The second year came like the turning of seasons—quiet, yet inevitable.
The fire in my uncle's hearth—which had now become my forge—burned almost every day. It hissed and roared in rhythm with the hammer in my hand. I grew used to burns on my fingers, calluses on my palms, and sweat falling like rain from my brow. But all of it… felt worth it.
I was no longer just trying.
I was creating.
"How much for this?" asked a thick-bearded man in a worn leather coat. In his hand, he turned the sword I had forged—a straight blade, light, and sharp like the tongue of a wave.
"Eight silvers," I replied, wiping sweat from my neck with a sleeve.
He blinked, then looked at me as if I had just spoken a curse.
"That's... cheap," he said softly.
I just smiled. "Not everything beautiful has to be expensive. But if you want to pay more, I won't mind."
He burst out laughing. "You've got guts, boy!"
That was my life. From one customer to the next. From one blade to another. People began to know me as the young blacksmith from the quiet village—the one who, they said, "works with soul, not just hands."
I never mentioned Uncle. I didn't know why, but... there was a part of me that wanted to keep him a secret. As if, by speaking his name, I would shatter the memory like glass dropped on stone.
Sometimes I sat on the old bench in the workshop, staring at the hearth as it cooled at night. Sweat had turned into coin. Hunger had become fullness. I even had a small savings for the coming winter.
And yet...
When night fell and all sounds faded, I often asked myself quietly:
"What am I living for?"
I had no family. No friends. I didn't know who I was, except for the hammer and the metal. Everyone came for my work—not for me. I knew they liked my swords, but… was that enough?
One night, when the moon hung peacefully in the sky, I stepped outside and sat on a large stone near the fields. The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass.
"Uncle…" I whispered. "If you were here, maybe you'd say I've reached the peak."
I paused.
"But why… does it feel like I'm standing here alone?"
The wind gave no answer. Only the grass swayed gently beneath the pale light. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again.
"What am I living for?" I asked once more—this time, to no one at all.
And when no answer came, I understood one thing:
this question isn't meant to be answered now.
This is the beginning.
Not the end.