Running Away From The Hero! (Remake)

Evade the Hero CH 286 TL (330)

#33. This Too Shall Pass (1)

#1 Their Situation: The Situation of a Certain Race

In the beginning, when the world was first created, there were gods in the divine realm, and countless races in the mortal realm.

The gods watched over the races, who thrived under their blessings. Each race developed unique traits, shaped by the particular gods who cared for them.

Elves, loved by gods of nature, peace, and compassion, lived in harmony with the forests, cherishing tranquility.

Beastmen, beloved by gods of battle, struggle, and war, sought to become ever stronger.

And then, there was a race favored by gods of earth, fire, and creation. This race endlessly crafted new things. They spent most of their lives deep underground, mining ore, living with fire, and never stopping their hands, for they hated idleness more than death. The gods called this race dwarves, and the world knew them as master artisans.

In a village of such artisans:

Clang! Clang! Clang!

At steady intervals, the rhythmic sound of something being struck rang out. The sound of iron being hammered. While in normal circumstances you’d hear that in a smithy, in the dwarves’ world it was different.

To dwarves, the ringing of iron was both sacred and a part of everyday life.

“A bit stronger!”

“Understood!”

A single dwarf raised his voice while watching the others. In this world, all dwarves are seen as artisans, and that’s not exactly wrong. From childhood, dwarves learn to hammer iron, each with the spirit of a master craftsman. But when everyone is a master, the standard is different. A craftsman who would be unrivaled among humans could be considered ordinary here, scolded as they refine their skills.

“To a blacksmith, iron is like first love. Gold? It’s nice. Shiny, expensive, appealing. Handle it right, and even a greedy dragon would drool over it. Though often it’s just for decoration, if you imbue it well with magic, pure gold alone can become a marvelous material.”

The elderly dwarf raised his voice, addressing the dozens of dwarf blacksmiths hammering iron:

“Mithril? Even better. The metal itself is wonderful, and it merges well with magic. It’s rare, but still traded enough. Truly, mithril is a blacksmith’s dream material!”

The sound of iron being struck echoed everywhere. Yet the old dwarf’s voice carried clearly through it all, carving itself into the blacksmiths’ hearts.

“But iron is our first love. It’s what you grasp at the start of your training, what you handle the most, and what you’ll work with until the very end.”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

They didn’t respond with words. No reply was needed. Their hammering was their answer, as if saying: ‘This is how we reply!’

“A blacksmith’s start and end is iron. Mithril might be superior, but a true master should be able to surpass mithril with an iron blade.”

It sounded impossible. Iron and mithril couldn’t be compared. No matter how skilled the craftsman, you can’t beat mithril with mere iron. That was common sense.

Yet they hammered away, determined to break such limits. This is the dwarves’ pride, the reason they are revered as artisans of artisans.

“Don’t just hammer iron. Feel its soul. The iron speaks to you—demanding to be made stronger, harder!”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Though dozens hammered their own pieces of iron, the rhythm was unified. Normally, a smithy is noisy and chaotic, but here the sounds harmonized like an orchestra. The dwarves’ chorus of iron ringing out was no less grand than a performance by master musicians.

“For a blacksmith, iron is the basis. Iron betters the world. We don’t hone our skills to make weapons that hurt people; we do it to improve the world.”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Now, the dwarves focused only on hammering iron, as if ignoring the old dwarf’s words. The old dwarf smiled softly. Those younger blacksmiths had reached a state of selflessness—forgetting themselves, pouring their souls into hammering the iron. It filled him with joy.

“Silver or gold? They’re good. Mithril, adamantine, orichalcum, ertel? All fine metals. Most blacksmiths never even touch them in a lifetime. Even we dwarves rarely see them. But tell me, have you ever seen farm tools made of gold or mithril? A shovel of adamantine or a rake of ertel?”

The dwarf elder shouted with all his might, voice strained, after sipping water (which had turned hot from the surroundings).

“No. Those precious metals all end up as weapons.”

The dwarves’ craft was meant to better the world. That was the pride of their race. Yet reality demanded weapons. The world asked them to forge deadlier blades, more lethal tools for slaughter, not objects to enrich lives.

“Weapons aren’t evil if used to protect. Who would blame warriors raising swords against an evil god?”

The old dwarf never refused to make weapons entirely. In fact, among these dwarves, he had forged more swords than anyone else. Making and melting down blades, day after day—he created swords that could cut without having an edge, and swords that had edges but couldn’t cut anything. These two swords were called the “Swords of Life and Death” (생사검), praised among dwarves.

“So hammer your iron. Farmers use iron tools. Devices that improve the world rely on iron. Iron may have no special traits, but it’s everywhere—sturdy and straight.”

Iron was the common metal available even in a small village smithy. Widely accessible, iron helped the world advance.

“A blacksmith must know iron and study it, because iron is fundamental.”

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

As the dwarves hammered, the elder remembered how after forging the Swords of Life and Death, their clan changed the standard of making weapons. They decided to only give their weapons to those who could handle the life and death swords properly.

If one understood iron’s essence, they could discern who iron would ‘choose.’ That’s what the elder believed. The swords’ challenge was simple: to use the sword without an edge so it doesn’t cut, and to use the edged sword so it does cut. It sounded easy, but any swordsman who tried was shocked. The edge-less sword still cut steel, while the edged sword couldn’t cut a leaf. Faced with a reality that defied common sense, swordsmen lost their composure.

Most humans never meet dwarves. Some might at grand events like the Imperial festival in the Karan Empire. Dwarves are reclusive, preferring workshops and forging to wandering the world. They hide in deep places, rarely showing themselves. Only those desperate enough to seek them out, to obtain a special weapon, would come this far.

But the dwarves’ trial is harsh. Without understanding iron’s soul, you cannot pass. The Swords of Life and Death were the test that only a handful overcame in a century.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

While the elder’s smile was bitter, the iron’s song reached its climax.

“Iron does not lie. Understand iron, and you will know the heart of both the maker and the user.”

He chuckled softly, recalling the one exception he encountered. He once believed that if you mastered iron’s essence, you could see the truth. But there was a man who proved him wrong. Thinking of that exception always made the elder sigh.

“An edged sword that cannot cut, and an edgeless sword that can…”

When he first met that man, the elder was astonished. Normally swordsmen are shocked by the Life and Death swords, but that man admired them, easily passing the trial. He acted like it was natural to cut what should be uncuttable, and fail to cut what should be easily cut.

Many dwarven artisans shuddered with awe. Then the man had asked, ‘Could you forge something like this?’ describing a weapon that made the dwarves realize he’d come seeking what they themselves desired: A weapon that would improve the world, not bring destruction. Yet that weapon’s end was horrifying, as if corrupted by an evil god’s influence.

“Artisans, speak to the iron. Tell it what you aim for, how you will transform it.”

Clang! Clang! Clang! …Clang!

As the elder’s words ended, so did the iron’s song. The dwarves, who were lost in their trance, returned to reality, and the iron became a blade with sharp aura.

“If the craftsman wills it, a sword can hold a keen spirit without honing the edge. You did well.”

“Thank you, elder!”

Satisfied with their result, the dwarves carried off their newly forged blades, leaving behind only charred anvils. Staring at the blackened anvil—which mirrored the name of their Black Anvil clan—the elder sighed.

“Why am I reminded of those old memories…?”

The craftsman and user’s intentions were noble then. A weapon that wouldn’t kill, a weapon of redemption, meant to better the world. Yet it ended up as something dreadful, like a demon’s cursed armament.

“Elder!”

A young dwarf rushed in, and the elder realized why these memories surfaced now.

“He’s here! Honorary elder Hectare has arrived in the village!”

The human who taught them many things, who caused them endless contemplation over that special weapon—he had returned.

Hearing this, the elder looked up at the ceiling stained with heat.

“Damn it. What a rotten day.”

Yes, he’d already been tainted beyond redemption.