Sword Casting City, a blacksmith shop in the west of the city.
A burly man is forging a sword, the hammer in his hand striking the glowing red blade, the sound of metal against metal ringing out.
A one-armed elder sits in a wicker chair, a large palm-leaf fan in his left hand. He appears to be leisurely fanning himself, but his brow is furrowed, hinting at a less than pleasant mood.
He stands up and strongly slaps the burly man on the back of the head, only to get a hand full of sweat. He tries to wipe it off on the burly man's cloth shirt, only to find it soaked through.
The one-armed elder moves his hand behind himself and lightly shakes it, the sweat stains disappearing without a trace.
He frowns, expressing impatience, "The sound alone tells me your hammering is off!"
The burly man rubs the back of his head and breaks into a simple, innocuous smile.
