Chapter 8

Chapter 8. Arms Dealer Jacques (1)

The place Aslaf went to was a monastery. People often came to monasteries to donate old clothes and leave them behind.

“Follow me.”

Pretending to pray, he looked around, then went out into the corridor and crept along while avoiding people’s eyes. He wandered around in secret, searching for the place where the wealthy left their donated goods, and found a basket filled with clothes.

“What do you think of this?”

Aslaf held the clothes against himself. Iwan exclaimed, “Ooh,” in admiration.

“Hey, you look like a noble. You look better than Young Master Tyron.”

They found clothes in the basket that fit them and took them out.

After washing themselves by a stream and changing into the new clothes, they looked rather neat. They had changed so much that no one would recognize them as the boys who had looked like beggars moments ago.

They went to the front of the arms shop, but this time, they did not go inside and instead watched the atmosphere from outside.

“Why isn’t anyone coming?”

Aslaf waited for a customer to visit the shop. Unlike the old days, when it had been crowded with customers, Jacques’s arms shop had no one going in or out for quite some time.

At last, a carriage stopped, and a noble got out with his son before entering the arms shop.

Aslaf looked inside through the window.

The clerk greeted the noble, then went up to the second floor and brought Jacques down.

‘Jacques. You’re still the same.’

Aslaf immediately recognized Jacques’s face as he came down the stairs. Fifteen years had passed, and wrinkles had formed on his forehead, but apart from that, he had not changed much.

Listening to the voices that came through the window, Aslaf heard the noble say that he wanted to look at swords to give his son as a gift.

“My son has grown taller, so the sword he used as a child has become small. But adult swords are still too heavy for him.”

Jacques took out several swords and tried to find one that would suit the noble’s taste.

“How old is your son? This sword is for boys between ten and twelve. This one is mainly used by boys between thirteen and fifteen.”

“He’ll be twelve soon.”

The noble boy picked up several swords and swung them, trying to find one that suited him.

“This one should fit.”

“Isn’t this too small? The child will grow quickly. It seems too light.”

“Even so, he should use this for another year or two.”

Aslaf quietly opened the door, went inside, and stood beside them. They were so absorbed in the conversation that they did not even notice Aslaf had entered.

When the noble hesitated and could not readily decide, Aslaf cut in and said,

“Master Jacques is right. When I was twelve, I once practiced with a sword that was too heavy, strained my wrist, and suffered for months.”

Only then did they look back at him. Both were stunned, unsure who this unfamiliar boy who had suddenly appeared was, but neither said anything.

Jacques thought he was a page who had followed the noble, and the noble thought he was an attendant working at Jacques’s arms shop.

Aslaf did not give them time to speak and quickly continued.

“A large, heavy sword is not always better. During the growing years, the muscles of the whole body have not yet developed, so using a heavy sword that does not suit the body can cause uneven muscle growth. Also, if one’s posture becomes wrong from practicing with a heavy sword, it takes a very long time to correct that posture. The more one is still growing, the more necessary it is to change swords frequently to suit the body.”

At Aslaf’s words, the noble grew interested and nodded.

“That’s true. If swordsmanship posture is formed incorrectly, it’s hard to correct. The wrist can hurt too.”

“If the wrist hurts, then even after buying a sword, he won’t be able to practice and will have to keep it stored away. In the meantime, the sword will become too small again.”

Aslaf gripped the sword, took a stance, and explained.

“If his lower-body muscles were well developed, that sword would not be a problem. But with upper-body muscles like your son’s, his posture is bound to lean forward. If that happens, then if he practices downward strikes too much, it can be bad for his knees as well.”

The noble kept nodding at Aslaf’s explanation, which was easy to understand and demonstrated clearly.

“Now that I hear it, that makes sense.”

It seemed he trusted Aslaf, who explained with demonstrations and spoke from experience in a way that entered both the eyes and ears.

Jacques looked between the two of them, then chimed in from the side.

“It is best to change swords often enough that he does not strain himself or feel pain.”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

Satisfied with Aslaf’s demonstration of posture and detailed explanation, the noble decided to buy the sword Jacques had recommended.

“Thanks to you, I bought a sword I like. Good work.”

“Thank you.”

After the noble paid and disappeared in his carriage, Jacques looked back at Aslaf.

“Now, who are you?”

“My name is Aslaf. I came from Beden Castle.”

Aslaf lowered his head and formally introduced himself. Jacques looked him up and down.

“For someone so young, you know quite a bit about weapons. You explain well too.”

The noble, who had been lukewarm toward Jacques’s recommendation, had fallen completely for the words of Aslaf, whom he had only just met. It was because Aslaf not only had abundant knowledge and experience regarding weapons, but also understood what the customer wanted and scratched the itch. In the end, what the noble wanted was to find the tool that would most effectively improve his son’s swordsmanship, and Aslaf had targeted that point.

“I am looking for work at an arms shop, and I would like to work here.”

At Aslaf’s words, Jacques shook his head.

“I do not need any help right now.”

It seemed he thought it was too much to have a young boy like Aslaf watch the shop.

“That customer just now was looking for a sword for a child. Knights who fight in battle won’t listen to a child like you.”

“I can run errands or deliver goods as well.”

Aslaf said that, but Jacques shook his head. He could not trust a boy he had never seen before enough to entrust him with delivering expensive goods.

At that moment, the door flew open, and a knight entered. Along with the wind, the stench of strong liquor came in from the doorway. The knight, whose nose was red, raised his eyebrows and shouted without warning.

“This thing is defective!”

He threw a sword onto the table as if hurling it away. The sword struck the table with a clang, bounced off, and rolled to the floor.

The clerk, perhaps having experienced this man’s rampage before, turned away with a distorted expression, picked up the sword, and gave it to Jacques. When Jacques examined it, the edge of the sword was chipped.

“I paid a fortune for this here, but after barely using it, the edge chipped.”

He shouted, revealing blind hatred for no reason.

Aslaf felt as though the knight’s face looked somehow familiar.

‘Where have I seen him?’

Whether as Alexei I or as Aslaf, who had lived as a gypsy, he had wandered through too many places and met too many people, so he could not remember.

Jacques calmly examined the sword and responded to the drunken customer.

“That is why I told you when you purchased it. This sword was made by the Yeon tribe, so unless the wielder has learned Yeon tribe swordsmanship, it is difficult to handle. Even so, you bought it because you liked its appearance, did you not?”

“Did I know the edge would chip this quickly? It only clashed about three times during sparring, and the edge chipped. Isn’t that too much?”

Despite Jacques having tried to stop him, the knight had bought the sword, damaged the edge, and now threw a tantrum while asking for a refund.

“It isn’t a paper sword. What kind of worthless thing are you selling?”

For Jacques, who prioritized trust above all else, a vein bulged on his forehead at the knight’s words disparaging the goods he sold. However, he soon calmed down and placated him.

“I fully explained the precautions when I sold it to you. Therefore, I will refund you after deducting the repair fee.”

From Jacques’s perspective, that was as much of a concession as he could make. Even so, the knight, his tongue twisted, shouted at the top of his lungs and stubbornly demanded a full refund.

“The chipped edge isn’t my fault! The sword is defective! Are you allowed to sell garbage like this? I’ll spread the word through the knight order. I’ll tell them Jacques sells defective swords at absurd prices and refuses refunds.”

His booming voice was so loud that people from neighboring shops and passersby on the road peered into the shop in surprise.

Aslaf examined the chipped part of the sword the knight had brought.

‘Even if Yeon tribe swords are weaker than Imperial swords, the edge wouldn’t chip just from clashing a few times. How did it end up like that?’

Although the Yeon tribe’s steelmaking technology lagged behind the Empire’s, they were still a tribe with well-developed metalworking skills in their own right. There was no way the edge would chip easily after a few rounds of sparring. Jacques would never sell a sword whose hardness failed to meet a certain standard either.

Looking at the blade, something seemed strange. It did not look as though the edge had chipped during sparring. Judging from the stone dust on the blade, there were signs that he had deliberately struck it against stone and damaged it in order to receive a refund. He had bought the sword, disliked it, and was trying to receive a refund by using a defect as an excuse. Seeing how drunk he was, he had probably come because he had been drinking, run short on money for his tab, and needed cash.

“A sword made by the Yeon tribe would not chip that easily.”

Aslaf cut in to show Jacques that he could become a trustworthy employee. It was an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of weapons and give Jacques confidence that he could handle troublesome customers.

The knight glared at Aslaf and growled.

“Stay out of this, brat. What would a whelp like you know about swordsmanship?”

“I believe you are not used to handling Yeon tribe swords, Sir Knight.”

At the words questioning the skill of a knight twice his size, Jacques, Iwan, and the clerk all froze and stared at Aslaf.

‘A page just said that to a knight? Is he out of his mind?’

‘He’s angering a knight. Something terrible is going to happen.’

The enraged knight walked over, grabbed Aslaf by the collar, and yanked him forward.

“What did you say? How dare you look down on me?”

The knight shoved Aslaf with a fierce glare. However, Aslaf stepped back three or four paces, immediately regained his balance, and stood upright.

“If it is handled properly, there is no way the edge would chip in three exchanges.”

“You’re saying the chipped edge is my fault?”

“If I block your sword three times and it is still fine, please acknowledge that it is your responsibility and pay the sword repair fee.”

At that, the knight flinched, then mumbled.

“Now that I think about it, it didn’t chip after just three times. It was more like seven.”

The knight changed his words, but Aslaf did not care.

“Then let us make it seven. If I block your sword seven times and the edge does not chip, please bear the sword repair fee.”

The knight let out a groan. The premonition that the sword would not chip even after seven strikes clearly made him hesitate.

“You’re going to block my sword? With your strength?”

“There is no reason I can’t. If I fail to endure seven strikes, I will pay the repair fee.”

At Aslaf’s words, Iwan’s eyes widened. They had spent all the money they possessed and did not have a single coin left.

‘What are you going to do, Aslaf?’

Iwan shifted back and forth with a flustered expression.

Jacques remained silent, as though he intended to watch and see what Aslaf was thinking. From his perspective, it probably did not matter which of them paid the repair fee.

The knight looked at Aslaf through bleary eyes and struck his own chest with his fist.

“Do you not know who I am? I am the man who ended Alexei I’s life, I tell you.”

Hearing those words, Aslaf remembered where he had seen the knight. He had put on weight, and his face had changed so much it was hard to recognize him, but that mocking smile had not changed.

‘So it was you.’

He had been one of the spearmen who stabbed Alexei I when Georg ordered them to kill him. He was the one who had stepped forward first and driven his spear into Alexei I’s heart.

Aslaf could remember him because they had met eyes right in front of each other. The expression he had worn as he thrust the spear, smiling with joy at having killed a king, came vividly to mind. From that expression filled with ecstasy, Aslaf had known the man enjoyed killing.

‘As they say, enemies meet on a single-log bridge.’

Aslaf’s eyes narrowed without him realizing it, and he clenched his fist tightly. Though it had happened in his past life, there was no helping the hatred that surged within him.