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Chapter 404 - Chapter 401

The rhythmic clatter of boots reverberated through the stone corridors of the military workshop, a staccato beat that heralded urgency. "Tap, tap, tap…" The sound grew louder, closer, until an elderly figure, weathered by over five decades of life, burst from the workshop's heavy iron doors. His gray hair was streaked with soot, and his calloused hands bore the marks of a lifetime spent at the forge. Spotting Lucas standing in the courtyard, the old man's weathered face softened with respect. He bowed deeply, his voice steady despite his hurried arrival. "Greetings, City Lord."

Lucas, clad in practical yet authoritative attire, regarded the old blacksmith with a nod. "Old Blacksmith, I have two items I need you to forge," He said, his tone direct, wasting no time on pleasantries. His mind was already racing with plans, each step calculated to advance his city's strength.

The old blacksmith, once a humble smith in the bustling streets of Sedona City, had been a cornerstone of Lucas's early endeavors. In those fledgling days, when resources were scarce and ambitions grand, it was this man's hammer that shaped the tools and weapons Lucas needed. Recognizing his skill, Lucas had later summoned him to the military workshop, entrusting him with the critical task of crafting armor and blades for the city's growing forces.

"Please, City Lord, share your instructions," The old blacksmith replied, his voice tinged with reverence. His eyes, though aged, gleamed with a fiery passion. For a man who had spent his life coaxing iron into submission, each commission from Lucas was not just a task but a chance to refine his craft, to learn something new under the City Lord's innovative vision.

"Let's head to your workshop," Lucas said, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of authority that brooked no delay.

"Yes, my lord!" The old blacksmith turned swiftly, his steps purposeful as he led the way through the workshop's maze of forges and anvils. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal and charcoal, a familiar comfort to the old man.

As they walked, Lucas's thoughts turned to the blacksmith's legacy. "Old Blacksmith, how is your son progressing with his training? Has he mastered your techniques yet?" He asked, his tone conversational but probing. The old man's hammering technique was a marvel—each strike precise, conserving energy while producing iron of unmatched quality. It was a skill Lucas had ordered documented, its details meticulously recorded on parchment and stored in the castle's private archives.

Lucas was a man who thought for centuries. Every useful technique, every fragment of knowledge, was preserved as a bulwark against the erosion of time. He envisioned a future where ancient crafts might vanish, lost to war or neglect. By archiving these skills, he ensured his descendants would inherit not just a city but a repository of wisdom, a safeguard against the collapse of civilization itself.

The old blacksmith sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "He's still toiling away, my lord, but his skills are nowhere near ready. If only he were further along, he could ease your burdens, City Lord." His voice carried a father's frustration, tempered by pride in his craft.

Lucas chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "Hahaha… Patience, old friend. You've got plenty of years left to serve me." His admiration for the blacksmith's artistry was genuine, a rare compliment from a man who valued results above all.

They reached the workshop's heart—a modest smithy, its walls blackened by years of smoke. "City Lord, we're here," The old blacksmith announced, fumbling with a heavy iron key to unlock the door. The hinges creaked as it swung open, revealing a space cluttered with tools, ingots, and the glowing embers of a forge.

"Paper and pen," Lucas said, turning to Annie, the fox-eared girl who shadowed him with unwavering loyalty.

"Here, Young Master." Annie's nimble fingers dipped into her satchel, producing a worn notebook and a sleek ballpoint pen. Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity as she handed them over, eager to see what Lucas would do next.

Lucas's hands moved with purpose, the pen scratching across the paper as he sketched detailed diagrams of horseshoes and stirrups. The lines were precise, born of a mind that saw not just the present but the potential of every innovation. Finished, he waved the old blacksmith over. "Old Blacksmith, how long does it take to craft these?"

The old man took the notebook, his brow furrowing as he studied the drawings. His lips moved silently, calculating the weight of the iron, the heat of the forge, the rhythm of his hammer. "City Lord, these are straightforward. Give me… ten minutes, perhaps a bit more."

Lucas nodded, pleased. "Good. I'll wait." The timeframe was short, a testament to the blacksmith's skill.

"Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable," The old blacksmith said, his tone grave as he turned to his forge, already reaching for his tongs.

Lucas's gaze shifted to Henry. "Henry, fetch a warhorse. Fully equipped, no shortcuts." His voice carried a hint of anticipation. He intended to demonstrate his innovation on the spot, silencing the four girls who had giggled at his talk of "shoeing" a horse during their journey.

"Yes, Young Master." Henry bowed and strode off, his boots echoing on the cobblestones.

"Clang, clang, clang…" The workshop came alive with the old blacksmith's work. His hammer danced, each strike a symphony of strength and precision. Sparks flew, illuminating the dim space as he shaped the iron. In a mere two minutes, the first horseshoe took form, its curve perfect. Eight minutes later, four horseshoes lay cooling in a bucket of water, followed by two stirrups crafted in seven minutes more.

"Huff, huff…" The old blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow, his chest heaving as he presented the quenched items to Lucas. "City Lord, they're done."

Lucas inspected the work, noting the rough edges but impressed by the speed. "Well done," He said, his approval a rare gift.

"Tap, tap…" Henry's footsteps announced his return. "Young Master, the warhorse is ready in the courtyard."

"Let's go." Lucas led the way, pausing to address the blacksmith. "Bring a hammer."

"Yes, my lord." The old man grabbed a sturdy hammer, falling in step behind.

In the courtyard, a magnificent warhorse paced restlessly, its glossy coat catching the sunlight. It snorted, ears twitching at the distant clang of the forge, clearly displeased by the noise. Lucas's brow furrowed. He made a mental note to implement training for the horses, ensuring they wouldn't bolt at unexpected sounds—an oversight that could spell disaster in battle.

"Young Master, how will you put shoes on the horse?" Annie asked, her fox ears quivering with intrigue. She tilted her head, studying the horseshoes. "These don't look like shoes at all."

Lucas's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Just watch." He turned to Henry. "Expose the horse's hooves."

"Yes." Henry moved with practiced ease, coaxing the warhorse to the ground and securing it, revealing all four hooves.

"Old Blacksmith, trim the hooves flat and nail the horseshoes to their bases," Lucas instructed, passing the iron pieces over.

"What?" The group gasped, their eyes wide with shock.

"Young Master, nailing the hooves? Won't that hurt the horse terribly?" Annie's brown eyes brimmed with concern. "It'll be in agony! It won't be able to walk!"

Lucas raised an eyebrow, his voice soft but deliberate. "Let me ask a question."

"Ask away, Young Master," The cat-eared Mina said, her curiosity piqued.

Elisa and Amelia leaned closer, hanging on his words.

"When you trim your fingernails, does it hurt?" Lucas asked, his tone serene, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes.

The group fell silent, glancing at their hands, their fingers tracing the edges of their nails.

"I understand!" Annie's face lit up, her hand shooting into the air. "The horse's hooves are like our fingernails!"

"Precisely," Mina, Elisa, Henry, and the others murmured, their confusion giving way to clarity.

"Indeed," Lucas said, his voice steady. "A warhorse's hooves wear down because they're softer than stone. By attaching horseshoes—harder than stone—we protect them, allowing the horse to run faster and farther."

He explained further, his words painting a vivid picture. Warhorses, constantly galloping across rough terrain, suffered rapid wear to their hooves' keratin layers. Without protection, the hooves bled, leaving the animal lame. Horseshoes were, in essence, iron soles, shielding the hooves and extending the horse's endurance.

"Young Master, you're a genius!" Annie exclaimed, her brown eyes shining with awe. What had begun as a jest about "shoeing" a horse had transformed into a brilliant reality.

Elisa's emerald eyes flickered with quiet wonder. How did the City Lord conceive such a simple yet revolutionary idea, one that had eluded countless others?

"Sister, you're the silly one," Amelia whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mina, catching the girl's words, smiled softly. The Young Master had a way of surpassing expectations, time and again.

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