Time Travel? Rebirth? I Win This Time!

Mike Bai stood silently in the hall, staring at the heavy chainmail and leather armor that had accompanied him through countless battles, now solemnly hung on the wall as a reminder of his first major battle. He gazed at the repair marks on the chestplate, and a dull ache spread through his ribs. While the armor, purchased at great expense, had saved his life numerous times, it still had its flaws.

The mail could protect against cutting blades, but it couldn't stop the momentum of a sword strike. The force of the blow against his smaller frame had left him with cracked ribs on more than one occasion, though it was his leather armor that had absorbed enough shock to keep him from being crushed entirely.

"Sigh." Despite the sentimental value of this armor—one of the most common sets among knights—Mike Bai decided it was time to upgrade.

"Mike Bai, the blacksmiths and their apprentices are here," a voice called out.

Turning, Mike Bai saw three blacksmiths and their apprentices—about twenty in total—standing stiffly in the hall. Though these blacksmiths made a decent living from their craft, the prospect of a noble hiring them at a high salary had them feeling anxious. Initially, they had planned to turn the offer down, but when they learned it was Baron Mike Bai's retinue, their anxiety quickly turned to curiosity. After all, rumors of his wealth and influence had spread far.

"Lord Baron, I am Rogers, a senior blacksmith of the guild," the lead blacksmith said with a formal bow. "I'm unsure what you wish us to craft for you?"

"Can you make armor?" Mike Bai asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Of course, my lord. We are skilled artisans with extensive experience in crafting chainmail," Rogers answered confidently.

"No, I mean plate armor," Mike Bai clarified, his hand tracing an arc in the air. "A large curved plate of iron, strong enough to be used as armor."

The blacksmiths exchanged glances, a silence falling over the group. After a moment, Rogers spoke, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Lord, we can certainly forge large plates, but they cannot be used as armor."

Mike Bai listened intently as the blacksmiths explained that creating large, curved iron plates with both the necessary hardness and flexibility was a feat that required exceptional skill. They were unable to guarantee both qualities in a single plate that would cover the torso.

Mike Bai, slightly frustrated, sighed and asked, "Then, what is the largest plate you can make?"

Rogers measured the air with his hands, indicating a plate no bigger than the size of two open palms.

Mike Bai's face fell—his hopes for plate armor dashed for the time being. He asked, "Can you make long iron strips?"

After a brief hesitation, Rogers nodded. "If they're not too long, we can manage."

"Alright," Mike Bai said, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. "I'll hire you for ten years at thirty silver dinars a month for senior blacksmiths, twenty for regular blacksmiths, and ten for apprentices. Bonuses will be paid based on quality and efficiency." He waved his hand, and his chief aide, Dogger, stepped forward with several contracts.

"You'll each get one day off per month, with room and board provided. However, if you fail to meet the quality standards, no bonuses, and I'll deduct from your wages." Mike Bai paused, adding, "Oh, and I have a group of workers I need trained in blacksmithing. I'll pay you twenty silver dinars for each apprentice you teach."

"Is this for real, my lord?" Rogers asked, eyes wide with disbelief. As a senior blacksmith, his annual earnings barely totaled two hundred silver dinars. The offer before him was more than double that, not to mention the bonuses.

"How dare you question the lord?" Dogger snapped, but Mike Bai waved him off, offering a reassuring smile to the now slightly panicked Rogers.

"Rogers, do you know who I am?" Mike Bai grinned.

Rogers, remembering the recent rumors about Mike Bai's growing influence, nodded eagerly. "Please, Lord, accept our vow and grant us your protection."

That afternoon, after enjoying a lavish meal at Mike Bai's manor, the blacksmiths eagerly got to work. Mike Bai watched them with interest as they began the intricate process. First, they constructed a right-angle furnace, surrounding it with iron ore and coal, and sealed it with clay—Rogers explained this was the latest model of a Corsican smelting furnace.

A strong gust of air from a bellows sent the flames roaring, and after a long period of smelting, Rogers pried open the furnace with tongs to reveal a mass of irregularly shaped "sponge iron."

With Mike Bai standing nearby, Rogers and another blacksmith worked with fervor, their leather aprons drenched in sweat as they hammered away at the sponge iron, sending rhythmic sparks flying with each blow. With each strike, the crude mass began to smooth out and take shape.

When they deemed the iron ready, they stopped folding and began to elongate and refine the edges with smaller hammers.

Finally, a long, black iron strip was plunged into a vat of oil, sizzling as it was submerged. The heat from the metal ignited the oil briefly, but the strip was swiftly pulled out. Rogers, ever the perfectionist, examined it carefully before presenting it to Mike Bai.

Mike Bai studied the blackened iron plate, and his mind raced back through his historical knowledge. "Have you ever heard of cold forging and tempering?"

The mention of these unfamiliar terms sparked a murmur of discussion among the blacksmiths. After a long pause, Rogers walked over, scratching his chin. "My lord, I've heard of cold forging, but not tempering."

Mike Bai smiled inwardly, sensing another opportunity. "Cold forging is when metal is shaped without being heated."

The blacksmiths exchanged confused glances, but Mike Bai continued, trying to simplify the concept. "When metal is heated and hammered, impurities are pushed out, and it becomes denser inside. But if we skip the heating process and forge the metal cold, we can disrupt that structure, making it even tougher."

Still unsure, the blacksmiths watched as Mike Bai took the iron strip and raised a hammer high. With a powerful swing, the hammer came down on the iron with a resounding crack, sending a piece flying off and embedding itself in the nearby wooden pillar. The strip trembled, as if defiant against the force.

There was an eerie silence.

"Oh no!" Mike Bai cursed under his breath, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "I forgot, cold forging has to be done before tempering!"