Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight
Glenn, a 30-year-old summoner, is expelled from his B-rank party 'Crimson Fang' for only being able to summon a single Living Armor. Their leader, Zex, dismisses him coldly: 'Your summon can't hold the front line.' Glenn simply says, 'I see,' and leaves without a fight.
However, the Living Armor he poured all his magic into for fifteen years has secretly evolved into a higher being with its own will—a 'Living Knight.' Glenn himself, through relentless training, possesses three times the magic c
Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight - Days of Modest Light in the Workshop
The morning light was still white and cold.
When Glen opened the wooden door of the workshop "Iron Hammer and Engraving," the air that had chilled overnight slid into the room like a thin membrane. Glen didn't shrug his shoulders; he simply breathed it in slowly. It smelled of wood. Dry shavings, old iron, and just a trace of magic stone dust. The scent of the workshop. Lately, he'd come to think of it as the scent of his own place.
On the workbench lay a single tuning staff, finished just the night before, resting on a cloth. The staff's surface was still faintly warm, and the magic stone powder sealed in its core glowed pale blue, translucent in the morning light.
*(Just a little more on the final transmission efficiency.)*
Glen held his hand over the measuring magic stone plate placed at the corner of the bench. He slowly brought the staff's tip closer to the center of the plate. The surface of the magic stone plate emitted a faint glow, and fine graduations rose to the surface. What reached his fingertips was a subtle vibration. The flow of magical power. He leaned forward to read the numbers—and that was when it happened.
The wooden door was lightly tapped from outside.
Three times. A pause, then once more. A knock that was unhesitating, yet courteous.
"Come in, it's open."
The door opened. Along with the wind, the scent of leather and iron entered.
"Hey, Glen. Sorry to bother you so early."
Standing there was Klaus, the wind mage. Tall, draped in a grimy gray cloak, with a well-worn staff strapped to his back. Deep wrinkles were etched into a face that looked to be past forty. A man who was usually curt, never showing a smile except when talking business.
But this morning, Klaus was clearly in high spirits.
"This is it. Ever since you tuned it for me, it's been working wonderfully."
Klaus drew the staff from his back and gave its tip a light flick. The workshop air rippled softly in response. Dust danced, and an old cloth by the wall quietly lifted.
"Especially the core selection. You matched it to my magical quirks and carved out a path for the wind, didn't you. The useless resistance is gone, and the rhythm of my incantations settles into my body. I never thought it would change this much."
Glen, without showing embarrassment, let the corners of his mouth relax slightly.
"Your magical power has a tendency to surge strongly in the first instant of release. The core material was getting in the way there, so I gave the entrance more room and shaped it to narrow gradually toward the depths."
"I see. So craftsmen need logic too, huh."
"Without logic, I can't justify my prices."
Klaus laughed, low but with genuine amusement.
"So, about the next job."
With rough fingers, he pulled a small leather pouch from inside his cloak. From within, a single slip of paper. On it, in meticulous handwriting, the next round of adjustments was listed in bullet points. Fine-tuning of magical transmission, reinforcement of the tip, and rewrapping the grip.
"It's not urgent, but can you have it done within two weeks? I've got plans to head into the northern mountain pass."
"Two weeks. That works out perfectly with my material supply. I'll take it."
Klaus nodded with satisfaction and returned the staff to his back. On his way out, he turned back once at the doorway.
"It's not just me who's grateful your shop exists. The folks in this town just haven't realized it yet."
With that, he walked off into the morning light.
Glen stared through the open door for a while.
Klaus's shadow fell short across the cobblestones, then quickly turned the corner. In the distance, the creaking of a market cart sounded.
Standing still, Glen placed his fingertips on the edge of the open door. The wood's surface still held the morning's chill, and that felt strangely pleasant.
*(The one who's grateful is me.)*
He quietly savored that thought in his chest.
━ ━ ━
The late morning sunlight slowly moved across the workshop interior.
Glen secured the staff entrusted to him by Klaus to the bench and carefully examined the wear on its tip. He pressed a thin metal plate against it, letting light filter through the gaps. The distortion was slight. But precisely because it was slight, it was worth adjusting.
In the midst of his concentration, the sound of running footsteps came from outside.
A rough yet light gait, kicking against the cobblestones.
"Glen-saaan!"
The wooden door burst open.
In came a boy reeking of sweat and dirt and beast's blood. Seventeen years old. His fiery red hair clung to his forehead with sweat, and his dark brown eyes gleamed with excitement. His worn leather armor was covered in countless scratches, and in the belt at his waist, he gripped a short sword still drawn from its sheath.
"I did it! Just now, I completed my first solo hunt! A moss wolf—I took one down!"
Kyle sucked in a breath all at once, then rattled on as if shouting.
"Just like you taught me—I kept my feet moving and cut at the source of its movement! Right before it tried to leap sideways, I aimed for the base of its right front leg... and then, its movements stopped like magic!"
Glen set down his tools and looked at Kyle's arm. The short sword gripped in his right hand. The blade was badly chipped, but the blood had been wiped clean. The discipline of treating a sword as a tool—he'd properly learned that.
"It doesn't look like you're hurt."
"Hehe, not a scratch! This much is nothing, really."
Kyle scratched the back of his head sheepishly. On the back of that hand was a small abrasion. Covered in dirt and sweat, still oozing blood.
"Not a scratch, huh. If you don't take care of it, it'll become just another wound. Same goes for the sword. Sit down."
Glen took out an oil pot for maintenance, a soft cloth, and a whetstone base from under the counter. He accepted the short sword from Kyle, traced the chipped areas with his finger, and checked the orientation.
"Moss wolf blood rusts a blade quickly. Just wiping it with a cloth as soon as you get back makes a difference. Listen—first, hold the cloth at a right angle to the blade. Never slide it sideways across the edge. You'll cut your hand."
Glen slowly wiped the flat of the blade with the cloth. The blood stained the white fibers of the cloth reddish-brown.
Kyle watched his hands as if holding his breath.
"And then, this. Don't overdo it with the whetstone. The chipping is small right now, so this much is enough. If you grind it too aggressively, the blade won't last."
"Amazing... When you handle it, even a sword starts to look like a staff."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
A small silence fell between them.
Outside the workshop, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden door. Against the far wall, the Living General had stood in the same position since morning. The dark blue-black heavy armor was utterly motionless, and only the blue light deep within the helmet flickered slowly, as if breathing.
"...Um, Glen-san."
Kyle suddenly lowered his voice.
"Please teach me more of that staff art. That ice blade thing you showed in the mine tunnel the other day. It's like... something switched inside me. I felt like I could see a different path—not just the sword."
The boy's eyes were serious. In a face smeared with sweat and dirt, only his eyes shone with an almost unnerving clarity.
For just a moment, Glen's eyes looked as if he were gazing at something from the distant past.
"Staff art comes after you've mastered the fundamentals. First, standing on your own two feet. Once you've got the basic stance for stepping in, I'll teach you that."
"R-really!? Yes!"
"Not 'yes.' I said once you've got the basic stance."
Glen laughed quietly. Kyle laughed along with him.
In that instant, the atmosphere of the workshop softened gently.
━ ━ ━
Just past noon.
There was a hesitant knock at the workshop's wooden door. Small, three times. A cute sound, like a small bird pecking with its beak.
"Come in."
When the door opened, a sweet aroma flowed in first. The fragrant smell of burnt butter and sugar, characteristic of baked goods.
"It's been a while. I baked these, so if you'd like... and I also took the liberty of bringing some tea."
Standing at the entrance was a girl so petite she could almost be called a child, her light golden-brown hair in a braid. Behind a pair of large round glasses, her yellow-green eyes wavered shyly. She held a plate of baked goods wrapped in thick cloth with both hands, and perched on top was a small paper bag.
"Alisa. Thank you for going out of your way. Did you bake these yourself?"
"Yes. They still don't come out shaped quite right... I can't guarantee the taste, though."
Alisa smiled, narrowing her eyes bashfully. She was an E-rank novice mage, and also the first customer to buy a custom staff from Glen's workshop. The girl who had once stood crying, clutching a broken staff, had now become one of the regulars who brought smiles to the workshop.
Glen was just about to start preparing tea—and that was exactly when it happened.
The wooden door opened heavily, as if it had never heard of the word "hesitation."
"...Pardon the intrusion."
What lumbered into view was a massive frame of one hundred ninety-five centimeters. A cleanly shaven head, with a large claw scar running from his left cheek down to his neck. Small gray eyes slowly surveyed the interior of the workshop. Gald, the heavy warrior. Formerly the shield of the Crimson Fang, now a man entrusted with training new recruits by the mutual aid association.
"It's about the training meeting. Do you have time?"
"Ah, sure. Alisa just brought some sweets, actually. Gald, would you like some too?"
"...Sweets, huh."
Gald stared down at the plate on the counter in silence for a moment. Then, without a word, he picked one up and put it in his mouth.
*Crunch.*
A strange sound echoed in the corner of the workshop.
Gald's mouth slowly stopped moving. His cheek twitched slightly.
"...Hard."
"Auu... it was too hard after all, wasn't it. I got the baking time wrong again..."
Alisa's shoulders drooped dejectedly. The end of her braid bounced limply.
"No, this texture would be excellent as field rations. It would keep well, and it's nutritious. Not bad."
"Field rations...?"
Alisa looked up at Glen with a complicated expression. Whether that was a compliment or not was unclear. Still, a faint smile returned to her lips.
Gald silently reached for a second one. And this time, though grimacing, he chewed it thoroughly and swallowed.
"...Not bad."
With just that, Gald sat down on a barrel by the window.
Glen took out his stock of tea leaves and poured hot water into a small earthen teapot. The rising steam wavered faintly white in the midday light. The aroma of tea mingled with the sweet scent of the pastries, slowly filling the workshop.
"So, how are the new recruits doing?"
As Glen poured the tea, Gald crossed his arms and let out a low breath.
"Not bad. Since that last real combat, their movements have changed. They learn faster in the field than from anything I say."
"The atmosphere of the field is the best teacher there is."
"Especially Kyle. He used to be a boar that just charged in, but lately he's started watching his surroundings. He checks the shield position before moving. That's because of what you showed him in that mine tunnel."
Gald's gray eyes fixed squarely on Glen. Deep within them, a faint, soft light flickered.
"That's because Kyle himself wanted to change. I just created the opportunity."
"...I'll let you have that one."
The corner of Gald's mouth relaxed—just barely, just a little.
Glen gently traced the steam from the teapot with his index finger. The white wisps bent and unraveled, following the movement of his finger, returning to the air.
━ ━ ━
In the afternoon, as the sun began to tilt westward.
In the workshop's backyard, Glen took up his staff and slowly settled into a stance.
There were three sp
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