.

Duke of Görlitz.

Yesterday evening, rumors were spreading like wildfire throughout the town that Charles IV's grandson, a core member of the Luxembourg family, had arrived in Skarlitz.

Martin dismissed it as the ramblings of drunkards, after all, how could such a big shot, who could only be seen in the Prague Palace, come to a place full of the smell of hot iron?

But now, that legend stands vividly before his hearth.

"God above—"

Martin seemed to finally snap out of his shock, and quickly bowed his head, giving Zieg a deep bow. His voice was dry and hoarse from nervousness.

"Your Highness, Duke. Please forgive my ignorance, I did not know it was you who had come—"

"No need for such formalities, Master."

Zieg gently raised his hand. "I was just passing by and was drawn in by the sound of the fire."

He ignored Martin's fear and walked straight toward the huge anvil.

Even from a few steps away, you can clearly feel the air being distorted by the heatwave.

Zieg's gaze fell on the long strip of steel that was not yet fully formed.

"Good steel. Although it hasn't been quenched yet, judging from the hammer blows just now, this steel billet must have undergone repeated folding and forging."

He turned to look at Martin, a confident smile playing on his lips: "In a place like Skalitz, famous for its silver mines, to be able to obtain such clean, high-quality steel, and to control the heat and forging to this extent... Lord Raddy's sword has come to the right person."

Martin looked up.

"You have the sharp eyes of an eagle, Your Highness."

"It is an honor for this shop to serve Lord Radji."

Zieg nodded slightly and said nothing more.

His gaze passed over Martin's shoulder and landed on the young man standing to the side, looking bewildered.

Henry.

The future Skaritz Sword Saint's eyes were filled with fear of the great man.

But beneath that fear, Sieg keenly sensed a hint of resentment.

It's the kind of gaze that comes from being trapped in a small world, yet still unable to resist looking into the distance.

Zieg's face showed a hint of interest as he calmly looked at the boy.

"What's your name?"

Henry shuddered, clearly not expecting the noble duke to deign to speak to him. He hurriedly wiped the sweat from his hands on his clothes: "Your Highness, I am Henry."

Henry.

Zig repeated the name, which was so ordinary it couldn't be more so, and nodded: "You have a good father."

His gaze swept back and forth between the father and son.

"You look strong and hardworking. If you can settle down, you will definitely be able to inherit Master Martin's mantle and become the best blacksmith in all of Bohemia—no, the best blacksmith in all of Bohemia."

A hint of relief finally appeared on Martin's serious face.

But Henry's expression froze for a moment.

He pursed his lips tightly, clenching his teeth, as if he had swallowed back the words that were about to come out.

It was a silent protest, the pain of wanting to shout "I don't want to" but being suppressed by reality.

Martin knew his son too well; he could almost read his mind at a glance.

He sighed helplessly, his tone full of disappointment: "You flatter him too much, Your Highness. If this foolish boy were willing to honestly learn the craft, I could have entrusted this shop to him long ago. It's a pity—"

Martin shook his head and pointed to a wooden stick in the corner: "He's always distracted, his mind isn't on forging and hammering, but on the chivalrous tales told by bards. He's always thinking about wielding swords and seeing the outside world."

"Oh?"

Zieg raised an eyebrow, his deep eyes seeming to see right through the boy's soul.

"Practicing swordsmanship?"

There was no mockery in his tone.

"You want to become a knight?"

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