He was amazed to see a man with what he’d call east-Asian features from his previous world. The man had narrow eyes and an overall thin build, but the significant difference was that he was blonde and had blue eyes.
“I am Sylvester Maximilian. Bishop Strongarm sent me to ask you a few questions about a certain western weapon.” He continued to speak without sounding amazed by the man. He had never previously seen a man with such features, and he wondered where he was from.
“The famed Bard? Greetings.” The man spoke as he put his tools to the side. He spoke with an accent, however, but it was not too disrupting or unrecognisable. “What can I help you with?”
“I would like to know where this was made or who made it, if that’s possible.” He handed the Chakram to the man.
He was yet to ask for his name. But Sylvester followed him as he moved to a workstation and turned on the magic lantern to look at the tool closely. He even had a monocle in his eye to look at it.
“Hmm… it’s hard to tell when he made it, but it is certainly made in Marashia, the capital of the Masan Empire, the seat of the Emperor. It was made by a certain blacksmith by the name of Raz’ul Makh. It does not reveal much about him, however. From the looks of it, the man seems to be just another blacksmith in the sea of many.”
Sylvester wrote down all the strange names in a little booklet of his. “Do you find anything peculiar or out of the ordinary from this weapon?”
“This Chakram? No, not at all. It’s not even that high quality, but since it has a marked name on it, it at least belonged to some ranked person.”
Sylvester nodded. But instead of taking the information to face value, he knew this was a call. ‘That fucker! He purposefully left these behind to give me something to hunt for, but not enough to actually get to him.’
“How do you know all this?” Sylvester indirectly asked for his origins. “Also, they did not tell me your name.”
The man took off his gloves and shook Sylvester’s hand. “I’m called Yazukoto, lord bard. The name may sound strange, but my mother gave it to remember her homeland.”
“Where is your homeland?” Sylvester asked, as he didn’t feel any reservations from him.
“My roots are from Warsong Kingdom, Lord Bard. It’s the only kingdom south of the Masan Empire. It’s known to be at constant war with the Masan Empire for the past few decades—I think it’s been more than a century now.
“My mother was a soldier in the Warsong army but was captured by the Masan soldiers in a battle. She was sold as a slave and brought to the Tower of Godless for her exotic features. My father bought her, freed her and made her his cook since Warsong cuisine is much different.”
Sylvester chuckled. “Let me guess. The way to man’s heart is through his stomach?”
Yazukoto nodded, smiling. “Indeed. They married, and she gave birth to me—a boy stuck in two worlds. With a face belonging to my ancestral home and hair belonging to this side of the world.”
“Does Warsong kingdom have different weapons too?” Sylvester asked with interest.
“Of course. People from Warsong are experts in bows, arrows, spears, and throwing knives. It’s why they can fight against the mighty armies of the Masan Empire, which is more blessed in the art of shields, swords and horses.”
Sylvester rubbed his chin and felt the tiny micro hair trying to break out. “Hmm, if I asked you to compare the Masan Empire, Warsong Kingdom, Holy Land and the mightiest army of East, Riveria Kingdom, who would win?”
“Holy Land!” Yazukoto replied without thinking. “The style of fighting I have seen from Holy Land’s armies is much different. You have extreme planning, formations and such in the ranks of the Holy Army. Not to mention, the number of wizards in the Holy Land is enough to shudder most enemies.”
‘No wonder the Masan Empire is using these underhanded techniques. The more chaos spread in the East, the weaker the Holy Land would be since we’d have to focus on extinguishing the flames on our home turf first.’ Sylvester reasoned with the current situation.
He glanced at the man from the South-West and wondered something. ‘The only way to defeat the Masan empire without engaging in war is by strengthening the Warsong Kingdom. I hope the Holy Land is doing this already—I think they are… there is no other way that Warsong kingdom could have survived for this long.’
Sylvester remembered the tactic used by his home country from his past life. It was best surmised in a single expression. ‘Shoot one’s gun from someone else’s shoulder’.
“Thank you for sharing the information, Yazukoto. I should head back now, but I will remember your name if I ever wish to tour the southwest on a religious trip.” He shook the man’s hand.
“I would love to see my ancestral homeland once in my lifetime too. But for now, I need to build five chainmail armours for the Baron.”
Sylvester took his leave. “Then I won’t hold you at it. Take care, Yazukoto.”
Sylvester truly appreciated that he did not just skim through all his travels without stopping somewhere or meeting people. If he had skipped staying at the Baron’s castle, he would never have found such an interesting person who may come in handy in the long run.
He could have given the man money, too, to leave an impression. But he didn’t, as he felt the man was already rich being the Chief Blacksmith. Besides, the name ‘Sylvester’ will spread sooner rather than later. He didn’t need to publicise that much.
Sylvester then headed into the castle and ate his breakfast before preparing to make the journey to Green City and find Sir Dolorem there.
“If you ever roam these parts again, visit this little keep, Lord Bard.” Baron Strongarm bid his farewell.
“I will, Baron. Thank you for the hospitality, and I shall pray for a healthy child to bring warmth to your castle.”
Sylvester, this time, didn’t steer the carriage himself. Instead, he has asked for two men from Baron’s subordinates to do the job. He knew that everyone was tired and needed some rest, so this was the best way.
After all, what was waiting for them in Green City was still unknown.
Soon, they were on their way while comfortably sitting in the luxurious cabin of Lady Aurora. It was big enough for all of them to sit on the floor covered with padded carpet.
“Alright! Time has come to decide on a name for Dungface!” Sylvester announced as he sat with everyone.
Felix jumped to his feet. “Finally! I want to name him Alexander Sandwall! He shall be my brother! I am adopting him!”
“…”
“Sir Felix, my brother?” Dungface confusedly looked around.
Bam!
Sylvester slammed his fist on the low table. “Don’t give me that, Felix. I found him, so he’s my lad. You can find another one somewhere else. As for the name, I hold the main veto—so rejected!”
Offended, Felix also slammed his fist on the small, lap-height table. “This is preposterous! This is a scam! How dare you decide things on your own!”
Sylvester scoffed and raised his chin in pride. “I found him, so I will decide. Besides, the name has to be small, so our dear friend here does not have to spend a whole year memorising it.”
Felix calmed down in an instant. “Oh! You should have said that before. I wasted my energy. Well, how about Bob? It’s very small.”
Everyone in the carriage looked at Dungface’s chubby mug. The man was indeed fit for the name ‘Bob’. But Sir Bob? It was not a very befitting name for a future Diamond Knight.
Lady Aurora scoffed. “I’m sure now that Priest Felix fell on his head as a baby.”
“Pfft!” Gabriel snorted, holding his laughter.
“How about Jax?” Bishop Lazark suggested.
“No!”
“No!”
“Absolutely not!”
Sylvester, Felix and Gabriel denied it instantly. They remembered that Jax was the secret name of the head of Anti-Light. The name was akin to asking for trouble.
“Vetoed!” Sylvester blurted. “Any other suggestions?”
“Why not ask him what he wants?” Gabriel suggested.
Sylvester objected to it instantly. “It can’t be done. I asked him before, and he suggested Poopy.” 𝗼𝐯𝐥.𝗻𝐭
“…”
Everyone silently closed their eyes and tried to think of a name for him. They occasionally would look at Dungface’s mug and shake their head as the name would not fit.
“Hmm…”
“Naming is hard.”
“Why not put the names in a jar and let him pick one? Let fate decide.” Bishop Lazark suggested.
“Agreed.”
“I’d like that.”
One by one, they all responded positively and wrote names on a small piece of parchment in secret.
“Make sure it’s not a foolish name. Remember, I have the Veto power.” Sylvester reminded them.
“That!… You can just veto every name until your favourite one is selected.” Felix objected.
Relenting, Sylvester made a compromise. “Fine. The veto can be overruled if you all vote against my veto for a name.”
So, they all agreed, and soon Sylvester placed a small jar made of mud in front of Dungface.
“Dungface nervous!”
“Don’t think about it, buddy. Just pick any one piece, and that shall be your name.” Sylvester patted his shoulder.
But everyone failed to realise that Sylvester also nodded towards a certain invisible cat with a sizeable scheming grin. Of course, how could Sylvester take the risk of someone else giving Dungface a name?
The man was going to be his squire and, one day, his holy guard. Naturally, therefore, the man must have a small yet meaningful name.
“Ugh… it’s slippery!” Dungface tried to hold a chit from the jar, but every time he’d pick one, it slid off—thanks to an invisible furry paw.
“Got it!” Dungface finally lifted one chit that was folded in a certain unique way.
,m “Read it!” Felix excitedly eyed the simple man.
Dungface slowly unfolded the chit and first read the letters in the head. That’s how he was taught to read. “It says…”
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