I pass yet another house that looks just like the one before that. A frown grows on my face. Why would anyone want to live in a house that’s identical to every other one around? I mean I understand that if there’s a standardized design, which has proven its reliability over decades. Something that would stand the test of time. But why would anyone want one that's painted in the same muted whitish color as hundreds of others? It feels somehow wrong.

  I’m not a snob! And neither am I asking for the explosions of colors my little sisters are so fond of, but couldn’t there be at least some easy differentiation method? Even all the damn doors are made of the same material! The whole street reminds me of caricature dollhouses.

  ‘I live in the red house’ or ‘Mine is the yellow one’ or ‘The one with the green door’ just feels right and sounds somehow better...

  Shit.

  What number was this one?

  Lana said that she didn’t know Mike’s house number but it’s supposed to be the seventeenth from the left on the fourth street from the wall.

  A groan escapes me as I turn back and start counting again. My legs carry me while repeating the number in my head until I stand in front of the supposedly correct one.

  My eyes move around inspecting the house.

  I didn’t think that Mike lived in a shack, but what I sure didn’t expect was for him to live in the ‘rich district’. I mean he’s a drunk who owns a tiny smithy in the poor part of town...

  Whatever. None of my concerns.

  Pushing the meter-tall metal fence door opens it with a creak.

  I pause.

  Oiling up the hinges for a smith wouldn’t be a problem...

  A whirlwind of doubts assaults me with full force. Is this the correct one? Lana wouldn’t lie, but she could have simply mixed it up, right?

  No.

  I shook my head and entered. Whatever happens, happens. If this is the wrong house, then the owner could hopefully point me in the right direction.

  While I walk down the cobblestone path leading to the main door my eyes pass over the garden which is in total disarray which was invisible from the outside. The multi-colored weeds are knee-high and seem to have mostly dried out.

  I don’t even want to think about how long you need to not care about your garden for things to get this bad.

  Doesn’t matter! It’s none of my fucking business! I’ve got an important task here!

  I stop in front of the door and knock. Seconds pass while I await a response. But the house is deathly silent. As a matter of fact, the whole street is. And if not for the singing birds it would even seem abandoned. I glance at the large glass windows to the right of the door and find the interior hidden behind thick curtains.

  I knock again. Another dozen seconds pass while I await a response, yet no change occurs.

  Is no one at home? Or maybe it’s just abandoned? It’s unlikely that this is the wrong house. Lana wouldn’t mix this up, and only an alcoholic like Mike could leave a house in such disarray...

  I groan again and check the door handle, which opens with a creak, and the disgusting smell escapes the building, slamming into me with full force, and I nearly gag. A harrowing thought occurs. I haven’t seen him for at least a week. He couldn’t have drunk himself to death, right?

  I quickly enter the building and start loudly shouting.

  "Mike! Are you there? It’s me, Harv!"

  I walk further into the house finding more disarray and dust.

  "Mike!" I repeat, looking around for him.

  Walking through the corridor, deeper into the building, I repeated the call, only to pause when I noticed a wall full of paintings. A large number of people are on them, in all kinds of colorful clothes and unique locations. And I recognize a person in some of them, a much younger version, that seems so full of energy with a wide smile plastered on most of them.

  This is the correct house.

  In the center of them is a small frame with cracked glass. The only damaged one. Inside it is a badge with a Smith Guild seal on it. My eyes bulge out as I read the inscription on it.

  Only to turn right, where the noise of floorboards creaking comes.

  A door opened and a person walked out.

  I study the stumbling drunk who has a single hand massaging his face as he groans in pain, while his other hand holds a small painting with a woman and two children on it. The same trio is on many of the other paintings.

  He turns to me and his eyes narrow.

  "Why are you here? What do ya want?" he says, pausing and hiding the small painting.

  A response comes only several seconds later as I force the words out.

  "I brought the rent." I say raising my pouch.

  Mike frowns, puts the small painting inside of his clothes, and passes by.

  I stood silent for several long moments with the pouch still raised as he disappeared deeper into the house.

  Should I follow?

  No other choice here.

  I quickly followed the noise and arrived in a room, which I believe once to have been a kitchen.

  "Leave it on the table." he states simply while rummaging through the cupboards.

  I count the coins and place them on the dirty and dust-covered table. I notice a plate with something dried on it and flies flying around it. Were those fruits at some point?

  Turning back to the drunk I finally say what I’ve come here for.

  "Tomorrow a very important customer will come to the smithy."

  The drunk doesn’t react or respond and just moves to the other corner, digging through the lower cupboard in search of what could only be a poisonous beverage.

  "It would-... Please don’t come after lunch. I’ll close the smithy and be alone with them."

  He rises with a bottle in his hand, turns to the table, swipes the coins into his pocket, and walks out of the kitchen, without glancing at me.

  I followed him into the main room a few moments later, but he had already disappeared somewhere deeper.

  "Mike?"

  His voice came from the other room.

  "Don’t forget to close everything."

  I pause, but nothing else comes after that. This is as much of a response as I would get from him.

  While walking out of the house I notice a dirty toy lying in the corner, but ignore it.

  There’s a story here. A tragic one likely. But I don’t want to get involved.

  A story of B-Rank smith ending like that can’t be good.

  ...

  I study the glowing spell matrix hovering in front of me, brow furrowing as I trace the flow of mana through its intricate patterns.

  Joe and Olev pay us no mind, still focused on their food—Olev tearing bread with practiced ease, Joe scraping the last remnants of sauce with his fingers.

  "There's way more force structuring than I expected," I mutter, leaning in.

  Vana beams, clearly proud. "Of course! I’m trying to hurt something with it. It must pack a punch."

  "No, that’s not what I mean," I say, tilting my head slightly. "I’m talking about proportions. The force sub-matrices take up way more of the structure than the thermal one."

  She blinks. "Okay... and what's wrong with that?"

  I pause, considering how best to explain.

  "Alright. Let's go over it one step at a time. You use a pull force to gather moisture from the air."

  "Right." Vana nods along.

  "Then a push force to compress that moisture into a sleek shape."

  "Yes."

  "And then the inverse-thermal matrix kicks in, dropping the temperature and solidifying it into ice."

  "Exactly."

  "Then finally, you use another push force to launch the ice projectile at the target."

  "Not just one," she corrects me, eyes shining. "That’s the point of [Ice Burst]—multiple shards, scattered trajectory."

  "I get that. That’s not what I’m pointing out." I shift in my seat and gesture to the matrix again. "There are three force sub-matrices, and only one thermal. That imbalance—especially with opposing movement vectors—is inefficient. You’re pulling, then compressing, then pushing away... All that redirection is a mana sink. Half of that motion doesn’t even contribute to the actual impact."

  Vana narrows her eyes slightly, thoughtful. "But that’s just how [Ice Burst] is built. You have to manipulate the water into the right form before launching it. It’s part of the process."

  "I know, but think about [Fireball]—it only has one thermal matrix and one force component. The mana gets heated until it ignites, then a single push launches it. No wasted energy. And if you add compression you get a massive explosion on impact. Everything used is part of the offense."

  "Right, but the thermal matrix in [Fireball] is a mana guzzler. You’re not heating mana to a boiling point, you’re setting it to combust. That single thermal sub-matrix requires more mana than all the components of [Ice Burst] combined."

  "Sure, but none of it’s wasted. It's all used offensively. And there's also the residual burning effect too. More mana but also more destruction."

  "Exactly. But it’s too much mana for a single spell," Vana says firmly. "[Ice Burst] is efficient in its own way. Lower cost, wider coverage. I can tag three enemies with one cast. A single [Fireball] can't do that."

  "It's power versus area of effect, I understand. And I’m not saying one is better," I sigh, rubbing my temple. "Just that there’s overhead in [Ice Burst]. A spell that refined should be more... efficient."

  "Well, if you have a better version, I’m all ears." Her smile sharpens, but there's excitement in her eyes now, not annoyance.

  "I don’t. Just observations. I only know the theory—but I’m not the one flinging shards of ice in our team."

  "Alright, alright," Olev interrupts with a sigh, waving a spoon. "Let’s dial down the mana-talk. Harv was just curious about your ice magic, Vana. No need to duel over it."

  "We’re not fighting, we’re discussing," Vana huffs, folding her arms. "Gods, I’ve missed this! It’s been ages since I met someone who actually understands spell matrices. Harv, why didn’t you tell me you knew this much magic theory?!"

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Uh... I didn’t think it was worth mentioning?"

  Vana leans forward, eyes lit up like lanterns. "You know what this means, right? We could totally run a two-caster team setup. Can you imagine the spell layering potential? Combo spells, countercasts—"

  "Whoa, whoa," Olev cuts in again, raising both hands. "No way. Harv as a spellcaster might be helpful, but Harv as a frontliner? Essential."

  Joe, finishing his meal, wipes his mouth and chimes in. "Does it even matter right now? It’s not like we’re planning to head out any time soon. No quests, no dungeons. Just normal, boring work."

  "Don’t remind me," Olev groans, slumping in his seat. "I’ve been begging Brian for one day off. Just one. He acts like I’ll forget how to swing a sword if I blink too long."

  "Well, hoping you wear him down eventually," Joe chuckles. "Can’t have the legendary Olev Murdoch rotting away in a training yard."

  Another groan from Olev.

  I don’t say anything.

  Not like I can join them anytime soon either.

  Tomorrow’s client is too important. The exact kind of work I was looking forward to.

  Which means I need rest tonight. No excuses. No tossing and turning until the sun’s up.

  Maybe I should take two tablets this time.

  It’s too important.

  ...

  As expected, the twins arrived on time—this time flanked by an even larger escort of guards. But what truly stood out wasn’t the numbers. It was him.

  An older man, standing silent behind them like a stone gargoyle, his black hair slicked back with precision, his posture stiff, his eyes cold and hawk-like. He bore a subtle familial resemblance to the twins—perhaps an uncle. His gaze swept over the smithy and landed on me, cold and assessing. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.

  The twins, all teenage confidence and energy, took the seats I had specially prepared for them this morning—plush, new, and slightly over-decorated in anticipation of noble tastes.

  The man didn’t sit.

  He merely shook his head once, and remained stationed near the door. The guards took their places at either side of him like an extension of his will.

  Well, no reason to delay this any longer.

  "Welcome once again to my smithy, Mr. John and Mr. James," I said smoothly, using the names they had provided last time. A tiny twitch passed through the older man’s brow, barely perceptible.

  I noticed.

  "Thank you for coming. I’ll do my best not to take too much of your time. Let’s begin."

  The names are fake, of course. That much is obvious. They hadn’t even bothered to hide it—"Just John" and "Just James," they had said with smug smiles. Nobles prefer anonymity and that is fine by me. They pay, they get to pick the song.

  "As we discussed, the crafting process is broken into four phases: overview, preparation, design, and creation."

  The twins nodded. The older man remained silent, arms folded, eyes dissecting everything.

  "Let’s begin with the overview. The original request was for four identical creation-bound sabers. Do you already have a specific design in mind?"

  They exchanged a quick look.

  "We were hoping for something custom," said 'John'.

  "Something unique," added 'James', clearly trying to echo the word with gravitas.

  Oh.

  They’d been very clear about wanting sabers, and that they must be creation-bound, but everything else—the blade profile, balance, fighting style—was not specified.

  They had no idea what they wanted.

  Good. This means that I hadn't wasted time preparing just for that.

  "I see," I said, standing up and moving to the table. "In this case, I’ve prepared several templates—physical blueprints, you could say. The term ‘saber’ covers a wide range of single-edged, curved blades."

  I gestured to the display of four swords on the table, each a carefully made example of a different style.

  The twins rose and approached, curious. James stood and took one up, swinging the unsharpened blade like it was a toy. John looked tempted to join, but restrained himself.

  Behind them, the older man’s brow twitched again.

  I forced myself not to react. Professionalism. That’s what matters. They could pick their teeth with the blades or use them as fire pokers—they're paying and I'm just nodding and smiling.

  Gods, Joe’s attitude is rubbing off on me.

  "We have to choose between these four?" John asked, sounding vaguely disappointed.

  "No, not at all," I replied. "These are just templates—common types of sabers. Think of them as a starting point. The final product will be made from far superior materials and tailored to your exact preferences."

  James sat back down, still holding the weapon across his lap.

  "The first one here is the standard officer’s saber—the Empire’s light cavalry model. It’s curved to enhance cutting performance and weighted toward the blade to increase swing momentum."

  The twins nodded, already somewhat familiar. Good. That meant I could skip the basics.

  "It’s versatile, yes, but not universal. The second model is a larger variant, about thirty percent longer with a hilt designed for two hands. It offers more power and reach, but sacrifices speed and isn’t compatible with all fighting styles."

  I moved quickly through the third—a high-curvature variant—and the fourth, which was nearly straight, designed more for thrusting than slashing.

  Technically, the third was a shamshir and the fourth a longsword—both pushing the definition of ‘saber’—but I don't need to mention that.

  "These are the typical shapes," I said. "Each has its own strengths and trade-offs. Now, please try pushing your mana into them, one after another. There’s something I’d like you to examine."

  They did as instructed, hands on hilts, eyes narrowing with focus.

  "They have pathways?" John asked, uncertain.

  I nearly sighed. Nobles. Of course, they’d expect that. For them, pathways are common, practically a requirnment.

  "Yes," I said. "But that’s not what I meant. Try channeling into these two at the same time." I gestured toward the third and fourth blades.

  Moments later, James’s eyes lit up. "They feel different!"

  "Exactly. That’s critical. With straighter blades, the mana can travel uniformly through it in a straight line, but with high curvature, a different method has to be used that causes a decreased throughput and requires more fine-grain control over your mana."

  They nodded again, now more intrigued.

  "Now comes the most important consideration—your sword style. What you practice will ultimately determine what you need. The same goes for your combat environment."

  "Combat environment?" asked James.

  "Where you’ll fight," I clarified. "Open field? Tight corridors? A longer blade may be a hindrance indoors. And if you expect to face armored opponents or monsters with natural plating, you’ll want a thicker profile to withstand repeated impact."

  They exchanged glances, but gave no verbal reply.

  Ah.

  So it was likely a status symbol. A toy dressed in warpaint. That changes things. Showy, not deadly. Not my specialty—but an exception can be made.

  "I recommend speaking with your instructors before making a final decision. They’ll know your technique better than anyone. But don’t worry—you don’t need to finalize anything yet. That comes later."

  They furrowed their brows, clearly not used to being told to consult others. I smiled.

  Let them believe they had freedom. No reason to break the illusion myself.

  "That concludes step one: overview. Next comes preparation—the saturation of the binding material with your mana. This step takes the longest. Weeks, possibly more."

  "What?!" John blurted. "Why so long?"

  I kept my expression calm.

  "The binding material generally requires a lot of mana to saturate sufficiently. More binding material is required because there are two weapons for each. And with the higher density of binding material, a stronger connection could be established."

  Their faces darkened.

  "A lower amount of binding material could be used if time is of the essence here, but I wouldn’t recommend it for your first bound weapon." I continue, trying my best not to lose a prospective customer. "Post-creation bound weapons are much faster and easier to bind, but that’s only because there’s a minuscule amount of the binding material in them."

  There seems to be an internal battle going on inside the twins while they process the revelation.

  Shit. Is time an issue here?

  "The binding material requires a set amount of mana, and if you devote two hours a day to mana infusion instead of one, you halve the time. The total time required to complete that step will depend on your mana pool and control, but there are ways to decrease it even further by using mana potions."

  That seemed to reach them. They straightened.

  A quiet sigh escaped me.

  They’re still interested. Good.

  "While that’s ongoing," I continued, "we move to step three—design. These templates are at your disposal. You may modify them freely—either with me or on your own using standard whetstones."

  In my peripheral vision, the older man’s eyebrow twitched again.

  "But please be cautious. Too drastic a change may damage the mana pathways and cause leakage. If that happens, the blade is still usable as a mold, but won’t function properly. And until the second step is completed we can freely adjust the design at any given moment"

  They nodded. Eyes gleamed with a touch of excitement again.

  "The final phase—creation—will take up to two days. It must begin within a week of the binding material reaching full saturation. Any longer, and the material’s resonance begins to degrade. Ideally, we begin the next day."

  They seemed satisfied with the structure, and I could feel the negotiation nearing safe waters.

  But then James perked up. "Can the sabers be infused with monster cores?"

  John leaned forward, instantly interested.

  Ah.

  I hesitated. "Yes... they can. But I must strongly caution against rushing that process."

  The older man’s voice cut through the room for the first time, smooth and cold. "Why?"

  I swallowed before answering. His words were deliberate. Heavy. This man isn't a chaperone—he' a liaison. Possibly the true decision-maker.

  "There’s a reference text—The Monster Core Catalog. It documents all known cores, their classifications, and their recommended use cases. Monster Core infusion is not a universally good thing. The wrong pairing—wrong core, wrong alloy, wrong blade profile—can cause the weapon to fail catastrophically. It might not even survive the forge."

  I paused. Still no visible change in the man’s expression.

  "Or worse," I added softly, "it might fail in battle."

  That made even the twins pause.

  Silence.

  Then I continued, carefully.

  "That said—it is possible. With enough time and research, we can find combinations that are safe, functional, and aligned with your preferences. We have that time. While the second phase is underway, we can study the catalog together and discuss options."

  The tension eased just slightly.

  Gods, it’s like walking on a blade’s edge.

  But I must get it done.

  "We have phoenix cores. Could they be used?" asks John.

  I pause.

  Oh, so it’s the other way around. They have cores and want weapons for them...

  That makes so much more sense now. Those are expensive, rare cores... A birthday present, maybe? Something ceremonial? And now they want to use them as soon as possible.

  Shit.

  "They can be," I reply, doing my best not to say no. "Phoenix cores are usually infused into daggers—used mostly as torch replacements or fire-starting tools. The weapon lights up and burns hot, consuming minimal mana but reaching several hundred degrees in temperature. Though..."

  I glance at them carefully.

  "...they do require special handles to avoid cooking the wielder's flesh. And frankly, I’m not sure there’s much of a combat advantage to having a blinding torch in your hand every time you channel mana. They do shine quite brightly."

  They reluctantly nod.

  "So it’s better to use them on daggers..." James sighs.

  I froze.

  Is this... or is it not a dealbreaker for them? I don’t understand!

  Wait—he sounded like he’d heard that before. Were they just confirming it with me?... Fuck it. Doesn’t matter. I can’t lose this customer.

  Even if they insist on using the cores on sabers, I can’t just agree and make a fancy, unusable piece of shit for them. What would that do to my reputation? I need to guide them.

  "We could use the cores on a separate set of smaller daggers, if that’s a requirement. And don’t worry about the budget—I’ll offer a discount. You’re already paying for four sabers, so..."

  They pause—and then brighten up.

  Ah. So it was about money. That’s fine. I can drop the price a bit, but not too much. I’m already charging below market rate. If I go any lower, people might start questioning the quality. But still, they’re the only ones who’ve been serious about ordering bound weapons instead of vanishing after hearing the first few steps.

  Whatever. Even if I charge half the going rate, I’ll still make a shit-ton of money off this.

  "Can the sabers be bound to both of us at the same time?" asks John.

  "Uh... yes. Multi-binding is possible, but it introduces another set of—" I stop myself. No. Wrong. I shouldn’t say no.

  "I’m sorry—could you explain what you have in mind? And why would you want that?"

  They pause.

  Shit. Is it a secret?

  "Only if you can, of course," I add quickly.

  Maybe it’s a technique? A family style? Something obscure?

  "It would look cool to swap weapons during battle," says John.

  What?

  Cool?

  "To mess with the enemy," adds James.

  My brain stalls for a full second, trying to process what they just said.

  "...But all four sabers are the same," I mumble.

  "Yes?"

  I turn sharply to their caretaker, eyes wide.

  He coughs audibly.

  What does that cough mean? Carry on? Ignore it? Explain it to them?

  Fuck it.

  "Uh. Yeah, it’s technically possible to do that, but with multi-binding, the connection wouldn’t be as strong. I’d strongly advise against that for your first bound weapons. But once again, no final decision has to be made yet. We’ve got time," I say, forcing a smile, trying to make it sound like a suggestion instead of a rebuke.

  What kind of bullshit is that?! In real combat, every millisecond matters. Swapping weapons mid-fight is the last thing you want—especially if they’re identical! It’d only create confusion and open them to mistakes.

  I mean... sure. If the weapons each had different properties, making the opponent guess what kind of attack is coming next—a slash, a pierce, fire, ice—it could maybe be viable. But—

  NO. No, wrong. It’s still stupid.

  I refocus on the twins and continue.

  "What I’d still recommend is consulting with your teacher. The fighting style plays the biggest role in shaping the final design. A saber is usually wielded in the dominant hand, while the other helps with balance."

  I stand and demonstrate the stance, arms slightly outspread.

  "Balance," I say, shifting my arms like scales. "Or the auxiliary hand can stay behind the back or near a hip dagger, depending on the stance."

  That last one’s closer to a rapier stance, though—with totally different attack patterns: lunges, piercing strikes...

  "I can’t say anything about dual-saber wielding styles. I’ve not personally encountered one. I’d defer to an expert’s opinion on that."

  Not exactly true, but it’s easier to frame this as my own limitation rather than telling them to their face that dual-saber wielding is usually for showoffs and morons.

  "If you find a profile you’d like to try, you can always stop by. I’ll prepare another template for you to test."

  They nod slowly.

  "So you’d recommend two bound sabers and a dagger with an infused core?" asks John.

  "With what I know right now, yes. And the daggers can also be bound, if you’d like. But honestly, the key step is saturating the binding material with mana. Everything else can be adjusted along the way."

  They stay silent for a few long seconds. I hold back, smiling, not rushing them.

  They exchange a glance, then turn to the older man behind them.

  He nods.

  Their faces brighten.

  So I was right—his word is the final one.

  "So what should we do now?" asks James, suddenly excited.

  I nod and retrieve the vials from behind the counter.

  "Keep these close and simply channel mana into them until they stop absorbing," I say, carefully placing the vials into their hands. "And please do NOT mix them up between yourselves. If you do, the process has to be restarted from scratch."

  "But what about multi-binding?" John asks again.

  Again with that shit?

  "When the binding material is fully saturated, we can combine the vials during the final stage. But like I said, there’s time to decide that."

  The twins turn their attention to the vials, beginning to push mana into them. While they’re distracted, the older man walks up to me. He reaches into his coat and retrieves a pen, a folded piece of paper, and a small box.

  He writes something down, then pulls out a stamp from the box and presses it onto the paper.

  A moment later, he hands it to me.

  "This should cover the deposit and immediate expenses," he says.

  I nod, doing my best not to glance at the contents.

  Less than a minute later, I’m alone in the smithy.

  The twins leave, promising to return in a few days after speaking with their teachers.

  Tension drains from my shoulders, and I collapse into a chair, inhaling deeper than necessary.

  That was an unpleasant rollercoaster. I repeated the same things over and over, while their interest kept flickering like a candle in the wind.

  Is this what Joe has to deal with every time?

  Fuck.

  I'm not made for this shit.

  Yet in the end, it seems like it was a success... wasn’t it?

  I finally look at the paper.

  There it is: the insignia of a noble house and a bank. On it, stamped in orange ink, are the numbers—

  My head jerks toward the smithy entrance.

  No one.

  They’re not back.

  So... it’s not a mistake.

  Ha.

  I mean, I didn’t expect them to walk in with a chest of gold, but somehow this still feels less... real. Like it takes the edge off how valuable this order is.

  I’ve never dealt with checks before. Hopefully the bank won’t give me grief about transferring a thousand gold into my account.

  ...Shit.

  I didn’t jinx it, did I?