Life as Gromli Flintfoot wasn’t too complicated these days: smash rocks, gather mana, learn runes, eat stew, repeat. Honestly, I wasn’t complaining. Dwarves love routine—something about hitting the same rock over and over is weirdly satisfying.

  Still, after all my time making perfect stone spheres, I started to wonder: What else can I bonk? If a hammer could turn lumps of stone into spherical masterpieces, maybe it could do something equally cool with… well, other stuff.

  So there I was, wandering around the edge of town, humming the same rhythmic tune I’d been using on my rock-breaking sessions. Nothing fancy—just a little “bum ba bum” that made me feel like I was orchestrating a one-dwarf parade. Then I stumbled upon a pile of old rusty tools behind the smithy. They looked like they’d been sitting there longer than Master Borduk’s scowl.

  Naturally, as a dwarven kid with a hammer fetish (strictly creative, I promise), I thought, Hey, why not? I picked up the rustiest shovel in the bunch, gave it a test swing—Bonk!

  Rust flaked off in a satisfying shower of orange powder. Intrigued, I gave it another whack—Bonk!—and sure enough, more rust peeled off. I couldn’t help it; I giggled like a little kid popping bubble wrap. The shovel’s metal was starting to show through underneath.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I muttered. “Did I just… polish this thing with a hammer?”

  I looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then went to town on the entire pile of tools. Hammer here, hammer there, adjusting my mana flow in tiny increments so I didn’t accidentally reduce them all to metal confetti.

  I felt my mana stirring just like it did with the rocks, except this time there was no earthy hum. Instead, it felt more like a gentle tug, pulling the corrosion away from the metal. The hammer glowed faintly—only for a moment—and I could sense a slight draw on my reserves with each swing. It wasn’t as draining as shaping boulders, but it definitely took some energy.

  One by one, the tools transformed under my hammer: sickles, axes, chisels—stuff that must have been used back when my dad was in diapers. The rust chipped away until I found myself holding a small stash of (mostly) restored implements. My dwarven heart skipped a beat. I just restored tools by smacking them with a hammer. If that’s not the most dwarven sentence ever, I don’t know what is.

  I laid them all out in a neat row. They weren’t brand-new exactly—some still had the occasional dent—but they were definitely functional again. I felt an odd surge of pride, like I’d done something more than just bonk metal. Am I forging now? Or am I just cleaning in the most aggressive way possible? Either way, it was kinda cool.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Of course, my private victory party couldn’t last forever. Just as I was admiring my handiwork, guess who showed up? Yep, Master Borduk Ironbraid—the big dwarf of the day, same as always.

  “What in the wide cavern are ye doing, lad?”

  He was glaring at my little row of ex-rusted tools.

  I gave him my best innocent grin, which never works because I’m about as subtle as a bright pink pickaxe.

  “Uh… cleaning?” I ventured. “Found these old tools, started bonking ’em with my hammer, and well—look!”

  I proudly gestured to the shiny implements. To my surprise, Borduk’s scowl softened just a smidge, though he did that classic dwarven facepalm again—the one that screams this kid is trouble, but I can’t deny he’s talented.

  “Aye, ye ‘bonked’ them, did ye?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. “I see yer hammer’s been drawin’ on yer mana. Seems you’re forcibly re-channeling the metal’s structure… or some such nonsense.”

  He paused, as if he didn’t quite know whether to be proud or furious.

  “At least ye didn’t break anything,” he finally said, which might be the highest praise I’ve gotten so far.

  Just then, the dwarf who owned the smithy came out, presumably drawn by the racket. His beard was dark and greasy, and he looked about as amused as a dragon with a toothache.

  “What in the name of Thrangul Rockbeard are ye doing out here?” he yelled.

  I flashed him a mischievous grin. “Gimme money, man,” I said, tapping a newly de-rusted shovel with my hammer.

  The old geezer threw his head back and barked a laugh.

  “I ain’t paying ye fer shit, you little ankle-biter. I didn’t ask ye to mess with me stuff.”

  My grin stretched even wider.

  “You misunderstand. Gimme money, or I’ll go around town fixing everything fer free. Looks like you’ve got a lot of customers with things to mend and repair. Would be a shame if something were to happen to them, right?”

  The smithy dwarf’s amusement drained off his face faster than ale from a leaky keg. He stood there, jaw set, and gave Master Borduk a wary look.

  “The wee one is a born merchant, isn’t he?” he muttered.

  Master Borduk just looked back at him, face unreadable—and for once, he didn’t say a word.

  “So what is it going to be, old man?” I asked the blacksmith, holding my hammer over my shoulder. “My da says I should get paid for doing what I enjoy.”

  The blacksmith let out a long, weary sigh, then introduced himself with a grumble. “Fine, I’ll pay you, but I want you to work for me. You seem to have a knack for knocking the rust off things.”

  I shrugged, trying to look casual. “That’s something you have to work out with Master Borduk,” I said, jerking my chin in the direction of my teacher. “He’s the one making sure I don’t smash my own head in with this hammer.”

  Master Borduk eyed the blacksmith in silence, still wearing that same grumpy expression. The smith, who was easily twice my height and three times my width, didn’t look too thrilled about having to negotiate with Borduk. I stood there, rocking on my heels, wondering if this meant I’d stumbled into my first real job—or if it was going to blow up in my face.

  Either way, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my lips. I mean, who wouldn’t be excited to make a living by hammering stuff? If that’s not peak dwarf, I don’t know what is.