Eisen Frank
Overall, Eisen Frank is the quintessential "country bumpkin."
By "country bumpkin," I mean he was born and raised in the sticks, or to put it bluntly, he's a rough and unrefined guy from the wilderness.
For example, he can't enjoy a meal without meat, his best skills are chopping wood and hunting, and up until he was sixteen, he thought the most beautiful woman in the world was the hefty vegetable seller, Auntie Sophia, with a waist as thick as a barrel, even though she already had two kids.
Then there's his name: Eisen Frank.
This name might sound a bit exotic, but the truth is, when Eisen Frank was three and still nameless, his old man got drunk one day, remembered his fatherly duties, looked up at the sky—it happened to be a summer day with a thunderstorm—and thus, Eisen Frank got his name.
This gives you an idea of how irresponsible his father was. Fortunately, it was just a thunderstorm that day. If it had been hail or a sandstorm, he might have ended up with a name like "Spring Sandstorm" or "Winter Hail," and lived a life of shame hiding in some cave.
Eisen Frank's coarseness is also evident in his preference for rough burlap over silk—of course, a significant reason for this is that Eisen Frank was dirt poor and couldn't afford silk. You could say it was a case of sour grapes.
The main reason he was so poor was that most of his hunting income went to buying alcohol for the old man—Eisen Frank’s father. By the time Eisen Frank was eight, he knew this old man wasn't his biological father: at that age, he was old enough to understand that a man with blue eyes couldn't possibly father a son with black eyes.
So, after he turned eight, he stopped calling the old man "dad."
As for Eisen Frank’s origins, the old man was clueless. In his words: "On a dark and windy night many years ago, I was out in the wild grilling a chicken. I had just finished cooking it when I went behind a tree to take a piss. When I came back, there you were, next to my fire with half of my chicken leg already eaten. Do you know what my first thought was when I saw a little kid like you gnawing on my chicken leg?"
Every time he told this story, the old man would shake his head dramatically and look at Eisen Frank with disdain: "I thought, this kid can eat so much at such a young age, he'll definitely eat me into poverty!"
Incidentally, the old man was an alcoholic, and Eisen Frank became a little drunkard. This started when the old man, trying to avoid dealing with a crying, hungry baby, gave him alcohol instead of food. So, Eisen Frank started drinking before he was weaned. By the time he was thirteen, he could outdrink the old man. Two years ago, the old man, realizing they couldn’t both be heavy drinkers in such a poor household, imposed a no-drinking rule on Eisen Frank.
One of Eisen Frank’s proudest skills is chopping wood.
Ironically, this is also why he despises the old man.
The old man used to boast about being a famous swordsman, but Eisen Frank never saw him use a sword. In fact, they didn’t even have a sword at home. The closest thing to a sword was a pitch-black fire poker in the hearth.
As he got older, like many boys, Eisen Frank wanted to learn martial arts. Convinced by the old man’s bragging, he pestered him to teach him. Eventually, the old man reluctantly agreed, leading to a decade of hardship.
Standing postures, carrying water to build endurance, even soaking in stinky herbal baths that could knock a person out—Eisen Frank endured it all.
What he hated most was that the old man, despite claiming to be a sword expert, refused to teach him swordsmanship!
A wandering poet once came to the town tavern and told tales of legendary swordsmen, leaving young Eisen Frank entranced. He dreamed of being like those noble swordsmen, dressed in white like snow or black like iron, wielding a sharp sword, seeking justice and revenge—it was the epitome of cool!
But the old man, claiming to be a sword expert, only taught Eisen Frank to use an axe!
Not the battle axes or poleaxes of legends, but the six-copper-piece kind sold by the town blacksmith, the standard tool for local woodsmen.
As for his axe skills, Eisen Frank wasn’t sure how good they were. The old man said his axe technique was about simplicity, while most people focused on precision and power. The old man told Eisen Frank: "You’ll know you've mastered the axe when you can wield it with finesse."
Eisen Frank knew what precision and power meant. At thirteen, he could chop off a running rabbit’s tail from fifty paces.
But finesse? That was up for debate. The old man said he’d know he had it when he could carve a flower from tofu with a twenty-pound axe—clearly an impossible task.
Eisen Frank always doubted the old man’s axe training because his daily practice involved chopping wood, slicing tofu, and gutting and butchering his hunts.
Despite his doubts, Eisen Frank practiced this “axe technique” for ten years. He was diligent, but the old man never commented on his progress, just sat nearby drinking, his eyes perpetually bleary.
A year ago, just before the old man died, he finally gave his opinion on Eisen Frank’s skills. His words left Eisen Frank pondering for three days, unsure if it was praise or an insult. He suspected the latter because, during the old man’s final days, Eisen Frank refused his requests for alcohol, concerned about his health—and also because they were desperately poor.
Perhaps that’s why the old man was bitter.
The old man, looking at his foster son with a complex expression, sighed:
"My ‘Thousand Army Slayer’ technique, practiced by you, has become something uniquely creative—damn it. After I die, you’re forbidden to touch an axe. You can use any other weapon, but not an axe, or I won’t rest in peace."
