A young guy about my age walks out of the doors and every head in the hall turns to him. His eyes are somewhat dull as if they are covered by a thin layer of... something. Those same eyes move across everyone in absolute silence, after which he without uttering a single word simply turns and walks away. The expression on his face seemed somewhat resigned. Many who came out of that room had that expression.

  The smith in an apron flips the papers in his hands and calls another name. Someone to the left of me rises and enters the room through the doors.

  I’m not entirely sure why the evaluation is split into two parts—an open assessment followed by a private conclusion—but I have my suspicions. It’s much easier to strike deals behind closed doors, away from prying eyes. The public assessment could very well be a strategic move, a way to establish leverage before the real negotiations begin.

  Though I may be wrong and it’s just a question of privacy.

  Hm... Haven’t I become even more paranoid since coming to this city?

  A person exits the room with the expression as the last one and just walks away.

  A moment later another name is called.

  Each person only spends a minute or two within the room, but all return with different emotions. There are a few who are happy, ashamed, or even furious, but most are just resigned and squeezed dry of energy.

  "Linel Minca."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the thieving goblin rising from his seat and making his way toward the doors. He enters and they shut firmly behind him. Like everyone before him, he spends only a few minutes within. When he finally emerges, his steps are slow, measured—his expression unreadable—as the doors close once more.

  There’s a short pause until hysterical laughter escapes the thief, only for it to turn into full-blown sobbing. His hands move to his face as he attempts to clean the dripping snot from his nose. Pure happiness is plastered on his face. Barely audible, his muttering reaches me.

  "C... Low C... but C."

  The rapier he created didn’t look like anything special, but it did seem somewhat decent.

  He resumes laughing hysterically, all while the smith in the apron ignores the scene and simply calls another name. And yet another person rises, ignores the scene, and enters the room.

  The thief turns his head in my direction and our eyes meet. Several long seconds pass as we hold eye contact. Only for him to turn around and start slowly walking away, giggling from time to time.

  My eyes trail him until he disappears behind the corner of the corridor.

  The whole thing was... I don’t even know how to put it into words.

  I couldn't quite decipher the expression on his face. At first, it seemed like happiness, but then it twisted into something else—something strange and unsettling. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

  More names are called, and more people enter and exit.

  Time goes by slowly as I await my turn.

  Slowly the number of people in the hall decreases.

  Will I be last once again?

  Will I have to wait for everyone to finish?

  How long will it take?

  There are still quite a few people left.

  I start counting people, calculating if each person takes two or three minutes each then it will take-

  "Harv Livar."

  I rose sharply and turned to the smith in the apron.

  My turn.

  No more waiting it seems.

  Taking a deeper breath I start walking, moving one leg after another until I reach the door. My hands move and I push the doors open, entering the room and closing them behind me. I continue walking deeper until I reach the same podium where the evaluators are sitting.

  Swallowing my saliva I try my best not to give away my nervousness.

  "Harv Livar." Timedus, sitting in the center of the large table, addresses me.

  "Yes." I reply with a hoarse voice, turning my eyes to the speaker.

  For some reason I can barely see the person, the details, and the features, everything is blurry and floating all over the place. The only thing I can focus on is his form outline.

  Is it because of nervousness?

  I should focus!

  "You have demonstrated a sufficient level of awareness and the foresight necessary to analyze problems and evaluate potential solutions," he says, flipping through his papers. "While your specialization leans heavily in one direction, you do not neglect other aspects of the craft. That is commendable."

  A few seconds pass and another evaluator continues.

  "Remarkable dedication to blade-making—it's clear that reaching this level required immense effort and time," the bearded smith says with a smile. "While the shield was somewhat lacking compared to your other works, it was still well-crafted, especially considering your apparent inexperience in that area. A consistent theme runs through all your creations: a strong focus on functionality and reliability over aesthetics and embellishment. I highly approve and recommend a B-Rank." He finishes with a firm nod.

  Another short pause comes until the next evaluator starts talking.

  "They’re wonderful, the mana pathways in your sword." The foreigner says, pointing his finger at Light on my hip. "A double spiral. A rarity where I come from. And to do that at such a young age is significant." the foreigner says making a strange gesture with his fingers, after which he adds "I recommend B."

  Another pause occurs until someone else breaks the silence and continues.

  "A very promising smith indeed. I recommend C." says the lean man in thin glasses.

  The smile on the face of the bushy-bearded smith drops and he turns to the man next to him in confusion. Other evaluators also turn their heads.

  The man with thin glasses raises his eyebrow and snorts. He shakes his head, sighs, and continues.

  "As you have all verified," he begins, his tone measured, "the boy’s mithril sword had post-creation binding—an unheard thing for an item of such value. Given this, along with the insignia of his teacher engraved upon the blade, one would naturally assume the original craftsman had a specific purpose in mind when forging it. The most plausible explanation is that it was intended as an educational tool. Creating pathways in mithril is a solid mid- to high-B-Rank skill—one that demands both time and meticulous preparation."

  Turning to me he continues.

  "Together with the boy's other creations and the mana signatures in them, we can safely say that he was the one who made the pathways in all of them."

  Our eyes meet and after a pause, he resumes.

  "But it also proves that despite trying, he hasn’t CREATED any mithril weapon of his own yet, and only dabbled in the subject, as he mentioned earlier today. I’m sure you all are aware of the requirements for B-Rank. And as things stand, he hasn't met all of them, YET."

  Requirements? What requirement? This isn’t what they said before the evaluation...

  He turns his head in the direction of the bushy-bearded smith who has been drilling him with a glare and raises his eyebrow.

  "He’s just a year or so, maybe even a few months away from that. He’s very promising." practically growls the bearded smith in apparent anger.

  "Maybe, but being promising isn’t enough. We evaluate based on what smiths can do right now, and NOT what they will be able to do." replies coldly back the man in glasses.

  "I have to agree with Enchanter Palimnor." injects the blonde "While this young smith is very capable and promising for his age, B-Rank is usually given to much older and experienced craftsmen on their second and third evaluations. And as purely cold and hard facts go, he has NOT reached such a level. I recommend C."

  Several long seconds of palpable tension pass as the evaluators glare at each other.

  But it all happens somehow detached from me. As if I’m not here and the subject of discussion. As if I’m not the one being evaluated. As if ‘I’ am not here.

  "`A tree must be given space to grow`" says the foreigner with a small smile "Far less skilled smiths have been given C-Rank today. Where I come from, it’s believed that growth should be encouraged. Is that not the same in these lands?"

  While all the words spoken by the foreigner were said softly and with a smile, they somehow felt... very sharp and threatening.

  Several more seconds pass in silence only to be broken by the loud drumming finger of Timedus upon the table.

  His cold eyes travel over me and all the evaluators until they stop on the dwarf who has been silent the whole time.

  "There are two B’s and two C’s." he states shortly. "What is your evaluation, Head Smith Kvahal Branderlock? You have interacted with this young smith much more than any of us."

  Our eyes meet.

  My body becomes deathly cold.

  But once again everything is somewhat detached.

  The silence stretches until the dwarf’s voice breaks it.

  "Young and promising. There’s no denying that. I agree with everyone present on that. But in my humble opinion and experience, smiths must not only be encouraged but also tempered. The smith in question had... attitude issues... and this may be a very good learning and tempering opportunity for him. I recommend C-Rank."

  After a short pause, he continued.

  "But I also recommend scheduling his next evaluation not in ten years as it’s usually done, but rather in five. This should be plenty of time for him to polish his skills and reach a solid B-Rank as some here believe, but not too much to discourage the growth."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Most evaluators somewhat nod in response.

  Timedus turns to me.

  "Smith Harv Livar." he says while writing something on the piece of paper in front of him. "By the authority, given to me by the Smith Guild Council, I assign to you High C-Rank. Do you have objections to the evaluation?"

  A long second passes until I recognize that they want my response.

  I somehow notified my body to shake my head, after which Timedus stamps a seal upon the paper in front of him.

  I don’t know how, but a few minutes later I was standing next to the building entrance looking down the street at the setting sun. I blink as emotions and thoughts slowly return to me.

  Things were starting so well... I was so close to the B Rank... But in the end, it didn’t even matter...

  C-Rank sits right in the middle—a dividing line between competence and mediocrity. It signifies someone with sufficient skill to be recognized but lacking the brilliance or refinement that sets true craftsmen apart. Adequate, capable... but ultimately, unremarkable.

  I have no one to blame but myself.

  If I had forged even a single mithril dagger, the enchanter, the blonde, and even that fat dwarf would not have been able to affect the result.

  But I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  Maybe if I had spent the last few months working on my smithing skills instead of jumping from one thing to another, the outcome would have been different.

  Worse still, I had every advantage. Years spent honing my skills, learning under one of the greatest High-Smiths in the Empire—an education most could only dream of.

  And yet, in the end, I landed at average.

  The same rank as that goblin thief.

  Others, without the privileges I had, reached the same level as me. Which means I’m not average at all.

  I’m below it.

  ...

  "So, when will you get your official Smith Badge?" asks Joe with a wide smile and hungry eyes.

  "The answer hasn't changed since yesterday." I reply while peering deep into the tunnel in search of yet another bug.

  I’m not sure why but I’ve got this strange buzzing feeling... like there’s something there, some kind of monster or existence or something... like it’s somewhere deeper in the dungeon, but at the same time very close... like I’m just a single step away from seeing it. It’s annoying and infuriating. And it keeps me on edge for some reason.

  "Still a few weeks huh..." he grumbles. "But you said that they may give you a temporary permit until the official badge arrives from the capital. Did you ask about that already?"

  I turn to him, frown and respond. "We were in the dungeon the whole day yesterday."

  "What about this morning?" he pursues further.

  "Joe." resounds Olev a few meters behind us.

  "But he’s officially a Smith! An unbound C-Rank Smith!" exclaims Joe in response. "Who knows how long I’ve got before one of those clans scoops him up and binds him with some stupid contract!"

  "Shush!" I add barely audible while my eyes continue examining the darkness in front of us. "I don’t plan to sign an exclusive contract."

  The only thing I want right now is to finish the damn quest and make this buzzing go away.

  "You say that now!" he hissed. "Just wait until they start showering you with gold and promises. Honey-traps are also a very common thing. I know exactly how those things work!"

  He gets something out of his back pouch and starts munching on it. Quite loudly.

  I take a deep breath and keep my gaze fixed on the dark corridor ahead as we press forward.

  The [Lumen] spell hovers above me, produces quite a bit of light, but its reach is frustratingly short. It’s not just about the spell’s strength or how the mana is disrupted in this dungeon—there’s something else at play. It feels as if the very walls are devouring the light itself.

  Hm.

  Actually... maybe they are.

  Is it because the light produced by [Lumen] is inherently mana-based? If I were holding a simple flame torch instead, would the result be any different? Should I check that?

  I discard those thoughts and hold Light at the ready in my hands.

  According to public records, starting from the 12th floor a new monster type should start appearing—rockbeetle—a distant cousin of the ratroach, but with a hardened carapace.

  But after the recent Monster Stampede, everything’s been off. That ‘event’, which claimed hundreds of lives just weeks ago, has thrown the dungeon’s ecosystem into chaos. Some creatures now appear on different floors than before—higher, lower, sometimes in entirely new areas. Others have changed in size or numbers. And some? Some have vanished completely.

  Like the boomroaches.

  I encountered those nasty little shits that day, and one thing I can say for sure, no one’s mourning their disappearance. They weren’t worth a damn—just biological, self-navigating [Fireball] spells that explode on contact.

  Step after step, we travel further with the silence growing more concerning.

  "Did you at least decide where you’ll be working as a smith?" Joe breaks the silence, chewing on yet another snack he took out of his numerous pockets.

  "No." I responded without taking my eyes off the dark tunnel.

  "Why?"

  "Why what?!" I exploded, finally turning up to the merchant who has gained some weight.

  He stares at me for several long seconds in confusion.

  "I don’t understand," Joe says, his voice heavy with frustration. "I don’t understand you, and I sure as hell don’t understand what’s wrong. You spent weeks, months preparing for your damn evaluation, and just two days ago, you passed with flying colors. But instead of celebrating that achievement, you throw yourself into a dungeon dive you’ve been avoiding, and now you’re venting all your anger on the monsters. Why? Why are you so furious? Why do you get annoyed whenever someone even mentions smithing? Talk to us, damn it!"

  I stop in my tracks, my gaze falling on Joe, who stands before me with an unusually serious expression. He doesn’t give me time to respond, though, and continues without missing a beat.

  "What’s going on? There’s no way you failed your test. I’m sure of it. You're too skilled for something like that to happen. You’re officially a SMITH. You’ve got a bright future ahead, stable and secure. Mages and warriors, they strut around like peacocks after passing their tests and getting their badges. But you? You don’t seem proud, not even a little. I don’t get it. I know nothing about the smithing world, but I know something’s wrong, something you’re not telling us. But you won’t explain, won’t talk about it."

  The words hang in the air, and for a long moment, the group stands in tense silence. I can feel the weight of their gazes on me, concern etched into their faces.

  Joe takes a deep breath before speaking again, softer this time but still urgent. "We know you don’t like people prying into your personal life, and we respect that. But we’re a team, damn it. At least, we like to think we are. It hasn’t been that long, but you can trust us. Let us help you, instead of shutting us out. Don’t just deflect like you always do. Stop being such a stubborn little bitch and talk to us. Say something!."

  Seconds tick by.

  "Nothing is wrong. I... I just made a mistake. That’s all there is."

  "Mistake? During the test?" says Olev next to me.

  I pause and think over how to formulate the situation.

  "No... I was a single step away from it. But... I made a mistake... several mistakes... grave mistakes."

  "A single step away from what?" asks Joe.

  "...Rank." I whisper.

  "What? Speak louder!" Joe shouted.

  "I was a bee’s dick away from the fucking B-Rank! But I screwed up!" I exploded. "I fucked up! Once a few months and another time just a few days before the evaluation. And it all had to catch up to me at the wrong damn moment with my pants down! I just had to keep my mouth shut and not create a scene! But no, I opened my fucking mouth and escalated the situation. And now I'm bearing the consequences! There! Said it! Happy now? Will you leave it now?"

  A pause.

  Everyone gives me a strange look.

  Joe deeply sighs.

  Olev chuckles and shakes his head.

  Vana rolls her eyes.

  Edd continues to look at me confused.

  They all just start walking further down the corridor while shaking their heads.

  "Look, Harv." Joe starts with a somewhat tired voice next to me. "I’ve got no idea why you’re sometimes so dim and oblivious, so I’ll spell it for you directly."

  He gives me a pointed look.

  "You HAVE an impulse control issue and you’ve had it way before we met you... You’re usually silent and calm, but then, something happens or someone looks at you the wrong way or says the wrong thing and you just EXPLODE!"

  After a short pause, he continued.

  "It’s not always a bad thing, but it isn’t a good thing either... Though we knew about that and we kind of accepted that. But there’s this new thing, we weren’t aware of. I’ve no idea what made you believe that you could’ve gotten a B-Rank on your very first test or evaluation or whatever they call it. The only B-Rank Smiths in this city are those old monsters who run the big smithies in the center of the city. And to my knowledge, maybe about a dozen or so per year reach such a level throughout the Empire, and it takes them literally decades."

  Turning to me he just smiled wryly.

  "And you thought you could reach that on your first try? Why? Do you think you’re some kind of genius with Crafting Class from the Capital? Some kind of messiah blessed by the gods of smithing?"

  He raises his eyebrows while awaiting my response.

  I simply shake my head.

  Joe chuckles and continues.

  "We are all simple people here. And we all should have realistic expectations of life... Though... even said that, I fully support you with your ambitions." The smile on his face turns strange. "Thinking small will never get you far... and we have a long path ahead of us my friend if we want to make it to the peak."

  We reach our team and continue walking as everyone resumes chatting and joking.

  Joe isn’t wrong, but he isn’t right either. None of them just have the full picture.

  I was a Hero candidate. I had the support of the whole clan, but in the end, I chickened out and ran away... Only to be saved by my dad and his connections.

  I had the best smithing teacher you could find in the Empire. That very same teacher went further than anyone could imagine. So far, only now does it start making sense. ‘Light’ was not a gift as a weapon or just a learning tool, but rather a final push for me to reach B-Rank. He knew how it’ll end and he did everything in his power to prevent it, and yet I still failed.

  And I’m not Colorless.

  Is it my ego? That I was someone... someone promising. But I’m no longer him. Just a simple C-Rank smith and C-Rank Adventurer in some corner of the world.

  Maybe I’m looking at it wrong. Maybe I need to start appreciating the things I already have.

  I should at least send a letter to the Mentor.

  It’s the very least I should do after everything he did.

  And if only this damn buzzing in my head would stop...

  ...

  "Are you his family?" asks the officer with a bushy mustache who smells of alcohol.

  "No. We... uh... just know each other."

  "How exactly?" he continued with the same serious tone.

  What the hell? What is it this time? What did I fuckup again?

  "Sir. Did I do something wrong?" I start trying to sound as polite as I can. "I was looking for James, he’s from Tower Village. I wanted to ask him if he could take something with him on his way home."

  "And what is it that you wanted him to take?" the officer asks suspiciously.

  God damn it.

  Let go slower and more direct.

  "Sir. I have a letter." I started, taking it from my pocket and presenting the letter directly to the officer.

  Slowly, saying a single word at a time I continue.

  "I wanted James to give it to my Mentor. My Mentor lives in Tower village. James travels there often. He’s from Tower village. Could you please help me with finding him?"

  If I knew it was going to be such a hassle I would've sent it using the official postal service, but no, I decided to get it there faster and now I pay the price, somehow ending up in the officer’s office once again...

  The officer drills me with an intense glare for several long moments until he finally asks.

  "When was the last time you spoke to James?"

  "About two or three months ago?" I say with uncertainty. "Wait, no. It was still early summer... so four..."

  The officer stood silently observing me again until he sighs and motions at the chair.

  "Sit, lad." he says somewhat defeated.

  The officer approached the alcohol cabinet, grabbed two cups and a bottle, then returned to his seat. He uncorked the bottle with a practiced twist and poured the foul liquid. Before I could protest, a cup pressed into my hand. I stared at the contents in it, the acrid scent of it making my stomach turn as the officer gulped the whole content in his cup in a single take.

  "Drink." he demanded.

  After a short internal battle and a whirlwind of questions in my head if I would be punished or if it was a trap, I consumed the insidious poison quietly.

  The officer exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable as he refilled the cup. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost distant.

  "About a month ago, reports came in that a small band of orcs was harassing villages up north. The local outposts tried to track them down but failed. A squad was assembled and sent to handle the issue swiftly. Their last transmission came just before they entered the forest where the orcs were last sighted. After that, all contact was lost."

  He downed another cupful of the wretched liquid, his face betraying nothing, before continuing.

  "Two weeks ago, another squad was dispatched to investigate. They found the first squad." His grip on the cup tightened slightly. "Or what remained of them."

  The words barely registered before he turned to me.

  "I’m sorry, lad."

  The room started swimming. My mouth opened, but no words came. I tried to force out something—anything—but my thoughts refused to form.

  Half a minute passed before I finally found my voice.

  "Are you sure James was in that squad?" My own words sounded hollow, detached. "Maybe it was someone with the same name... or maybe James ran away and got lost somewhere—"

  The officer cut me off, his tone firm.

  "The remains of James Tower were found and given a proper burial. His identification bracelet was retrieved and verified. His fiancée has already been notified." He paused, watching me carefully. "We’ve been trying to locate his family, but all we have is the village name and a general location. Any help reaching them would be appreciated."

  My thoughts scrambled for something solid, something to hold onto. A minute later I finally responded.

  "I... I don’t know exactly who his parents are," I admitted, my voice unsteady. "Just that they live in Tower Village. It’s further west, near the main road, not far from the West Ocean shores. If you go west from Riverside Town, you’ll find it..." My thoughts felt sluggish, my mind grasping for clarity. "But—Oldie or Num... they were close to him. They’d know better. Maybe they could help."

  The officer closed his eyes for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh. His mustache twitched slightly as he poured himself another drink, this time filling the cup to the brim, nearly spilling over. The liquid disappeared down his throat in one long gulp before he spoke again.

  "The remains of Olden Peterson and Numerus Smallstone were also given a proper burial."

  What?

  It can’t be.

  I saw them not too long ago. Just a few months. That’s nothing.

  They were fine.

  They were alive.

  Weren’t they?

  I... I just hadn’t had the time to visit.

  A suffocating weight pressed down on me, something heavy and cold curling around my ribs. My mind screamed for action—something, anything—but what?

  Help. I needed to help.

  I don't know exactly where James’ family lives, but someone else does.

  Mentor.

  Mentor would know.

  He will help.

  As he always does.