A deep horror settles down somewhere deep in my stomach, like an endless void that devours everything. The cold and heavy feeling spreads throughout my body as my eyes scan the room that has been mine for the past five years. The reason for this feeling isn't that I’m leaving this room and will unlikely see it again, but rather the fact that nearly nothing in the room has changed since I started living here.
The bed is in exactly the same location, in the corner opposite the entrance, with sheets the same color as the original ones, even though I’ve replaced them several times over. Why did I never buy new ones in different colors? The chair and table are to the right of the bed with nearly no new noticeable marks from when I started using them. The cabinet with some rare books about smithing and mana manipulation that I acquired and read through too many times. I kept trying to find something new or hidden that I didn’t notice the last time I read them. I’ve read through them so many times that I can clearly remember the contents of each chapter off the top of my head.
My eyes turn once again and meet the morning light, which breaks through the tiny hole that acts as the window for the small room and casts a powerful yellow circle of light on the floor. The light is so bright that the usual monotone gray stone floor now looks like there is a golden coin laying on the floor. The beam of light breaking through the window is so bright and powerful, that for a second one could believe it to be an actual physical object, like a carefully crafted piece of yellow stained glass was placed before me.
Even this beautiful scene isn't enough to hold my attention for very long, much less distract me from the issue, as very quickly my thoughts return to the fact that the room hasn’t changed, like no one even lived here for the past five years. As if it was somehow perfectly preserved.
How did I not notice it before? It’s been five fucking years.
I didn’t exactly want to change it, but at the same time, I didn’t actively ‘try’ to maintain its original state. Was I subconsciously trying not to change the place, to not influence the place in any way?
Why?
Images of my sisters’ bright pink and yellow rooms back at home come to mind. They got their colors just a few days after we moved into the house given to us by the clan. Their rooms were right across from mine, and I remember clearly how day after day their rooms acquired more plush toys and personal items. Each of my sisters even placed their bed, chair, and table differently, asserting their uniqueness and claim on each room.
But mine didn’t change much then either, all the things were ordered in that room, to take up as little space as possible, the same way they were originally placed the first time I entered it. Was that also done subconsciously?
Why?
Once is a mistake, twice is a pattern.
Breaking out of this unproductive spiral of memories and questions I stand up from the chair and hastily pick up the small backpack with my belongings. Which is a small collection of instruments, clothes, everyday items, dried food, and a tiny piece of half-processed mithril.
After that, I reached for Heavy.
My personal sword. My creation.
Forged from a special alloy of my own design, Heavy is unlike any other blade in the world. I started with tungsten carbide, an exceptionally hard and wear-resistant material, but far too brittle for a sword. To counter its fragility, I added cobalt and nickel, increasing its toughness while maintaining its durability.
The result? A blade that defies convention.
Heavy is unreasonably heavy—far heavier than any ordinary sword. It lacks the natural conductivity that most rely on when channeling mana through it, rendering it almost useless to anyone who fights with magic. To the average warrior, it’s more of a hindrance than a weapon.
Originally, I forged it as a training tool—a way to push my body beyond its limits, to strengthen my muscles through sheer weight alone. But over time, Heavy taught me something far more valuable.
It forced me to move correctly.
With such an unforgiving weapon, there was no room for wasted motion. One wrong move, one imbalance in my stance, and I’d be the one collapsing, not my opponent. Every swing demanded absolute precision, efficiency, and control.
Quite a few people already told me that Heavy isn’t a very creative name.
But to me, it’s perfect.
And I like it.
After putting Heavy into the scabbard on my hip, my eyes scan the room for the last time, just in case, as I don’t think I’ll be seeing it again for quite some time, maybe ever. Moments later my legs start moving with determination, carrying me out of the watch tower’s basement.
I pause.
Smoke is already rising from the smithy.
That’s... odd.
Someone must have woken up early and started the forge before dawn. But why? Everyone should either be resting or still sleeping, yesterday was a very long day.
My eyes drift past the smithy to Mentor’s house, standing just a few meters away. Beyond that, the animal pen sits in its usual, unwelcome spot.
Living near livestock is something I definitely won’t miss. The ceaseless noise, the pungent stench—it all blends into one never-ending annoyance. Fortunately, the village’s feline population keeps the vermin in check, ensuring no disease spreads, no crops vanish, and no livestock suffers from unwanted pests. And, by extension, I am left in peace.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a familiar figure saunters past—the laziest, fattest cat I have ever known.
She moves with the illusion of disinterest, tail flicking lazily, golden eyes half-lidded. But I know better. She’s the one who approached me, subtly demanding attention in the most nonchalant way possible.
I bend down, running my fingers through the thick, plush fur of the arrogant fluff ball. She closes her eyes, leaning into the scratches despite her earlier act of indifference. The deep, steady rumble of her purring vibrates against my hand, and before I realize it, a small smile tugs at my lips.
Suddenly the house door opens and a huge man walks out of it, yawning and stretching in the process. A wide smile breaks upon my mentor's big and tired face when he notices me right across from him.
"Good morning Harv. You already woke up huh? Good. Come in." He gestures with his hand and walks back in without waiting for my reply.
I quietly walk to the house and peek in to find Mentor already sitting on a chair with another empty one across from him, the same one I sat on during yesterday’s evening meal. He gestures with a hand for me to sit, which I do promptly with very quiet steps in order not to wake up anyone in the house.
"Harv." Mentor starts quietly, "It’s quite hard to believe that it has already been five years since you became my apprentice." He continues with a look of melancholy.
"I still remember the day I received a letter from an old friend, asking me to become a mentor for an interesting boy, how I initially wanted to refuse, until a few weeks later when I met the lad, who stared at the forge with genuine curiosity." He continues with a toothy smile breaking on his face and he starts chuckling softly.
"It’s still unbelievable how little you knew about some stuff and how clumsy you were. I'm not even talking about how many tools you destroyed."
My face becomes beet red remembering how much experimentation I’ve done, and how I nearly made the forge explode. Not a day passes without me remembering it and trying to forget the countless idiotic things I’ve done and come up with.
"But time passes, children grow, and lads become smiths. A smith I'm proud to have taught." He says looking into my eyes.
Mentor picks up something from behind him and places a bundle wrapped in white cloth on the table softly.
"I don’t want to be theatrical. It’s a gift, something I've prepared for you. It’s something that you will genuinely need."
Mentor pats the bundle and continues.
"I know that you have issues with sticking out, therefore it’s covered in iron, but the center is a bit different." He adds with another smile. "I didn’t make the pathways as it would be a good opportunity for you to learn."
His eyes turn serious for a second and he continues.
"Though I believe that there aren’t many, maybe a handful, of people twice your age who can make the pathways at your level, that doesn’t mean that there’s no place to improve." Looking into my eyes he adds, "The world is big, Harv. Never grow full of yourself."
Mentor continues speaking, giving me details of what to expect in the city, and what to be careful of. He slowly explains some of the deeper workings of big cities and the army that a smith should be aware of. Didn’t he already tell us all of that months ago?
The talk continues for at least half an hour until it’s broken by the sound of soft footsteps coming from within the house.
"Mornin’ Pa." mumbles Pete with half-closed sleepy eyes.
Slowly, one by one the huge family gathers in the room, waking up most likely because of us being this noisy so early in the morning. It takes a few tries, but after hugging everyone and promising to come back in the future, I say my goodbyes and try to exit the house, only to be called out to by Mentor because I forgot the gift on the table, which prompts another set of lessons and admonishments.
After finally exiting the house I notice two huge figures at the smithy are waving at me. Walking to the duo I find soft, accusatory smiles plastered on their faces.
"Were you going to leave without a ‘goodbye’ Harv?" says Hank suspiciously.
Not giving me a chance to reply, he crushes me in his big hug, which lasts a few seconds longer than I expected. He releases me and pats my shoulder with the same soft smile always present on his friendly face.
Hank turns around and looks at Tim standing behind him, who’s glaring at me. The stare continues for a few very long moments until Tim snorts and extends his hand to me.
"Sorry about what I said." He says quietly, "I was wrong. You’re a skilled smith, not as good as me, but still a decent one."
I chuckle and shake his hand with a smile.
"Don’t laugh! One day I'll become an A-Rank smith and both of you will be working for me!" he shouts back in outrage.
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"Thanks a lot." I say with another chuckle while Hank starts laughing too.
"Make sure to become a better smith, because I'm not joking." Tim says seriously, "My family isn't a clan yet, but things will change soon, and I’ll need help." he finishes, looking into my eyes.
"Thanks a lot for the offer, I don’t know what will happen in the future, but it’s nice to know that there’s a place for me to go if things go south." I replied.
"Good." Tim huffs, "Now go, or you may miss your carriage. We still have a few days before we need to leave ourselves. So let us enjoy the time we have left without your annoying face tarnishing the view."
A laugh escaped me while Hank gave Tim an unhappy look.
"Thanks for everything guys." I say with a smile shaking my head.
But then suddenly I remember something important and after clearing my voice I continue with a serious tone.
"Smith Tim Baker. Smith Timothy D’aarin. May the light shine upon your path."
"Smith Harv Livar. May the light shine upon your path." comes the blessing from both Hank and Tim.
"Good luck." adds Hank quietly.
After waving to the duo and the Lampros family, who also decided to bid me farewell again, I started walking down the street in the direction of Tower Village’s main entrance. Quite soon I see a small gathering around a four-wheeled cart with a white cloth roof full of wooden crates. With a glance, I recognize some of the crates as my packages for the army alongside a crate from my mentor.
The people crowded around the cart are saying their goodbyes to a lad maybe a year younger than me with a black ponytail, but who looks far too young to serve in the army. James was originally born in this very village but moved to Rockwall City some time ago. To my knowledge, he always ends up being one of the guards that escorts important carts to and from the village. Not that I know much about the details, usually my Mentor manages everything.
Standing to the left of James is an older man with short, black hair, which has mostly turned gray, and a thick layer of bristles on his face. He’s about the same height as James and looks a bit over forty. To the right is a tall, lean guy with black, oily hair and a crossbow on his back, who tracks everyone with his sharp eyes.
We greet each other and James introduces the duo as Oldie and Num, who nod in greeting when I was introduced as a ‘promising smith named Harv’. I quickly learned that they were all from Rockwall City and that they were the guard for the contents of the cart. James briefly went over the travel plan, and how we’ll be using the same path they’ve come here by.
Rockwall City is, as far as I know, the biggest city in the western province, or as some call it, the Western Capital. It's the main trade hub of the region, which means every Guild has a presence here, including the Smith Guild.
The trip will not be quick, and after James said some quick goodbyes to everyone in the crowd, we started our journey.
My heart started beating faster as the village and the tower began growing smaller on the horizon. A very important step made without actually moving my legs so to say... I'm somewhat excited to see more stuff, but at the same time apprehensive of how unused to the outside world I may have become.
But as always, I don’t have much of a choice.
...
FUCK THIS MOTHERFUCKING MITHRIL!!!
A few hours after leaving the village, the endless expanse of golden wheat fields had long since lost their charm. Bored out of my mind, I finally decided to unwrap my mentor’s parting gift.
At first glance, it was an unassuming sword—plain, simple, housed in a leather sheath. The only thing that stood out was Mentor’s insignia, stamped under the hilt. That mark alone told me everything I needed to know. He had forged this sword himself, personally handling every step of its creation.
He hadn’t given me any details before my departure, so curiosity got the better of me. I unsheathed it, inspecting the craftsmanship with an eager eye. I expected a blade of exotic steel—perhaps layered with different carbon content or folded for durability, maybe even an exotic alloy I had yet to work with. But nope, I was far from the truth.
The core of the blade is pure mithril, hidden beneath a thin layer of plain iron. A treasure concealed in plain sight.
I vaguely remember my mentor working on mithril some time ago, but I had assumed it was for some high-profile noble’s commission. I had no idea it was for me.
Mithril itself has been a sore spot for me for quite a while. When I first attempted to experiment with it, I scraped together a hefty sum—twenty full gold coins—for the smallest sliver of ore from a very greedy merchant. Months have passed, and I still haven’t managed to forge a single usable item out of it. That tiny chunk still sits in my satchel, a reminder of my failure.
Yet now, at my hip, rests a fully forged longsword containing dozens of times the amount I purchased. The sheer worth of the raw materials alone is staggering, but factor in the craftsmanship of a High-Smith like my mentor? Insane.
Why would he give me something this valuable?
I know for a fact that he doesn’t get paid for mentoring. He’s never cared about money. The only reason he teaches at all is because of his convictions—the belief that knowledge should be passed down to those with passion and dedication, not just talent. Effort over natural skill. Sweat over birthright.
He hinted at something before I left, but I brushed it off at the time. Now, holding the blade, his words ring far louder.
The sword has no pathways. He left that part unfinished—intentionally. That is my task.
And so, without hesitation, I set to work, attempting to lay the central core pillar. A straightforward process, in theory. But in practice?
Well... all I succeeded in doing was proving, once again, that Harv Livar is a complete moron.
The previous tests showed it. The failed experiment in my satchel confirmed it. My mentor warned me repeatedly.
And yet, here I am, proving that some idiots just don’t learn.
Mithril is an extremely hard metal.
My mana, which usually carves into a sword’s core like a hot knife into butter, only left a few small ‘scratches’ on the surface of the gift. This is something that I’ve never encountered before, even tungsten, which is one of the hardest known metals, can’t compare or come close to such absurd hardness.
And so, once again. FUCK MITHRIL.
The carriage hits yet another bump, one of many this week, sending my butt a dozen centimeters up into the air, breaking me out of my thoughts, and dragging me back to the situation at hand. The roads at the edges of the Empire are bad and everyone knows that, but this is a whole new level of unmaintained infrastructure.
A few days ago the endless wheat fields were replaced with trees, which felt like a gift from heaven and a major relief after the monotonous view I’ve had to endure. There are only so many days a person can stare at the fields.
But guess what? Lady Luck has a sense of humor! The trees slowly grew in height and number as we went further from any real civilization, and quite soon we ended up so deep into this green and brown hell of annoying insects and two-story trees, that I started missing the fields. This a statement I wouldn’t have believed just a short while ago.
Strangely enough, another carriage joined us out of nowhere, which belonged to a chubby merchant with shifty eyes. He’s traveling together with a single guard, a D-Rank adventurer who he hired in the previous city to escort him. Maybe because of the countless stories I’ve heard about bandits disguising themselves as friendly people looking for help, or the sudden growth in the number of people who I don’t know too well surrounding me, I'm filled with uneasy feelings.
Though maybe it's simply because of my dislike for merchants with shifty eyes, like that fat asshole who sold me the piece of mithril. Twenty gold coins is a small fortune whatever way you look at it, which isn't attainable by a smith in training. It took a whole year of hunting wildlife and doing random work around the village to gather such a sum. And only pure desperation made me buy the damn metal in the first place.
Shit.
It’s getting to me ain’t it? I must let it go... at least at some point.
Anyway... returning to the shifty merchant. I don’t like him. Or maybe I didn’t like how during the very first meeting, those shifty eyes kept looking at the wooden boxes containing MY swords. I know it's superficial, that at least several hundred swords made by me are out there in the world. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are MY swords, and always will be MY swords. They are my creations... which had to be given to the army... for greater good...
I know that if someone heard my thoughts they would be laughing their ass off, but I still believe that I did a good thing, that I helped someone... And yet I can hear the tiny annoying voice in the back of my head whispering that there’s a chance some of them ended up in the wrong hands, and an innocent person was killed with it.
Maybe I’m just too attached and not used to the hard truth. In the end, it’s a transaction and I sell death...I shouldn’t forget that.
BACK TO THE CAUSE OF MY DISCOMFORT!
The chubby merchant asked for the opportunity to travel with us, he even offered to pay and feed us, which I promptly refused. ‘Oldie’ told the merchant by law he couldn't refuse the merchant to accompany us during the travel through the province. Though he added that if someone tried anything funny he wouldn’t hesitate to chop their heads off and it would be within his right. James commented they were allowed to kill anyone they deemed a threat.
Sadly, this kind of warning was only enough to shut the merchant up for a single day, until he started talking again, offering his products for a price, which quite clearly is much higher than what they were worth. Merchants are truly an interesting species, who try to find profit in any situation. He’s using the army soldiers and me as free guards, knowing that they ‘officially’ cannot refuse and drive him away. Some people truly know no shame.
My thoughts are stopped when I notice a change in the mana around me, with distortions coming from a specific direction. The suddenness of the event shocks me so much that I forgot to act as if I didn’t notice it, and yet with enough mind to fire an [Echo Pulse] spell to map the area. The spell would’ve sent a wave of mana around and it would’ve given away that we noticed something strange.
I slowly move closer to Oldie who’s driving the cart to notify him, but find that I’m not the only one who noticed what happened. Oldie smoothly pivots one leg and kicks Num and James, causing both of them to turn to him in alarm.
"Ambush." he whispers.
Oldie motions at the merchant behind us.
I frown.
"Their friends?"
"Unlikely." he says after a pause, "But check on them."
I slowly move to the rear of the cart and study the travelers behind us. The adventurer is asleep while the merchant is carving something out of a block of wood. No one is holding the reins. Their horse is the one in control, simply following us.
Is this an act? Are they trying to make us lower the guard?
The merchant suddenly raises his face and our eyes meet. As he is about to say something loudly I press my finger to my lips and he freezes. The decision is made without thinking. I motion to the sword on my hip and then to the forest. His eyes shoot wide.
Then I motioned to the sleeping adventurer. Merchant sharply nodded and shoved his elbow into the adventurer's side, who came awake with a groan.
That can’t be an act, right?
I softly jump out of the cart, draw out Heavy and turn in the direction of the distortion, cycling my mana around my body.
[Force Aegis]
A thin layer of mana crawls over my body, acting as second skin, which should provide additional protection against all kinds of attacks, piercing, blunt and magical.
Long seconds pass until I finally recognize the signatures coming from within the forest and somewhat sigh in relief.
A few moments later both carts stop. I approach Oldie to tell him the findings, but he announces it beforehand while looking in the direction of where mana distortion was coming from. "Goblins."
These creatures shouldn’t notice the mana movement. I fired powerful [Echo Pulse] and mapped the location of nasty vermin, but a frown grew on my face.
"About twenty of them, maybe more..." I say loud enough for my companions to hear as my long-forgotten training kicks in. "They are close..."
The forest falls silent like it was waiting for something, and that something didn’t wait long. The sound of leaves and branches crunching resound and dozens of ugly, green creatures with long noses jump out of the treetops onto the area we would have been if we didn’t stop earlier.
The ugly green creatures charge at us, their shrill across the forest path like the cries of dying rats.
With a single sweeping arc, Heavy cleaves through a pair of them, ripping through flesh and bone in a spray of crimson. Their split bodies collapse in a heap, but I don’t stop—won’t stop. The momentum of my swing carries me forward, and I become a force of unrelenting carnage, cutting down one after another. Each strike is precise, each movement a calculated execution. The weight of Heavy pulls me into a deadly rhythm, and true to its purpose, it consumes life after life.
Then, without warning, a spell slams into my back, piercing through [Force Aegis] like it isn't there. My vision warps—colors smear and twist, bleeding into each other like an unfinished painting carelessly ruined by an angry artist. My limbs refuse to move, locked in place while the battlefield swirls in a chaotic, kaleidoscopic nightmare.
To be caught in this—a second-rate illusion spell?
A roar tears from my throat as I unleash a violent surge of mana, a pulse that explodes outward in a raw, unrefined wave. It disrupts the tangled threads of magic around me, unraveling the illusion in an instant. Inefficient, wasteful, but fast. The moment my senses return, I reinforce [Force Aegis], pushing more mana into it than necessary. This time it should hold.
My eyes snap to the origin of the spell.
A goblin shaman stands cowering behind a gnarled tree, his crude staff still aimed in my direction. A pitiful excuse for a mage, yet enough to find the weakest spot in my defensive spell and momentarily disoriented me.
Unacceptable.
Enraged, I surge forward, carving a bloody path toward the wretched creature. Anything foolish enough to stand in my way meets the same fate—Heavy carves through crude armor, flesh and bone alike.
Then, a much larger goblin steps into my path. This one wears a rusted metal helmet, tattered leather armor with plates of iron, and wields a broad wooden shield. A poor attempt at defense.
It never gets the chance to regret its decision.
Heavy descends.
The force behind the blow shatters the shield, the helmet, and the creature itself in a single devastating stroke. Blood sprays, bones snap, and the goblin’s body splits apart as if it were made of paper.
A moment later, a fireball crashes into my chest. The impact forces me half a step back, but [Force Aegis] absorbed most of the heat and momentum. I barely feel it.
Across the battlefield, the goblin shaman stares at me in horror, his beady eyes wide as his feeble magic fails. Then, with a panicked screech, he turns and runs—and with him, the rest of the wretched filth scatter, their resolve shattering like their fallen kin.
Cowards.
No matter.
I’ll hunt them down soon enough.
These vermin tried to kill me.
They tried to steal MY stuff.
And after they fail they believe they can escape?
No.
NO ONE STEALS FROM ME!!