"But we have something very important to report," Oldie says, his voice tight with frustration.

  The Captain’s deputy doesn’t even glance up. His eyes remain locked on the mountain of paperwork in front of him, hand moving steadily as he scribbles away.

  "Then submit it in writing by tomorrow," he replies, voice flat, uninterested. "The Captain will review it when he has time." A brief pause. "More importantly—did you check in the goods with the Quartermaster?"

  Oldie exhales sharply but answers, "Yes, we did. All papers signed and submitted." He steps forward slightly. "But sir, I insist on reporting to the Captain in person."

  That finally makes the deputy pause.

  His pen stills.

  Slowly, he lifts his gaze.

  Cold, sharp eyes meet Oldie’s, scrutinizing, unyielding.

  "The Captain is busy," he says, his voice edged with finality. "Report to your direct superior. If they deem it critical, they will escalate it."

  Silence stretches between us as the deputy’s gaze shifts, sweeping over each of us in turn—before settling on me.

  His eyes narrow.

  "And who’s this? Which team?"

  I open my mouth, but Oldie beats me to it.

  "He’s a smith. Just arrived in the city."

  The deputy exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "Another one, huh." His attention flicks back to his paperwork, already done with us. "Report to the Head Smith."

  A dismissive wave of the hand.

  "Dismissed."

  ...

  We step out of the building, making our way back to the infirmary—only to find Num already outside, waiting for us.

  James frowns. "Everything okay?"

  Num presses his lips into a thin line before giving a slow nod. Even that small motion looks like it takes effort. His gaze flicks to Oldie, one brow raised in silent question.

  Oldie snorts. "Told us to fuck off." He shrugs. "It’s fine. Everyone knows he’s an asshole. I’ll talk to one of the Senior Officers tomorrow."

  James and Num nod without argument.

  "We all need rest," Oldie continues before turning to me. "It’s a bit late, but welcome to Rockwall City, Harv. We should meet up later—I owe you dinner after all the shit we went through. So don’t be a stranger."

  "See you around," James adds, giving me a nod as the trio turns away, waving goodbye.

  I watch them disappear behind the gates, my hand lowering slowly.

  And then, silence.

  A long, empty minute stretches on.

  It’s only now that the reality of my situation fully sinks in.

  I’m alone.

  For the first time in my life, there’s no one giving orders. No schedule to follow. No tasks assigned. No fall back plan.

  It was supposed to be a joyous moment of freedom and independence, but instead, an uneasy weight settles in my chest.

  I don’t know this city. I don’t know anyone here. There’s no safety net. No backup.

  What now?

  Another minute passes, my mind warring between hesitation and resolve. The sound of boots against the ground breaks my trance, and I turn to see a guard walking past.

  "Excuse me," I called out. The guard stops, glancing at me. I raise my arm, showing my bracelet. "I’m an Army Smith. Just arrived. Are there any free beds in the barracks?"

  The guard eyes me strangely before giving a short huff, jerking his head in a direction before continuing on his way.

  "There are always free beds. Good luck getting any real sleep on them."

  Shit. That doesn’t sound promising.

  As the guard vanishes from sight, I remain standing there, staring in the direction he pointed.

  Logically, the first step after such a long journey would be to get some good sleep and start going through things slowly after that. I already know what to do, and the only thing that really requires effort is to find the correct locations.

  But can it really wait?

  Mentor’s voice echoes in my head.

  "Don’t leave for tomorrow what can be done today."

  The sun above has already started its descent.

  I shouldn’t waste time.

  And no—this isn’t just excitement talking.

  ...

  "I’ll repeat this one last time. The evaluators aren’t here yet. No one is available to conduct the smith’s Grade Evaluation right now, and I can’t even give you an approximate date for their arrival."

  The huge, bald man with dark bags under his eyes delivers the words in a tired monotone voice, barely looking at me.

  Mentor warned me about this kind of thing.

  "Then I’ll come tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that."

  His face twists into a grimace.

  "You’re free to do as you wish." He barely musters the energy to point at the exit.

  I don’t say anything else. Just turn and walk out, closing the door behind me with deliberate care.

  Outside, the "Smith Guild" sign creaks softly in the evening breeze. My eyes drift to the horizon, where the sun has already disappeared, leaving behind a faint halo of light.

  It took quite some time to navigate through this huge city and grab something to eat for a reasonable price on the way.

  Yet despite the late hour, the city is alive. People move through the streets, wrapped in their own affairs, while city mages light the rare magic street lamps, their crystals casting a pale blue glow over the stone roads.

  A patrol of guards marches past, their sharp gazes sweeping over the crowd. Nothing like the lazy watchmen back in Tower Village, who spent most of their time sitting in the shade and chewing on dried roots.

  Catching myself lingering, I force my legs to move toward the barracks, blending into the sea of faces around me.

  I could rent a room at an inn—Mentor Sivero advised me to—but that would be a waste of gold. I ‘work’ for the army. I should use the benefits they provide. The barracks are safer. They’re free.

  No. Not really free. Paid for indirectly with blood and sweat.

  How many years have I been forging swords for the Army? Shouldn’t I get something in return? Even if it’s just a smelly cot...

  Speaking of swords, I should start working on the next batch soon. There’s time before today’s delivery runs dry, but it’s better not to leave things until the last moment. The only difference is that this time, I’ll be working alone. No one is behind me to correct my mistakes.

  This is what you wanted, a quiet voice whispers in the back of my mind. Freedom. Independence. Choice.

  Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the army compound gates. The guards don’t even question me. I press my palm with the bracelet against the purple stone, it shines and they wave me through.

  The compound is enormous—at least five times the size of Tower Village—but it doesn’t take long to find the barracks. The moment I lay eyes on the decrepit wooden structure, I start questioning how it’s still standing. Every other building here is stone and concrete. Even the damn stables.

  Why didn’t they rebuild it?

  Less than a minute later the reason why there are always empty beds becomes apparent.

  The stench.

  There are no words in my vocabulary strong enough to describe the sheer, gut-wrenching assault on my senses. The kind that clings to the air, seeps into the walls, and makes me hesitate at the threshold.

  I force myself inside, picking out a cot in what looks like the least disgusting corner. Which isn’t saying much. The whole thing is barely holding together, and I get the distinct feeling that it might collapse under me the moment I lie down.

  I stand there for a long moment, staring at it.

  Maybe I should just find an inn...

  The longer I hesitate, the worse the idea of sleeping here becomes.

  My eyes drift toward the door. The streets are already dark.

  Will I even find a place at this hour?

  Shit.

  One night here won't kill me.

  I don’t remember lying down. Or pulling the thin blanket over me.

  But the moment my body hits the cot, exhaustion drags me under, and the all-consuming darkness takes hold.

  ...

  "This is your corner," grunts the shortest, fattest smith I’ve ever seen, giving a dismissive nod.

  The man—if I can even call him that—wears black overalls over bare skin. That’s right. The only thing covering his torso are two thin straps holding up his pocket-ridden pants. And those pants are filthy. But even that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the thick layer of oily black hair covering everything except a large, gleaming bald spot on top of his head. No beard. Just rough bristles scattered across a perpetually discontent face.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  This is not what I expected a dwarf to look like.

  "You understand, boy?" His voice sharpens with irritation.

  "Yes."

  "Repeat what I told you."

  I sigh.

  "Do not steal, or you’ll cut my hands off. Do not talk too much, or you’ll rip my tongue out. Return all instruments to their original place, or you’ll shove them up my ass. Write down every single gram of anything I request from the quartermaster, or you will sell me into slavery. Do not cause problems, or that will be the last thing I do in this life."

  He grunts, nodding.

  Then, in a voice that booms through the smithy, he shouts, "Rustheads!"

  Everything stops. Dozens of heads turn toward us.

  "This is Haff. He’s new. Show him the ropes."

  Harv. H-A-R-V, you hairy ape.

  The dwarf grunts again and stomps out of the smithy, muttering something unpleasant about ‘capital’ and ‘nobles.’ The moment he’s gone, the room erupts back into motion—metal clanging, fires roaring, voices shouting.

  I turn to ‘my’ corner—the space I’m responsible for, where I’m allowed to work until I get my Smith Rank and License. Back at Tower Village, we had shared tools. Mentor provided what we needed. Here? Everything is on me.

  I start going through the equipment. And with every passing second, my mood darkens.

  The state of the tools is catastrophic.

  Rust, dust, and mold are just the surface issues. It takes me minutes to find a single item that isn’t bent, broken, or deformed beyond immediate use.

  Who needs an anvil with a flat surface? Every dent and warp just adds character to your work.

  What’s a hammer handle for? Just grab the head with your bare hands and start swinging!

  Why would anyone need pliers that actually open and close?

  A slow, sinking feeling settles in my gut.

  "You’ll have to fend for yourself," Mentor warned me.

  I should have listened harder.

  In the peripheral I noticed someone approaching.

  A man stopped next to me. Tall, broad-shouldered man in his late forties. A short military haircut. Sharp features. But the strangest thing? Despite the sweltering heat of the forge, he’s wearing layers. Thick, winter layers. And he isn’t sweating.

  "I’m Terbal Kraesh," he says in a strange accent, extending a hand. "Senior smith. Deputy of Master Kvahal Branderlock."

  Oh. Deputy of the hairy ape.

  I shake his hand. "Harv. Pleased to meet you." I glance at the tools again. "Sorry—where can I find the backup set? These are in extremely poor condition."

  He shakes his head. "There are none."

  I blink. "None?"

  "This is all we have. You can buy new ones. Or fix these."

  His voice is even. Tired. But there’s no room for argument.

  Shit. So this is how it’s going to be.

  I force a tight smile. "Thanks."

  Before I can ask anything else, Terbal nods and walks off.

  Got it. No one’s going to hold my hand. Everyone here fends for themselves.

  Good thing I brought my essentials. But to forge swords, I need more. A lot more. And I couldn’t just take those with me from Tower Village.

  Buying them is an option. But I'm leaving soon, and they'll only hold me back. I also should be careful with my limited gold. At least for now.

  Okay. First things first—I need to assess what’s salvageable.

  I scan my so-called workstation, picking up one item after another.

  Deformed pliers—need oiling and a hammer to straighten them out.

  A rusty, misshapen hammer—needs a handle before I can even fix it. But to make the handle, I need lumber.

  There’s a plank on the floor. Looks promising—

  I pick it up. Turn it over. And groan.

  The other side is black with rot. Knots eaten through. Holes gaping.

  This is going to be a lot of work.

  ...

  A long, exhausted sigh escapes me as I place the shining hammer—now with a proper wooden handle—on the shelf, right next to the rest of the repaired tools.

  Two whole fucking days.

  I had checked the local shops first, just to see if fixing everything was even worth the effort. And the answer? Absolutely. The prices are insane.

  Who the fuck cares if some well-known local craftsman made it? A simple cast-steel hammer isn’t worth a gold coin! It wasn’t forged, wasn’t hardened, wasn’t tempered—just melted, poured into a mold, and slapped onto a wooden stick. That’s it. It’s a scam, no matter how you look at it.

  Wood at least was not that expensive.

  I’m not poor. I planned ahead, set aside a fund for myself. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to waste gold on garbage.

  Another sigh slips out as I close the shelf doors—doors I also had to repair because, apparently, two half-broken boards barely hanging on a rusted hinge is acceptable around here.

  I’m a smith, not a carpenter. This isn’t my job.

  ...Okay, sure, I learned how to do it because I had time and it seemed interesting. But still. Not my job.

  At least no one bothered me. I could focus. The hairy ape—Master Kvahal—had been missing the last two days. So had his deputy, the tall man in winter clothes. Shit, what was his name? L...? T...? Whatever.

  Everyone else was busy enough to leave me alone. Which was good. And bad.

  A little conversation wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a discussion about different forging techniques. Or better yet, someone with real experience in armor-making—plate, chainmail, anything. I only have surface knowledge. The few attempts I’ve made? Too crude to even call armor.

  Mentor Sivero is a master of swords. When it comes to blades, there aren’t many who can stand at his level. One day, I will reach that peak. One day, people will see my "HL" seal and know the quality is beyond question.

  There’s more I’d like to learn, too—enchantments, for one. But finding the resources, the time? That’s another problem entirely. A person only has so many hours in a day, and no one can know everything.

  My stomach grumbles. A reminder that I can only ignore my body’s needs for so long.

  Leaving the empty smithy behind, my legs carry me toward the canteen. It’s packed, full of soldiers and workers grabbing dinner. I join the back of the line, which moves fast enough, and soon I’m staring down at my plate of... food.

  A grayish sludge. Strange consistency. Almost no taste.

  Maybe I should start eating out. But that would drain my gold fast. Food is food. One way or another, it all ends up in the same place.

  I scan the large room for an empty seat—then pause. A familiar face.

  A few moments later, I’m sitting across from Num. He looks exhausted. He nods in greeting. I return it.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes before I gesture toward his chest. He nods again, this time with a small, tired smile.

  So... kind of okay. No serious complications, at least.

  Still, why does he look so worn out? Shouldn’t he be resting?

  "Seen Oldie or James?" I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  Silence settles again. Eventually, he finishes his meal, gives me another nod, and leaves.

  Not a word about what happened. About the troll. The ambush.

  Like it never happened.

  But it did happen.

  I had plenty of time to think while fixing tools, and my thoughts kept circling back to the same thing. There’s no way the theft, the troll, and the ambush are not connected. Maybe even the snake and goblins related to it somehow.

  Carts full of swords have traveled from Tower Village to Rockwall City for years. Not once have I heard of something like this happening.

  So why?

  Why now?

  Who can I even talk to about this?

  Not my family.

  I found the local Post Office and sent a letter to my family, just as I promised I would when I arrive here. Nothing of what I encountered was in the letter. No need to add to their problems.

  I had considered making a voice call through the Communication Guild—until I saw the price.

  Two gold coins. For fifteen minutes.

  Absolutely not.

  A letter takes a week. That’s fine. Nothing I have to say is particularly time sensitive.

  The receptionist at both the Post Office and Communication Guild looked overwhelmed. Just like everyone in this city.

  Is this normal?

  I don’t realize how much I’ve lost myself in thought until I glance down and see my plate is empty. Dangerous habit.

  Returning my plate to the canteen staff, I step outside. The sun is setting, painting the city in pinkish-red hues, but life continues. People work. Move. Return to their duties.

  I should too.

  The anvil still needs fixing.

  This is my third day in Rockwall. I haven’t explored the city. Haven’t gone to the sea like I wanted. Every morning, I check the Smith Guild. Every morning, I get the same answer. Then I spend the rest of the day repairing tools.

  This isn’t what I came here for.

  I thought I’d meet professionals. Discuss ideas. Learn something new. Make friends.

  ...Maybe I’m rushing things. It’s only been three days.

  My feet carry me back to the smithy.

  No more moping.

  The anvil still needs fixing.

  And soon, I’ll have to start forging swords for the army again.

  "Don’t leave for tomorrow what can be done today."

  There will be time.

  ...

  "What do you want?" said a guy with a face taken straight out of a children's book. Some of his features seem so exaggerated that it's hard to believe that there was no magic involved in his creation.

  It takes me several seconds to pull myself together and stop staring at the tall skinny guy in his mid-twenties with a long nose, sharp chin and long hair covering his beady eyes, also adding to the mix are his thin pointy fingers and grasping hands. For a second you could question if the person before me doesn't have some goblin blood mixed into his lineage somehow.

  "Return my hammer," I say, keeping my voice measured.

  His face scrunches up in confusion. "What?" He gestures lazily to the side. "If you need a hammer, just take that one."

  At the edge of his workbench sits a battered, rust-covered hammer cracked handle. Meanwhile, in his own hand, he grips mine—the one I painstakingly polished with a handle I made out of a piece of wood myself.

  I took a deep breath, in order not to make a mistake and allow the stream of curses to escape me.

  "That one is yours," I said slowly, making sure every word conveys the gravity of the situation, "The one in your hand is mine. You took it from my corner."

  He gives me a sideways look, his expression unreadable. Then, with a shrug, he turns back to his anvil and resumes hammering metal, dismissing me without another word.

  "You weren’t using it this morning," he mutters. "And it doesn’t matter, man. None of them are really ours. Just take the other one—it’s not broken."

  There it is. The shit test.

  If I let this slide, the others will take note. Today, it’s a hammer. Tomorrow, it's something bigger. Soon, I’ll be the guy everyone thinks they can walk all over.

  Further discussion will not bring anything. If I push further he could claim that it was always his. And then it’s my word against his. And as it stands, my word is worthless.

  There's an option to call a superior, but neither of them has been here for the past several days, and the hairy ape already warned about creating problems. I must solve it myself.

  The only option, it's the same one I always end up with.

  Violence.

  With a single motion, I seize his wrist. He freezes, caught off guard. Before he can react, I wrench my hammer from his grasp.

  His response is predictable—a sloppy, rage-fueled punch aimed at my face.

  It takes a few heartbeats and a set of swift movements augmented by mana, but the thief ends up flat on his stomach on the ground with me on top of him, with his neck being crushed by a fierce headlock. He thrashes, his wiry frame bucking beneath me, but it’s futile. His strength bleeds away with every second, his struggling slowing until his body goes slack.

  Smiths have ridiculous strength which should never be underestimated, but that alone isn't enough to win a fight. They’re usually slow and rigid giants who are quite easy to grapple with, and even though the goblin guy isn't as wide or as bulky as Tim or even Hank, the weaknesses are still the same.

  I wait a few heartbeats, then release him, pick up my hammer and rise up.

  The whole smithy is silent. Everyone is staring at me.

  A growl escapes me.

  "DON’T. TOUCH. MY. STUFF."

  My legs move, carrying me back to my corner, where I return the shiny hammer back to its original location from which it was missing this morning. Next to it are other instruments I repaired, with new handles and correctly moving parts.

  Then my eyes move to the anvil next to me,which already looks pretty okayish, but a few last adjustments are still required.

  Slowly life returns to the smithy, and sounds of hammers hitting metal resound again.

  The only thing left is how I passed the test.

  ...

  I step into the room and shut the massive door behind me. It’s made of high-quality redwood, its surface carved with intricate mythical creatures. Nearly everything here is the same deep crimson—the door, the towering curtains bearing the army’s insignia, the thick carpet underfoot. Even the enormous table dominating the center of the room is made from the same wood.

  Someone really likes red.

  My gaze lingers on the table. Even with my amateur woodworking eye, I can tell—it’s a masterpiece.

  Unlike a standard four-legged design, this one rests on a massive cylindrical base, carved from a single, solid block of redwood. Scenes of war and hardship spiral across its surface, etched into the wood with painstaking detail. The chair behind it is part of the same creation, seamlessly blending into the artistry, its plush cushions the same dark red as everything else.

  Despite its beauty, the table is built for function. Sturdy. Practical. It’ll last centuries with barely any maintenance.

  But the real point of interest isn’t the craftsmanship—it’s the chaos on top of it.

  Papers, blueprints, mana stones, tools, half-finished projects. The entire surface is buried under a mountain of work, some documents stacked haphazardly over others. There’s barely a single inch left unoccupied.

  This is the workspace of a man stretched too thin. Someone who has to oversee everything.

  The walls are lined with multi-level shelves, packed with even more papers, weapons, and magical cores. A rolling ladder stands on each side, made from—of course—the same damn redwood.

  A little color variety wouldn’t hurt.

  Before I can dwell on it, the owner of the room strides in, papers in hand. He doesn’t acknowledge me as he passes by and drops heavily into the grand chair.

  Kvahal Branderlock.

  Head Smith of the Rockwall Army.

  The hairy ape.

  His name is engraved on a plate outside the door, but that title isn’t what gives him presence—it’s the weight of his glare as he finally looks at me.

  A single word leaves his mouth.

  "Speak."

  People like him don’t like wasting time.

  "My tools were stolen. I retrieved them."

  Silence.

  His stare drills into me, heavy, suffocating. A full minute passes before he finally speaks again.

  "Who allowed it?"

  "...What?"

  "Who gave you permission to assault my staff?" His voice hardens, turns ice-cold. "You think your fancy contract with the capital means anything here? That your connections hold any power over me? That you can walk into my house, enjoy my hospitality, use my forge—and then claim my tools as yours before laying hands on my people?"

  Before I can get a word in, he grabs a clean sheet of paper, slaps it onto the table, and starts writing.

  "You know what? Forget the evaluation. I’ll just stamp an F-Rank and send you straight to the frontlines."

  Wait. No. That’s not how this works. Only the Smith Guild can evaluate ranks—right?

  A few more strokes of the pen. Then he grabs a stamp, holding it poised over the page, his eyes locked on mine.

  "Well?" he demands.

  "I—b-but he was—"

  "I DON’T FUCKING CARE!" His voice booms, shaking the very air as he rises from his chair.

  I freeze.

  My eyes stay fixed on the stamp, my mind blank.

  It starts to move—slowly, deliberately—before, at the last moment, it stops.

  Then, he sets it back down.

  "I don’t care how skilled you are. I don’t care who you know." His voice is quieter now, but no less sharp. "Here, I’m in charge. Nothing happens without my approval. And if you ever open your ungrateful mouth like that in my presence again?"

  He taps a finger against the document.

  "That will be the end of it."

  "Do you understand?"

  I nod.

  "Good. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind."

  I turn and walk out, shutting the heavy door behind me.

  Cold sweat runs down my spine as reality sinks in.

  I nearly lost everything.

  Was I wrong?

  But he was the one who—

  I just—

  Why?