Failure after failure. Layers were problematic. 4th and 5th even broke apart while hammering.
.
.
8th knife attempt.

“Huh? This looks good! Layers are intact.”

After sharpening it, the flying knife was in his hand. “I can’t say it is very heavy. It is a smaller knife, after all, but a successful one!”
Allan then continued. Another 3 blades were successful, but the rest of the knives begin to crack and layers peeled off. It was inconsistent with what his book told him. The book made notes of the preliminary carefulness and many reasons for failing. From heat and hammering, one needs to be careful with what they do. Placing the right strength with potential failures and taking care of the layers. It depicted a lot, but Allan had simply no experience in actually using it.

“Alright then. That's the last one.”

Allan put his leather attire away, stretching his arms a little to ease up the soreness.

Before him, on his left side were 4 symmetrical flying knives about 14 centimeters long. They stretched by 4 centimeters after changing their shape and having some curved edges and little handles, which were all part of the single mass of the knife. Flying knives usually looked like this in all cases. Small, sharp tip and size, which fit into a palm.

On his right was a mess of knives. Mostly broken and unusable.

“So… How to interpret this?” Allan wondered. The first 7 were failures, 4 after that success, and the rest afterward failure.

Allan thought about it for a long time. Checking bad knives and good knives. He flipped through the book to find some answers but found nothing.

“Perhaps my problem is a little too specific. It could be a problem with heat, temperature, and hammering. The quality of the steel used is out of the question since there are good knives.

“Those 4… they were from the very middle of it. As I was hammering down, I slowly moved through the strip forward. Then, reheating it as I was too slow. So it’s mostly uneven heat or simply a mixture of everything. This was briefly mentioned in the book, but I had trouble understanding it. I went with normal temperature according to the what book said. Gray iron was slightly off and it caused everything to go into chaos with the layered plates. Mixing metals seems like a complicated process where heat treatment, temperature, and hammering seem the most important. What is later is just a finishing touch.”

“There is also a problem. The layered patterns are still not much visible on these 4 knives. I did not use that liquid as what father had in his smithy.” Allan thought about the reason for it. Eventually, figuring out he did not use some of the oily treatments his father used all the time. Here or the down below. Finding it in the warehouse, he used little drops for polishing his knives. 4 of their glare popped out immediately. It depicted wider waves of gray and black. It reflected lights off the lantern.

“Beautiful! Did I make this?” Allan wondered. They were incredibly catchy to the eyes. One could imagine what would fully fledged blade looks like.

“For flying knives to look like this is laughable.” Allan chuckled, because they were mostly used for stealth action.

“I can’t even imagine what a sword forged by this technique would be like, but I can consider this as a nice experiment and experience. There also comes a big question. I watched my father making swords like this for the past 3 years. Sometimes, he made them from piles of layered plates, but he mostly used ingots laying on shelves. It all looks basically the same. Apart from the quality of metals, furnace, hammer, and personal power of my father.” Allan couldn’t help but sight. It all comes down to a simple term. He simply knew little about it.

“Being greedy for such exciting knowledge is no sin.” Allan recalled the quote from the First order of the mixing book.
.
.
It was further into the night, with 2 moons already hung outside. His work still mesmerizes him and he was still looking at his knives. Jolting him from his reverie were the sounds of the main door. Someone was banging and trying to get inside.

“Oh, Father is back? I forgot to unlock the door. Does he not have his keys?” Allan looked at his office. Key chain laid there. “He forgot? He is usually not a person who forgets.”

He then quickly remembered what was in front of him. The mess of knives. Allan, like a storm from a sky, quickly wiped the table clean and stored it in an empty bucket, and hid it to a side. Putting chest on top, he was sure it wouldn’t look suspicious.

Opening the door, Clayton unhappily glared at him. “Why did you lock the door?”

“I thought you had your key. It was already getting late, so I locked it.” Allan answered, after looking for an excuse. Looking at his father, he did not look very happy. Something visibly worried him.

Allan quickly read the atmosphere. Trying to calm his father. “How has been your work? Is it too hard and complicated?”

He still did not know what mister Boris make him do. “I could have asked Thomas on my way home.” Allan thought.

“It was good enough. Payment will be worth it.” Clayton sternly answered as he walked into his shop. This time, he did not have any bag or luggage.

“Tomorrow or the day after will be the last day of his contract. Afterward, we will open the shop.” Said Clayton, seeming to recall something and glancing at his son. “Or would you like to go on a vacation on a Windy Sea shore?”

Allan, surprised by his question, did not answer immediately. He was unable to find it. It was years since the last time they traveled there.

“Forget it then… ”

Allan, forgetting himself and seeing as his father, was probably not in a mood for it, found the topic hard. “Not really.” He said.

“Alright then. It’s already close to midnight. Why is there a light in here? Did you spend an entire night reading?” Clayton noticed the book, which lay on the table.

“Y-yes, I was reading it.” Allan stuttered.

“Oh, and I finished my blade from yesterday.” He finally found some topic to say. Walking to a side table where he left it earlier, rising it into the air to show his father.

Clayton's gaze changed, and he was slightly surprised.

“Nicely done. This is the longest you have done so far! The quality of the blade is very good! Looks like mithril thought. I did not give you permission to use them for such a large piece yet.”

“Who cares? I did well? Right?” Asked Allan in confidence.

“You would have paid for it if you messed up. Although, it is a fine piece and should be worth some gold coins if some officer bought it. It would be even more.”

“But there is a slight mistake.” Clayton pointed towards the guard.

“This wrist guard is rather restricting with higher complex movements. If someone hit you in those moments, your wrist would be in trouble.”

“Really? Well. That is a problem for someone who will buy it.”

“It's just advice. I did give you lessons in combat for years. You should think about it too. Not all methods, which you think are useful, are actually important. Sometimes, simplicity is better.” Clayton commented.

“I know… I know… Your drills horrify me to this day.” Allan, recalling his nightmare days of torture. Every winter, his father would travel with him throughout the mountains and give him some hard-felt love. Hunting, survival, and especially his handling of weapons were things he cared about for dozens of days. His philosophy was that blacksmiths need to know some of these things in order to be more efficient. Allan never disliked those moments, per se. Although, it was exhausting for a kid.

He was allowed to bring his learning documents with him and sometimes his father put forth some challenges with rewards. Clayton said that it was a wonderful tradition. Last year was especially tough.

“I promised you some book for finishing it today, didn’t I?” Clayton asked his son, who was reminded of his torture. Trying to change topics again.

“It can wait for my birthday. I have two left anyway.” Allan answered.

“Is the First Order of mixing to your liking?” Clayton asked again.

“You could say so, but I really wonder where you found this book. It is not really that professional and helpful.” Allan said in fake dissatisfaction, and pointed to the book.

“What? So you are saying I can take it back?” He asked while taking it into his hands.

“No… No. I haven’t finished it yet.” Allan said in excuse.

Clayton flipped through it, reminiscing about something, and looked at it in a lost fashion. Soon, his face frowned. “I don’t recall these chapters… At all. Huh?” Clayton wondered.

Lost in thought, he purposely changed the content of the book to what he considered simple stuff and made it harder to understand. In truth, there was a First order of mixing only. Not a second one. It was just another useless obscurity he put on his son.

Putting it down, Clayton was not in a mood to care. “It is quite late. Time to sleep, don’t you think, Allan?”

“Yes, it is. Can I work on something big tomorrow as well?”

“Whatever, but don’t break something up. Valuable materials are off-limits too.” Clayton ordered.

“It is just some stuff from the introductory protection book you gave me.”

“That is good. Good luck and good night, son.”
“Good night.” Allen took his book and went upstairs. Wondering about tonight.
.
Downstairs, Clayton checked the status of his office. Walking by a sharpening station, he noticed whetstones and dust on it. Furrowing his brows and grabbing a piece of whetstone that was wired to the sharpening station. He looked at it as it crumbled apart. “Oh, boy… Was it old?”
Sighting, he left for his room and maybe get some sleep. He couldn't care less about this sort of material. Regular replacements for this station were just a matter of a few silvers.

Meanwhile, Allan was preparing his stuff. He usually checked his father’s room and if he wasn’t inside, he knew what to do.

“Let's see tonight. I wonder if he is in a mood or not.”

He waited for a good half an hour before he was sure no noise was coming from downstairs. Jumping from his window, spy diary in hand and ready for action.

Clayton wasn’t in a hurry. He slowly crawled from his bed. “Ugh… I just can’t sleep.” With a lantern in his left hand, he left his room. Outside was slowly jumping and watchful Allan. He just wanted to check on his father. If he was sleeping, he would leave for his room. Otherwise, he spied from his little window as much as he could. He never wanted to miss out.

Allan just watched as he was leaving. “So he was in a mood? Great.”

He quietly crawled through the bushes to a window, and slowly pushed away a placket that was behind it. Just a bit, so he could see through it.
Inside, flame dancing in a furnace was illuminating its surrounding. In a corner sat Clayton. Leaning in a chair, watching his office in silence, and playing with a piece of cloth in his hand.

Time went by.

1 hour.

2 hours.
.
.
“He just sits there, staring into empty air?” Allan wondered.
.
.
Sometime later, Clayton finally got up. In his hand was a piece of cloth. On it was a small metallic badge in the shape of 2 crossed hammers.
Turning around, he walked to the middle of a room, reaching down and putting down a black whetstone. “So be it.” He muttered.
Whetstone started to bend around, disappearing into a badge. Clayton then turned around. Facing him was a bright furnace. He reached forward with his hands. Flames slowly danced around him as a ball of fire appeared in his palm. In a moment, the ball of fire disappeared as well. The furnace was no longer bright.

“T-t-that’s a freaking soul fire!?” Allan freaked out. From a description of the First Order, he got general information about their appearance. “Unfortunately, there were no illustrations whatsoever.” But it was crystal clear what it was. Another legend laid out before his eyes.

Clayton then left the room. Seemingly, making his mind think about something.

“He left just like that.” Allan thought.

“Well… Time for a bed too, I guess.”

Allan slowly left as well.

Climbing into his room.

Reaching the realm of dreams.
.
.
Unbeknown to him, the very next day will be a day when his life will change forever.