NOVEL NEXT Chapter 3: The Legend of Korean Blacksmith
Hyun-soo wasn't ordinary young man. Artistry ran thick in his veins, a legacy passed down from his father—a legendary weapon craftsman whose name was renowned not only in South Korea but across the globe. Every sword, bow, spear, and shield that left his father's hands seemed to carry a soul. These were not mere weapons; they were masterpieces, unrivaled in their perfection.
And Hyun-soo? He was the shadow steadily growing into a reflection of his father. Since he was a boy, he had gazed upon his father's craft with uncontainable admiration. To him, the act of shaping molten metal into tools of war was a form of art unlike any other.
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,"
people would often say, and Hyun-soo proved this adage true with his enthusiasm and extraordinary talent.
But fate is rarely kind.
In the quiet corner of a sterile room, a doctor sat, his face etched with compassion. He looked at Hyun-soo's trembling right hand—a faint, almost imperceptible shake, but one that spoke volumes about an inescapable truth.
"It's been three years since the accident," the doctor began gently, though his voice carried a firm finality.
"But working in the forge is still too much for you."
The words were like a dull blade cutting slowly through his spirit. Hyun-soo said nothing, swallowing the bitterness that seared his soul. His right hand, the one that once held a hammer with unyielding strength, was now a cruel reminder of what had been lost.
The accident, Hyun-soo thought, was a nightmare that refused to fade. The fire had raged through their workshop, not because of any error his father made but due to an unforeseen electrical short circuit. That day, Hyun-soo had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air after hours of backbreaking work. He'd been enjoying the cool breeze when the sight of black smoke billowing from the workshop windows jolted him into action. Without hesitation, he ran back inside.
His only thought was of his father, who had been napping in the small room at the back.
Hyun-soo managed to pull his father out of the inferno, but the cost was devastating. A red-hot steel beam collapsed onto his right hand, crushing it beyond repair. The burns etched into his skin bore silent witness to the battle he fought that day. And worse, his father—once a pillar of strength—was now confined to a vegetative state, unable to speak or move, his breath the only sign of life left in him.
In a single night, Hyun-soo had lost everything. Not just his ability to work, but his identity as a weapon craftsman. A role he had cherished with every fiber of his being.
"Have you thought about trying something else?" the doctor's voice cut through the silence, offering a lifeline that Hyun-soo wasn't sure he could grasp.
Slowly, Hyun-soo lifted his gaze, though his lips remained tightly sealed. What was there to say? The forge had been his entire world since childhood. Though he had finished high school, every skill he had mastered revolved around crafting weapons. Now, with a scarred body and a hand that would never be the same, the outside world felt impossibly distant, a dream out of reach.
"Who would hire someone like me?" he wondered bitterly. Though his right hand could still perform basic tasks, it wasn't enough to reclaim the life he had once known.
In the quiet of the doctor's office, Hyun-soo's mind wandered back to their now-destroyed workshop. Once, it had been alive with the clang of hammer on metal, the dazzling dance of sparks, and the intoxicating scent of heated iron. Those sights and sounds had been the rhythm of his life. Now, all that remained was a suffocating silence.
Deep within the recesses of his heart, a tiny flame still flickered. He had lost so much, but he hadn't lost everything. His eyes drifted back to his trembling hand—imperfect, yes, but still his. Somewhere in that hand lay a sliver of hope, however faint, that he could forge a new path.
Perhaps this wasn't the end after all. Perhaps, in the ashes of what was, he could find the beginnings of something new.
The problem lay in the burns—scars that sprawled across his body, marking his skin with painful trails that seemed destined never to fade. They were the kind of wounds that could make anyone wince, no matter how stoic. Even a seasoned doctor couldn't mask the bitter expression that crossed his face.
"You'll need about three billion won to fully treat these burns," the doctor said, his voice laced with deep regret.
Modern medicine had indeed made remarkable strides, reaching a point where even severe burns could be healed. But there was still one insurmountable barrier: the cost. For many, the price of hope remained staggeringly high.
The doctor looked at Hyun-soo, the young man standing before him, his gaze filled with compassion. "We're exploring ways to help you here at the hospital, Hyun-soo, but it won't be easy."
Hyun-soo gave a slow nod, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Thank you for your concern."
Leaving the consultation room, Hyun-soo stepped out of the hospital. The world outside continued its relentless pace, but for him, it felt unnervingly silent. He stopped by a convenience store, picking up a few cans of beer before heading back to his dingy studio apartment. His real home had been reduced to ashes in the fire—a charred skeleton of memories that could no longer be recognized.
Inside the cramped space, he cracked open a can of beer and slumped onto the worn couch. The television flickered to life, its screen displaying a program he didn't care to watch—until the title caught his eye: The Restoration of Shinigami's Heaven Sword. A documentary. One he knew would dredge up memories long buried.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as a familiar figure appeared on screen. His father, Kim Hyun Joong, stood proudly as the centerpiece of the story.
"Unbelievable," Hyun-soo murmured, sipping his beer.
The narrator's voice filled the room, recounting the legendary restoration process of Shinigami's Heaven Sword. In the year 2040, when technology had permeated nearly every corner of life, Kang Hyun-tae had remained steadfast in his devotion to ancient traditions, crafting swords by hand with hammer and anvil. The sword, once rusted and near destruction, had been restored to perfection under his meticulous care and now resided in the National Museum.
A television staff member appeared on-screen, speaking in awe of the masterpiece. "It's incredible how he brought a nearly broken, forgotten sword back to life."
Hyun-soo knew the truth. He knew that the radiant Light Sword displayed in the museum wasn't just the product of his father's work. That sword, gleaming with unparalleled brilliance, was the result of their combined effort—though the world remained oblivious.
From the age of ten, Hyun-soo had toiled in his father's workshop, immersing himself in the craft, growing to love the art of blacksmithing. Over time, his skills had rivaled those of his father. But in a world obsessed with names and legacies, Kim Hyun Joong was the one who commanded respect. So Hyun-soo chose to stay in the shadows, letting the world believe it was his father alone who had restored Haemosu's Light Sword. Even now, he harbored no resentment.
"That's high praise," his father had once said, offering a wry smile after a long moment of silence.
The documentary moved to another segment. A television producer posed a dramatic question to Kim Hyun Joong. "You're often called the last blacksmith in the world. Some say it's because there are so few left. What's your take on this?"
It was a question that could've been seen as provocative, but Kim Hyun Joong's answer was resolute. "Doesn't the finished work speak for itself?"
It might've been true that blacksmiths were becoming scarce, but genuine craftsmanship would always find its audience. The international team involved in the restoration project had been unanimous in their praise of the sword.
As the program drew to a close, Hyun-soo raised his beer can again, muttering under his breath, "How do I make a living?"
He already knew the answer. He could find work in countless fields. But the burns that marred his body were a constant barrier. Even as the world marveled at the dwindling art of blacksmithing, it was far from a lucrative profession. People were drawn to legendary artifacts for display don't handcrafted swords from a nameless smith.
In his country, where owning weapons had long been outlawed, the craft had become even less sustainable. That was why he stuck to taking restoration commissions from museums and collectors—a lifeline, albeit a fragile one.