"I’m not interested." I state simply.

  The eyes of the pompous man in colorful attire shoot wide in outrage only to make a quick nervous glance to the side, where a row of chairs stands. I’m much better at the task of keeping my eyes away from the spot by simply focusing on the area between his eyebrows.

  The man’s eyes turn back to me and after swallowing a retort and taking a deep breath he continues.

  "There seems to be a misunderstanding." he starts "We at Malev Exclusive can offer the gifted many opportunities. Much more than that could be available in this humble part of the city."

  ‘Humble’ huh? I was expecting him to call it a shithole... I know this Malev ‘shop’, I was recently there, the one with enchanted armor, an overpriced shitbox right next to the Smith Guild and the Dungeon.

  Well, I can do better in this rat’s corner than you can in your pompous glass smithy of lies and bullshit.

  "Sorry, but as I said, I’m not interested." I repeat.

  "Young man you have no idea what-"

  "Sir." I interrupted him sharply. "I’ve already given you my response. And it seems that you’re not here as a customer, while at the same time bothering the real customers behind you." I finish, pointing to the queue behind him.

  His face changes several colors while a snicker resounds, only to stop when he turns around in search of the offender. His personal guards to either side of him seem to not appreciate the situation and move their palms to the swords on their hips. They turn around and glare at the queue, which seems to cause a ripple as people start slowly moving away, a few even leave.

  "Sir." I growl out as a [Force Aegis] materializes around me.

  Light jumps into my hand from the smithing corner and the whole queue takes a sharp step back.

  "Please. Leave." I say gravely while the weapon in my hand starts buzzing.

  This seems to have finally made my point clear.

  "Hmpf." the buffoon grunts, turning around and taking a last glance at the chairs and the numerous creepy dolls on them.

  "Freak." he whispers in disgust while leaving with his guards following him as the crowd parts before them.

  There’s nothing for me to add and several moments later the next customer in the queue walks up to me.

  He glances at the chairs too and a strange expression appears on his face.

  Vana and the young girl were delighted when I returned the repaired doll in perfect condition.

  They were especially happy to see how the color of the new limb matched others. I had to work quite a bit on that. But it was worth it as I was overjoyed with the creepy creation finally getting out of my smithy.

  Only to have Vana return this morning with a few other girls and a heap load of damaged dolls. Vana insisted that I should charge for this new work, and all the girls were quite insistent on that too, they were willing to pay a lot of gold for even the simplest of fixes.

  And so now, there are dozens of accursed things waiting to be repaired. I’ve got no idea how Vana gathered so many more ‘collectors’ in just a few days... And if a rumor of me fixing creepy dolls didn’t already spread out yet, it will quite soon with so many witnesses.

  This is the price I pay for not having a cloth big enough to cover all the creepy things at the same time.

  Who do I even blame for this?

  Fuck!

  If only this goddamn migraine would at least leave me alone.

  ...

  My eyes drift down the gold-embossed menu, trying my best to keep the scowl off my face. Everything on the page screams extravagance—each line another dagger aimed at practicality. Imported cheeses. Aged wine. Dishes so heavily described you’d think they were royal artifacts, not food.

  "I think I’ll take the filet mignon, medium-rare, fresh salad, and a bottle of Cote de Lafite," Joe says, closing his menu with a soft clap. "That will be all."

  The waiter—a man so sharply dressed I’m surprised his cuffs don’t cut air—nods respectfully and jots down the order in a slim, leather-bound notebook. His hair is slicked back with precision, and the pen he’s using is silver-tipped. Not a single piece of this man’s appearance feels coincidental.

  Then he turns to me with the same poised smile.

  "And what would you like, sir?"

  I pause.

  There’s something in the way he says "sir" that sounds more like "what are you doing here?"

  "Same," I say, handing over the menu. "But without the wine."

  "Of course, sir." Another elegant nod. He scribbles a quick note, clicks the pen shut, and gestures toward the brass bell on the corner of our table. "Give me a moment, I shall bring the refreshments. If you require anything else, please don’t hesitate to ring."

  He bows and exits through the tall glass doors, so smoothly it feels choreographed. The click of the latch behind him is soft, but final.

  We’re seated in a private room on the second floor—high above the bustling first level. From here, through the glass wall, the entire restaurant unfurls below us like a miniature world. The central marble fountain burbles with magical light, casting ripples over the polished stone floor. A quartet of string musicians plays something elegant but forgettable, blending seamlessly with the ambient hum of laughter and the clinking of cutlery. Every table downstairs is dressed in white silk and silver.

  The smell of perfume in the air is overwhelming.

  "So," Joe says, adjusting the lapel of his dove-grey suit with a sly grin, "what do you think?"

  "A waste of gold," I growl, leaning back into the velvet-lined chair. The upholstery tries to swallow me.

  "What?" Joe spreads his arms, mock offense dancing in his tone. "The suit or the lunch?"

  My eyes narrow.

  "Both."

  He bursts into a laugh—loud, carefree, completely unbothered by the absurdity around us.

  "Man, you think I don’t know? Wasting more than five gold for a piece of meat barely larger than your palm? Another three for a bottle of fancy red ale with a foreign name? Ha! It’s robbery. No—legalized robbery!"

  "Then why did you drag me here?"

  "Because I need to be seen here," he says, suddenly serious. "There are doors you can’t open on your own. You wait for someone on the other side to crack them from within. Appearances matter. I’m building a profile. It’s an investment."

  I exhale slowly, watching a server across the floor pour wine with the care of a priest filling a chalice.

  "I thought we were meeting to talk about smithing materials. Or more accurately, the lack of them."

  "We are." Joe leans forward, resting his elbows on the crisp linen tablecloth. "In fact, I did some digging."

  "There’s barely any steel or coal left, I need a solution fast." I said sourly. "And with Mike no longer coming to the smithy, the burden has fallen to me."

  "Didn’t you say the warm forge was part of the lease?" asks Joe with a frown.

  "It was," I admit. "But it was under the condition that I’d use the smithy only a few hours a day—not live in it like a gremlin, working nearly 24/7. This is a breach of our agreement. I have to be flexible too."

  Joe frowns, tapping the edge of the table.

  "Can’t say I blame you. Renting a smithy elsewhere would cost ten times more. This would significantly impact your profit margins."

  "I know." I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "So what did you find out?"

  Joe’s mouth tightens into a thin line.

  "The good news: flux and rivets are easy. Plenty of suppliers. Some of them even have decent reputations for fairness and quality."

  A pause.

  "The bad news: charcoal prices are through the roof and still climbing. It’s nearly unsustainable. Steel and coal, though... that’s another beast. The market looks broad—lots of resellers—but when you trace it back, there’s only one real supplier. And it’s under the Minister of Resources’ control."

  My brow furrows.

  "Is there a problem there?"

  Joe shrugs, but his eyes don’t.

  "Not right now. But it’s all tied up in bureaucracy. They want paperwork. Proof of commercial activity. And your smithing badge."

  I nod. "But we’ll still get the materials, right?"

  "Oh, yes. That’s not the issue. You’re already certified and you’ve got a reputation, even if it’s mostly local. But still—this monopoly? It makes the rules. And they’re not using that power right now. That worries me."

  I blink. "You’re concerned that they’re not abusing their power?"

  He levels a flat look at me.

  "Yes. Yes, I am. People like that never leave advantages on the table. If they’re not squeezing us for every copper, it means they’re either plotting something bigger... or buying goodwill in advance."

  Before I could respond, a knock resounded and the glass doors opened silently. Several waiters enter, gliding like shadows behind a rolling table draped in velvet. They begin setting up our meal with precise, practiced movements—placing utensils, silver-rimmed plates, folded napkins, and even a glass vase holding fresh-cut lilies that smell like a summer garden.

  One of them approaches Joe, holding up a bottle with a label that looks older than both of us. Joe gives a nod, and the waiter uncorks it with a soft pop, carefully pouring the deep red wine into his glass. Another glass is placed in front of me, though I don’t touch it.

  "The meal is in preparation," the waiter says with a subtle bow. "The chefs are taking extra care to ensure the flavor fully blossoms. It may take a few more minutes."

  Joe nods appreciatively.

  The waiters bow in unison and exit, the doors closing behind them with the same hushed finality.

  For several seconds we sat in silence.

  "All this bowing makes me feel dirty," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in my chair as another waiter passed by the glass door with mechanical grace.

  "That’s what’s expected." Joe’s tone was calm, but there was something tired underneath it. "It’s a game. And if you want in, you play by the rules."

  "You want to play this game?" I asked, surprised by my own tone—half disbelief, half concern. I stared at him, unsure who I was really seeing anymore.

  He didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, we just sat in the plush silence, the faint strings of the musicians below weaving through the glass and still air.

  Joe raised his wine glass again, holding it to the light like he was trying to see something through the red. Then he took a sip, grimaced, and set the glass down with quiet disgust.

  "Harv, the short answer is no. I don’t want to play this game. All these rituals, the customs, the empty smiles—it’s all absurd. But... if you want a seat at the table where the real decisions happen, you’ve got to act like you belong. Even if it means paying a king’s ransom for wine that tastes like overripe berries soaked in arrogance."

  I leaned forward, elbows resting on the cool linen tablecloth. The soft clatter of dishes echoed faintly through the floorboards below us.

  "What’s going on, Joe? Why the sudden change in attire? Why the obsession with the upper crust?"

  He didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the wine in his glass again, eyes tracking the slow whirlpool of red like it held secrets. Then he emptied it in one gulp and turned to face me, his voice low, almost reverent.

  "I saw something, Harv. Something I can’t forget—or unlearn."

  A frown carved itself into my face.

  "What? What did you see?"

  He leaned in, forearms on the table now, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it.

  "I saw how they make money. Real money. The kind of wealth that doesn’t come from labor, or trade, or craft. The kind that shapes cities. And it shook me."

  A hundred thoughts surged in my mind.

  "Information," Joe said bitterly, spitting the word like it left a sour taste.

  I blinked.

  "What do you mean, ‘information’?"

  "I mean that if you have access to knowledge the public doesn’t—just a sliver ahead of everyone else—you can earn more in a week than a lifetime of hammer and anvil could ever give you."

  "I still don’t follow," I said, my voice caught somewhere between confusion and unease.

  He exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him.

  "There’s this guy. Doesn’t matter who. Name, rank, circle—all irrelevant. What matters is that, about a week ago, he bought up ten tons of barley malt. Paid a little over market price. Enough to raise a few eyebrows."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "The one for beer?" I asked, eyebrows lifting.

  "Yes. Beer," Joe nodded, his voice laced with irony. "At first glance, it looked like a stupid move. Everyone knew the harvest season was close. Prices were supposed to drop, not rise. Some laughed at him. Thought he was a fool wasting gold for nothing."

  "I’m guessing he wasn’t?"

  Joe shook his head, his eyes dark.

  "Three days later, news came that the biggest brewery in the province suffered a mechanical failure. Something went wrong. Not many details. But. Injured. Dead. And more than half their supply goes up in smoke."

  I stared at him, the dots beginning to connect.

  "The price of beer tripled overnight. Barley malt vanished from the markets. And wouldn’t you know it—this man suddenly had exactly what the brewers, the taverns, the merchants desperately needed. He auctioned it off piece by piece. And he made a fortune."

  "But... the harvest—"

  "Is too far away," Joe interrupted. "People didn’t want to wait. Taverns had contracts. Nobles had banquets. The city’s thirst doesn’t pause for economic theory. They paid. And he profited."

  Silence settled between us again, heavy as stone.

  "He made more in a few days than I ever could with honest work," Joe said quietly, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty glass. "More than I’ll see in a lifetime."

  "Joe..." I started, but he cut me off.

  "A right man in the right place, Harv. That’s all it took. One piece of knowledge no one else had, and he owned the market."

  "But you didn’t have it," I said firmly. "You didn’t know. And that matters."

  "No," he admitted. "I didn’t. But next time... maybe I will. That’s the difference."

  "Speculation," I said, the word falling like an accusation.

  He looked at me for a long moment, then gave a slow, tired nod.

  "I wouldn’t use that word," he said. "But... yeah. That’s what it is."

  "Joe, that’s not the same as selling goods. That’s not trading. That’s... dangerous."

  "I know."

  "It could hurt people."

  "Oh, it will hurt people," he said without flinching. "That’s the thing, Harv. It happens whether I do it or not. If it’s not me, it’s someone else. Might as well be me."

  "And you’re okay with that?" I asked quietly.

  "I wouldn’t say I’m okay," he said, his voice soft, almost resigned. "But it’s something I have to do. Because if I don’t grow, if I don’t adapt—I’ll get left behind. And I’ve got nothing else."

  He stared at me, eyes hard with conviction.

  A soft knock broke the quiet, and the glass doors opened with barely a whisper. A procession of waiters entered, each guiding a rolling cart with elegant precision. They moved like dancers, each with their own practiced part. With fluid motion, they removed the silver domes covering the plates, releasing a wave of scent so rich and warm it made my stomach ache.

  Before us lay a meal that looked more like a still-life painting than food—seared filet glistening with a reduction glaze, roasted vegetables arranged in careful arcs of color, sides delicately garnished with herbs and dustings of seasoning.

  The scent of rosemary and seared meat wrapped around me like a warm cloak. My mouth watered instinctively.

  Joe’s glass was refilled with an effortless motion.

  "Please enjoy," the lead waiter said with a bow. "If you need anything, please ring the bell."

  With a final flourish, they bowed and left, the glass doors whispering closed behind them.

  Silence returned, heavy with heat and spice.

  We didn’t speak. We simply ate.

  The meat was perfect—tender enough to fall apart under the knife, rich and buttery on the tongue. The sauce danced with flavors I couldn’t name. It was food designed to impress not just the stomach, but the soul.

  When the plates were scraped clean and the warmth of the meal had settled into our chests, we finally looked at each other again.

  "You may fail," I said, the words falling heavy.

  "Yes. I may." Joe nodded, calm, as if he had already rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his mind. "But if I don’t try, I’ll always wonder. It’s better to take the chance today than drown in regret tomorrow."

  "You’re walking into something bigger than either of us can comprehend. It’ll take more than ambition—connections, politics, all kinds of things we barely understand."

  "I know." He folded his napkin slowly, carefully. "That’s why I’m starting now. Every hour matters. I’ll grind for it. Study it. Learn everything I can. Tirelessly."

  A sigh slipped from me, uninvited.

  "You’re taking a massive risk just to—"

  "Harv," he cut me off, gently but firmly. "I know. I do understand. More than you think."

  I studied his face. There was no desperation there—only a stubborn resolve.

  "I hope it works out," I said, letting the words come slow and honest. "I hope you find what you’re chasing. That it brings you peace, makes you content with life. Or at least doesn’t take too much from you." Then I gave him a small smile. "And if it doesn’t? I’ll still need someone to find me clients and get me raw materials. Someone who keeps his word and can be relied on."

  Joe blinked, surprised. His eyes widened. A chuckle bubbled up from his chest.

  "I don’t know what to say." He shook his head, grinning. "Thanks, Harv. It’s good to know there’s still a place for me if everything goes sideways."

  I lifted my glass toward him.

  "To the success of our endeavors."

  He grinned and clinked his glass to mine.

  We drank, the wine sharp, deep and too bitter for my taste.

  Then Joe suddenly stopped, glass hovering halfway back to the table.

  "Harv... I know you’ve already done a lot for me," he said slowly, "but there’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

  He glanced toward the door, then leaned in slightly.

  "You’re from the capital, right?"

  "Well... I lived there for years," I said carefully. "But I wasn’t born there."

  "Right. Still," Joe continued, lowering his voice, "I got a piece of... valuable information from someone. But I don’t have the context. I don’t understand why it’s valuable. Why it matters."

  I tilted my head. "Alright. I’ll try, but no promises. I’ve been away for over five years. Things change."

  Joe nodded, eyes searching mine.

  "Do you know the clan Navarus?"

  I froze. My breath caught. My spine stiffened slightly.

  He didn’t notice, or maybe he chose not to.

  "You know—the legendary Hero clan," he said, as if talking about something from a history book. "They’ve produced dozens, maybe hundreds, of Heroes over the centuries."

  "Yes, I heard of them," I said quietly.

  "What about a guy named Yaraniel? Yaraniel Navarus?"

  I froze once again.

  Yaran?

  Cousin.

  Memories surged unbidden—sparring matches in the stone courtyard, bloody noses and bruised pride. He was older, stronger, bigger. But my spells gave an edge he did not have. I used to win, more often than not.

  Until his Awakening.

  A War-Thunder deity blessed. From that day on, he was different—untouchable. I couldn’t keep up anymore.

  "Harv?" Joe’s voice brought me back.

  "What? Ah. Yeah?"

  "You’ve heard of him?" Joe asked, watching me.

  "A bit," I said carefully.

  "Perfect." Joe grinned. "Do you know why him being chosen as the Hero of the Navarus is such a big deal? And why has he been sent to chase down something called ‘the One-Horned’?"

  The blood drained from my face.

  I stared at him.

  He grinned wider. "You do know something. Please, Harv. I need to understand. I’ll even pay you for the info if that’s what it takes."

  I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry. I stared into the air, looking for the right words.

  "Joe..." I said finally, my voice heavy, "Yaraniel Navarus is an Awakened warrior. Deity-touched. That makes him powerful. Very powerful."

  Joe lit up. "A True Awakened Hero!" he exclaimed. "Those are so rare. He must be—"

  "Joe." I interrupted, firmly this time. "The One-Horned... is the shadow demon."

  Joe frowned. "There are lots of demons with shadow powers, Harv. What makes this one so—"

  "No!" I leaned in. "It's not A shadow demon, it's THE shadow demon... It's... It's the demon made out of shadows. The one which razed dozens cities to the ground. Erased them. It's-"

  Joe’s face paled.

  "The Hero-Killer," he whispered.

  I closed my eyes and nodded.

  He slumped into his chair like the weight of the words had physically struck him.

  His silence was understandable.

  The One-Horned is the terror of the Lightborder. A specter of annihilation.

  Some researchers say it’s claimed over four million lives across two centuries.

  But the death toll isn’t what made it infamous.

  It doesn’t just kill.

  It seeks out cities where Heroes live.

  Dozens of Heroes have died by its hand.

  Including my uncle.

  So why are they sending a new Hero on a suicide mission?

  ...

  I don’t know why I bought it.

  I don’t know why I’m here, in the dead of night, in my empty smithy, instead of finishing the backlog of orders or finally getting some damn rest.

  I don’t have an answer.

  Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Maybe this is my way of processing what I learned—that my cousin, Yaraniel, has been sent to face the One-Horned.

  Maybe it's because I know that if I hadn't lied and taken up the mantle, if I had become the clan's Hero, that suicidal task would’ve landed on my shoulders instead.

  Maybe this... all of this... is to come to terms with the fact that the very thing I feared and wanted to evade happened. That my fear and lie was not baseless.

  But in the end, none of the theories matter.

  I wanted to buy an enchanted item. Take it apart. Understand it. And I did just that.

  So here I am. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a strange, flat disk engraved with intricate pathways and gates forming an extremely large matrix. It looks too complex for something as simple as a light spell.

  I’ve been here for who knows how long, feeding mana into the thing. Again. And again.

  And again.

  Each time, the same thing happens: a faint shimmer, then a ghostly orb of light blinks to life above the disk—[Lumen], but not like any casting I’ve seen.

  The matrix is wrong.

  It works—but it’s wrong.

  The engravings are too elaborate, the flow patterns too convoluted. It looks like a standard matrix from a distance, but up close... none of the substructures match any classification I know. It’s like reading a spellbook written by a madman in a forgotten tongue.

  I’ve taken the disk apart—gently. The cover is off. There’s no hidden core, no internal lattice. Just this one impossible matrix engraved into its face.

  To compare, I cast my own version of [Lumen]. A small, crisp sphere forms instantly—clean, stable, bright.

  More efficient. Less mana. Brighter light. Steady.

  So why does the disk’s spell draw nearly three times as much mana... and still flicker?

  Maybe I’m pushing too much?

  My spell is released and my full attention turns to disk.

  I scale the flow back.

  The orb sputters. Flickers. Almost dies.

  I increase it.

  The light stabilizes—but it’s shaky, almost twitching. I pour in more mana. The orb grows, but something’s wrong. It’s straining. Like a container too full.

  Then it shatters. A sudden pop of mana release, and I’m plunged into darkness.

  Only the faint light crystal on the wall keeps the room from falling into total black.

  A frustrated scowl pulls at my face.

  What the hell?

  I try again. Nothing.

  [Lumen].

  My own spell blooms to life once more. I carefully study the disk. There—just near the inner curve of the matrix, a small, blackened spot.

  Shit.

  Did I burn it out?

  I grab a fine pick and begin carefully cleaning the charred section. The groove is slightly deeper now. Damaged. But maybe salvageable.

  I push mana into it again, slowly.

  A flickering, unstable orb appears.

  Okay. So it still works—barely.

  So... this thing has an upper mana limit. Exceed it, and it crashes. Or worse.

  I wonder: if I do it again... will the same spot break? Or does the damage shift, spreading across different sectors?

  Okay no, I can't risk it dying. The stupid thing cost three gold. I can't buy a new one after every test.

  Let’s dissect the damn thing.

  I reach for the fine iron dust left from sharpening work earlier today, and using a pair of needles, begin placing the metallic grains in one of the miniature gates along a larger sub-matrix.

  Block the mana path. Trace the flow.

  Basic diagnostics.

  Mana flows in. The orb flares—

  Right in my hand.

  "Shit!"

  I drop the disk. It clatters on the floor, the light flickering out instantly.

  I wince, heart pounding.

  Carefully, I retrieve the disk and examine it for cracks. Still intact.

  That had to be a position-shift function—redirecting the spell origin point.

  Interesting.

  How does it determine the direction and axis? With spells it is done automatically through mana origin and pathway direction...

  I will have to return back to it later, for now let's continue.

  Slow minutes as a scowl continues growing on my face,

  The matrix is ridiculous. None of it is familiar. None of it is intuitive.

  It's still magic for god's sake! I know how the original spell works so I should be able to reverse-engineer the damn thing!

  Maybe I should document this. Archive the flow pattern, compare it to—

  Later.

  For now, I block a smaller sub-matrix. Archaic. Tiny. More compact than the rest. Let’s see what it does.

  I push mana into the disk.

  Nothing happens.

  Strange.

  Where did the mana—

  A pulse.

  Crack—

  The disk explodes in my hands. A sharp, metallic blast. Shards ricochet across the room.

  I jerk back instinctively.

  Something slices my cheek. My hands sting.

  For a moment, I sit there in stunned silence, heart hammering, breathing hard in the flickering glow of the corner crystal.

  My hands are bleeding.

  Small, clean cuts. Nothing deep—but there’s blood.

  I look down at the fractured remains of the disk scattered across the floor.

  What the fuck?

  ...

  The song of morning birds carries faintly through the open door, delicate and fleeting—until it's shattered by the harsh, ringing strike of my hammer.

  Steel meeting steel. Again. And again.

  I keep the rhythm brisk but controlled, pushing myself to work faster without sacrificing quality. That line—between speed and sloppiness—is thin, and I walk it like a man on the edge of a blade.

  I still have a little time before the rush begins. Before the queue of half-awake customers shows up with their chipped blades, bent hinges, and wide-eyed urgency like the world’s going to end if they don’t get their order by noon.

  That queue has become a fixture lately—and a headache. It shoves my schedule off-balance, turning every morning into a juggling act. So I adapted. Quick jobs now come first, so that the queue disappears faster. The slower, more tedious work—the kind that demands patience and silence—I push to the evenings, when no one can interrupt me.

  A low scowl works its way onto my face as I strike the last few blows.

  Too much time wasted lately. And not on rest. Not even on something useful.

  Just... distractions.

  I tell myself it was curiosity. A drive to learn. But the truth is uglier: it was arrogance. The belief that good mana control and solid spellwork were enough to let me wade into the art of enchanting like I belonged there. Like I could unravel centuries of craftsmanship with a few experiments and raw willpower.

  Now the remnants of that belief sit in the garbage bin behind the shop—splintered metal, burnt grooves, and a ruined enchantment matrix that isn’t worth salvaging.

  It was a lesson. An expensive, humbling one.

  I study the axe edge, smooth and even. Using a whetstone I sharpened it lightly.

  Then I check everything again.

  Good.

  With a small nod, I carry it over to the storage rack and slide it into place with the other finished orders. One more off the list.

  I turn to my journal and scratch down the completion date and time beside the order number.

  Next job.

  My eyes move over the list.

  Not this one. That’s for later, when the forge is hot enough to soften the steel.

  Not that one either. I don’t have time to complete the guard and wrap the blade.

  Ah. This one’s doable. Just need to add pathways to the spear.

  I scan the rack. Where did I put the damn—

  There it is. Tucked behind.

  A knock resounded

  My hand stops mid-air.

  I turn and pause, eyes settling on the pair of women who just stepped into the smithy.

  I rarely have customers this early, and these two—well, they’re an even rarer breed.

  The first woman is stunning, with an easy, practiced smile and a red uniform that clings too perfectly to her figure. Emphasizing already substantial... assets. Everything about her is calculated to draw attention—and it works. She's not the kind of customer who usually finds her way into my forge.

  "Are you open?" she asks sweetly.

  My gaze shifts to the second woman at her side—short black hair, less overt in her beauty but no less striking. Her figure is similar to the first, but the posture is telling another story. Feet grounded just right. Center of gravity poised. That sword on her hip isn’t just for show. She’s trained.

  "Yes," I say, pulling my attention back to the blonde. "What can I do for you?"

  She smiles wider. "We’re looking for a sword."

  I nod, keeping my tone even. "I’ve got a variety available, and I take custom commissions as well. Is there something in particular you’re after?"

  The blonde giggles, while her companion lifts a brow, unimpressed.

  "Oh yes," the blonde steps closer, her voice warm and teasing. "We’re looking for something very special."

  I grab my journal, flipping it open with practiced fingers.

  "If you want a custom build with mana pathways, I can schedule you in two weeks out. If you’re after a bound weapon, I might be able to fit that in by the end of the week."

  Her smile doesn’t falter, but I catch a twitch at the corner.

  "We’re here for something a little more special," she says.

  Something about the tone puts me on edge. Is she trying to cut the line? Or maybe another recruiter from those smithies on central street?

  I set the journal down and meet her gaze evenly. "Miss, would you mind being a little more specific?"

  The blonde laughs softly. "Of course."

  She straightens, voice dropping just slightly.

  "It’s come to my attention that you’re in possession of an exceptionally rare item."

  My brow creases.

  "Your sword," she says, eyes locking with mine. "A mithril blade forged by the legendary High-Smith Sivero Lampros."

  I go still.

  Her companion subtly shifts her stance—hand resting on the pommel of her blade.

  "I’d like to buy it," the blonde continues with that same infuriatingly calm smile. "I believe we can come to an arrangement—"

  "No," I say, my voice flat and cold.

  "But you haven’t even heard my offer."

  "It’s not for sale."

  "1,000 gold. And not just that, we’re prepared to offer—"

  "No." I point to the door. "Out. Now."

  The dark-haired one steps forward, eyes lit with frustrated conviction.

  "You don’t even use it!" she snaps. "You’re a smith! That kind of treasure shouldn’t be rotting away in a corner!"

  My mana stirs. I channel it, calling Light from the stand where it rests, and the blade leaps into my hand.

  The blonde steps back, an alarm flashing across her perfect features. The other one doesn’t flinch. Her eyes stay locked on the blade.

  "Not. For. Sale." I growl. "Leave."

  The raven-haired woman’s voice lowers. "I Awakened," she says, like it’s sacred. "A week ago. First Red in my bloodline in generations. I was chosen! A true warrior class! It's my destiny!"

  "Leave."

  She doesn’t budge. "No! You don’t understand! You can't stop me. I must prove myself. You—You a Colorless could never-"

  My mana flares.

  [Force Aegis]

  Light hums in my hand, vibrating with violent energy.

  The blonde grabs her friend’s arm and starts whispering urgently. Her companion still doesn’t back down, blade drawn now, tip aimed squarely at me.

  "A warrior, huh?" My voice is cold and hollow. "Then what are you waiting for?"

  I take a step forward. "Prove yourself."

  The buzzing crescendos—high, sharp, near-deafening. Mana blazing around my weapon.

  "I’m just a humble smith," I say, voice low, dangerous. "Surely a warrior chosen by fate could crush me without a second thought."

  Fear blooms in their eyes.

  They finally step back. Then another step.

  "We’re very sorry," the blonde stammers. "It seems... we couldn’t come to an agreement. But if you change your mind—"

  She fumbles a slip of parchment onto the floor and all but drags her companion out of the shop.

  The door slams shut. Their footsteps echo away.

  Silence returns, broken only by the dying hum of 'Oscillation Blade'. The defensive spell collapses around me, as ragged breaths escape me, the result of the fading charge of adrenaline. If only the annoying and ever-present headache followed it.

  I lower Light and stare at the spot where they stood.

  My possessiveness has dulled over the months. I’ve come to terms with the truth that the work of a craftsman is ephemeral. What we create leaves us. That’s the nature of the craft. We trade blood, sweat, and time for coin—and we do it again and again and again.

  But Light is different.

  It’s not just about how much it costs, which by my even most conservative estimates would be around ten times what she offered.

  No.

  This is a gift.

  A graduation gift from my mentor.

  A memento.

  There will never be another like it in the world.

  And I will not give it away.

  Even if Light never sees battle again. Even if it rests in that corner for the rest of my life.

  It’s mine.

  And it will always be mine.