The sun dips below the horizon, vanishing behind the city skyline. At most, an hour remains before darkness settles over Rockwall City. Not that it concerns me.

  I have all the time in the world.

  The two-story tavern is loud—far louder than its size should allow. Laughter and voices crash against each other like waves in a storm, filling the space with a chaotic energy. And if it’s this noisy on the second floor, where there’s room to breathe, I can only imagine the chaos below.

  I lean back in my chair, eyes drifting over the empty plates in front of me. Only streaks of sauce remain, and with no more bread to soak it up, there’s nothing left to do but admit defeat.

  It wasn’t just good food—it was a revelation.

  I’d nearly forgotten what that tasted like. More than a month of army rations, nothing but overcooked gray sludge with all the flavor of wet cardboard. The only luxury I’d allowed myself was that special bread from the plump baker, and that was purely to save what little money I had.

  But now?

  Now, money isn’t an issue.

  I press a hand against the pouch at my hip, feeling the weight of different-sized coins pressing against each other. A tangible reminder of how quickly things have changed.

  One problem solved, I guess.

  Then my thoughts turn to a more pressing matter—what the hell am I going to do with all this money?

  Where do I even store it? The army-issued chest by my bunk was never secure...

  Most people do keep their savings in banks...

  But giving all the hard-earned money to some asshole for safekeeping seems wrong too.

  Hm.

  Maybe I should look for a place first. Somewhere decent. A room with thick walls. A sturdy lock. A soft bed...

  Hm.

  Yes.

  That would be a-

  "To our success!" A deep voice booms from below interrupting my thoughts. "May all our dungeon dives be as—"

  "Don’t jinx it, idiot!" A woman’s voice cuts in.

  My eyes flick toward the source—an adventuring party gathered around a large round table near the stairs. The two loudest voices belong to a pair of heavily built warriors in chainmail, currently shoving each other in drunken camaraderie.

  "B-Rank is next!" one of them announces.

  For a second, the entire group falls silent. Then, in perfect synchronization, they raise their mugs.

  "TO B-RANK!"

  So, they’re C-Rank now.

  I study them, cataloging their setup. Three shield-bearers up front, two archers in the back, two leather-clad fighters with daggers on the flanks and a mage in the center.

  A fortress.

  Not the fastest formation, but a safe one. They’re built for endurance over speed—tight defense, strong cohesion. If they position themselves on high ground or in a narrow passage...

  Everything becomes easier.

  A walking fortress.

  Hm.

  How the hell did they manage to recruit a mage? Those are in incredibly high demand. A skilled spellcaster isn’t just useful in battle—they can apply their abilities to a vast range of professions. Enchantment, construction, alchemy, research, security... the list goes on. In a city, a mage could make a fortune without so much as lifting a finger, let alone risking life and limb in the wilderness.

  Not quite on the same level as Healers, of course. That’s an entirely different league. A competent healer earns absurd amounts of coin—so much so that they never even consider becoming adventurers. Why would they? Why gamble with death when they can make ten times as much, comfortably seated in a well-guarded clinic?

  Should I look for a team?

  I’ve never been part of a real one—at least, not in the traditional sense. The clan organized team events focused on team cohesion and survival, with everyone sticking to their tasks. Mine was being the spearhead, the one pushing through while being supported. I wouldn't go as far to call that acting as the leader, because I didn't lead or command.

  And I didn't really need to think about it. Until recently.

  That troll fight? The ambush? That wasn’t a team battle. That was a disaster. We survived, sure, but barely. There’s nothing to be proud of there. And the real perpetrator? Still out there.

  Next time, they might be better prepared.

  I glance at the adventurers again, their cheers and laughter filling the tavern.

  Maybe I should try working with a team—at least for the experience. The Adventurer’s Guild always has people looking for party members... but most of them are weak, total newbies. Nothing to learn there. And veterans? They wouldn’t take me without experience.

  ...Which I’d only get by joining a team.

  Shit. Another dependency loop.

  I sigh, quickly growing weary of the noise. The meal is paid for, and there’s nothing left to do here. Rising from my chair, I head for the stairs.

  The wooden steps creak under my boots as I descend to the first floor, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. Just as I reach the door—

  "...And the manager made me clean the whole thing twice! Twice!"

  I pause.

  "But it still smelled horrible! Everyone hates me! What did I ever do to that evil-looking asshole to deserve this?!"

  My head turns automatically.

  The receptionist.

  She sits at a table with several other Guild staff, her face bright red, a mug of beer clutched in both hands.

  She slams it down, frustration boiling over. Then, just as quickly, she slumps forward, sniffling.

  A moment later, her unfocused blue eyes meet mine.

  A long second stretches between us.

  Then—clarity.

  She freezes, realization slamming into her all at once.

  I force my head forward and resume walking.

  No.

  No.

  I’m not the bad guy here.

  I did nothing wrong.

  I did NOT!

  And I am not evil-looking!

  ...

  In the distance, a trio of teenagers continues their work.

  The one with the small wooden shield sidesteps the orc’s club swing, immediately lunging forward to keep its attention on him. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

  The second, armed with only a short dagger, darts in from behind—one quick slash across the orc’s calf—then leaps away before the creature can retaliate.

  The orc roars, swinging wildly at the retreating attacker—only to be stopped mid-motion by an arrow to the chest.

  Before it can react, the shield-bearer tackles the orc to the ground, rolling away the instant they hit the dirt. The orc snarls, already pushing itself up—

  —only to be stabbed in the back.

  The second fighter abandons the dagger immediately, sprinting clear. The orc roars, staggering, and in that instant, the archer moves. One fluid step forward, bow already drawn—

  —thunk.

  The arrow buries itself deep in the orc’s throat.

  The roar dies in its mouth.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  It sways, struggling to rise—lungs gasping for air that will never come. Unfocused eyes flicker with failing life until—

  Crack.

  The wooden shield slams into its face.

  Silence.

  Just like the two before, the fight ends in less than a minute.

  The orc was neither weak nor small.

  And yet, they made it look effortless.

  I glance at the four dead orcs lying around me—each one nearly identical to the one they just took down. My fight was different. Slower. Less precise. Messier.

  The trio is younger than me. Weaker. Their weapons? Barely enough to be called such—a single wooden shield, a short dagger, and a bow with a handful of arrows. No armor. No magic. Nothing extra. By all logic, they should have struggled.

  But they didn’t.

  Because they didn’t need more.

  They weren’t fast, or strong, or even particularly skilled.

  They were in sync.

  A machine with no wasted movement, no hesitation, no miscommunication.

  In general, flawless.

  My hands tighten slightly as realization sinks in.

  I have experience.

  I have spells.

  I have equipment, years of training, knowledge they couldn’t begin to imagine.

  And yet...

  The result is nearly the same.

  I was wrong.

  Even those I dismissed as mere newbies have something to teach me.

  "Arrogance is a slow and insidious killer." I whisper under my breath.

  My eyes follow the trio as they collect their trophies—orc ears—and begin their walk back to the city.

  I turn my gaze toward the forest, thick with the green-skinned beasts. The Orc Hunting Season just started and the reward is substantial.

  I need to be better.

  No spells this time.

  After that...

  No mana at all.

  If kids can do it, so can I.

  ...

  "Deposit or withdrawal?"

  The banker, a man in his thirties with a thin mustache, barely glances up as he asks the routine question.

  "Deposit," I reply, placing my backup purse on the counter along with my Adventurer Guild card.

  A portion of the orc hunt reward has already been transferred to my primary purse—just a handful of gold coins, enough to last me for quite some time at my current spending rate. The rest? Safer here than anywhere else. At least until I find a place to rent.

  The banker takes my Guild card, casting a verification spell before setting it onto a black rectangular box. Without needing instruction, I place my hand on the device and inject a stream of mana.

  Click.

  The box emits a quiet sound, the banker nods in confirmation, and moments later, my card is handed back.

  The Guild card acts as an official identification document, usable not just here, but across nearly all legal transactions within the city. Oddly enough, I learned this from this very bank, when I first opened my account days ago. Not from the Adventurer’s Guild, where such information should have been provided.

  Unbelievable. Learning about adventurer guild card function from a banker.

  The transaction complete, I step outside, heading toward the army barracks—though not before making a necessary stop.

  At a certain bakery.

  Bread is usually enough, but today? Today, I let myself indulge.

  A stick of fried meat, coated in a rich, red sauce, tucked inside the very same bread I’ve been buying for weeks. On the way, I picked up a piece of cheese and a small portion of sour cream. Bread alone wouldn’t have been enough. Meat alone? Still missing something.

  But all together?

  Heavenly.

  Am I getting spoiled?

  Until recently, I counted every copper, saved every unnecessary expense. But now? I don’t even feel bad about it.

  Because in a single day, I made nearly forty gold.

  FORTY.

  I don’t even know how much a blacksmith earns, but I doubt I’d make anything close to that hammering out swords for a living.

  And—perhaps more importantly—I ranked up to D-Rank.

  It would be a lie to say the past few days haven't been... enjoyable.

  But I can’t spend every day in the forest.

  And with this much gold sitting in my bank account, I could live comfortably for months.

  Maybe it’s time to try something different.

  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.

  I have time.

  I have money.

  Let’s change the pace a little.

  ...

  Money solves everything.

  Just a week and a half ago, I was agonizing over how to ration my funds to craft my personal tools and finally bind Light. But now?

  Now, that problem is gone.

  Because today, I will finish creating all my tools. And I will bind them.

  All at once.

  The smithy is silent. Deathly so. If not for the steady glow of the forge and the faint red light of heated metal on the anvil, it would be drowned in absolute darkness.

  I glance at Heavy, cooling on the anvil. There was no real need to bind it—I use it more as a club than an actual weapon—but it felt wrong not to. It holds sentimental value, if nothing else. And yet, reforging it made me realize something: my fighting style had become too reliant on the sheer size and weight of my weapon. So much so that I’ve barely used Light at all.

  That changes now.

  I turn to the blade lying before me. My most valuable possession.

  Light.

  I've been working on it since the very first day I became an adventurer. Any time I could afford—any moment I wasn't surviving or overwhelmed by something—I spent carving pathways into the blade. Dangerously, I might add. Doing something like this in a forest, much less while on a hunt? Reckless. Stupid. But I did it anyway.

  And now? The pathways are complete. The logical next step is binding.

  But I hate the method I have to use.

  Binding ensures that no one except the rightful owner can wield a weapon, accomplished by embedding the wielder’s unique mana into the metal itself. If someone else tries to channel mana into it, the blade rejects them. Violently. Another benefit? The owner can always sense where the weapon is—within a limited range, of course.

  There are two ways to bind a weapon:

  First, the Creation Binding – where the reagent is added during forging, permanently fusing with the weapon. The only way to break the bond is to melt the blade down entirely. It's the best method, used for custom weapons when the owner is already predetermined. But it requires preparation. Precision. A master’s touch.

  And second, the Post-Creation Binding – where the reagent is injected into an already completed weapon, coating the mana pathways to achieve a similar effect. It's the standard method used for store-bought weapons because it's quick, easy, and cheap. But there's a problem.

  A skilled smith can remove it.

  To me, Post-Creation Binding is insecure, lazy, cheap, and wrong. I hate it. The very idea of using it on Light—on the blade Mentor gave me—feels like an insult. But right now, it’s my only option.

  I can’t melt Light down. It is a gift from Mentor, and destroying his work would be an insult. And even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to put it back together.

  Fuck mithril. I'll return to this bullshit metal at some point, but not now.

  Every day that Light isn’t bound is a day it's not reaching its full potential. One day it could be stolen.

  And even if I bind and reforge only the outer non-mithril layer, an inspection by a skilled smith will reveal everything.

  Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

  But sometimes, you have to do things you hate.

  I glance at the arranged materials. There's still a lot of work to do... but let’s focus on the positives.

  Once the binding is done, I could-

  Hm.

  There’s no urgent need to go back to killing orcs or goblins. My financial situation is stable—for now. I’ve fulfilled my Army quota for months.

  So what now?

  A small smile creeps onto my face.

  I can try new things. Things I never had time for before.

  But then my gaze drifts back to Light.

  And the smile fades.

  I’m about to do something I hate to my most prized possession.

  But I don’t have a choice.

  ...

  "Sir?" I address the Deputy Head smith.

  "Yes?" He replies without looking up, his voice gruff.

  As usual, the man is layered in thick clothing. Damn it. I forgot his name again.

  "Uh. Where can I find information on shield making?"

  "Shield making?" He furrows his brow in confusion.

  "I mean the big shields. Um, full-body shields?" I stumble over my words, unsure of the proper term.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  "Sorry. I don’t know the correct terms. I just want to learn the basics for now."

  The Deputy pauses, his emotionless eyes locking onto mine for a few short moments. I start second-guessing my decision to approach him. There are other options, but they aren't much better.

  "'Defense' by Dham Averi. Ask the Quartermaster." He gives a small nod, returning to his work.

  Okay. A book. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting, but books have always been a valuable resource.

  A few minutes later, I walked into the Quartermaster’s building, but found it completely silent. The small reception room, with its counter and the enormous back room filled with resources, feels oddly empty. I never really considered that these resources could include study materials.

  But the silence in the air? That’s new.

  "Is anyone here?" I call out, my voice echoing slightly.

  There’s some scrambling from the back room, and a few moments later, the door swings open.

  "Oh. Hi, Harv." The assistant’s voice is strained as he meets my eyes. Then, as if he remembers something, his eyes flick back to the room behind him. He slammed the door shut with a suddenness that it made me blink.

  "Did you need something?" He says, suddenly much more guarded. "Uh. Sorry, I can't give you more steel, it the order from-"

  "No. I am not here for iron. I'm here for a book. Um, ‘Defense’ by a—"

  Shit. What was the name again?

  "Oh. Yeah. That one." The assistant cuts me off, his tone abrupt, and then he disappears back into the room with another slam of the door.

  What the hell is going on in there?

  No.

  Whatever it is, it’s not my business. I really shouldn’t get involved.

  Moments later, the assistant returns, holding something in his hands. He practically leaps over the counter, slamming the book down in front of me.

  "Anything else?!" He says, his voice a little louder than necessary.

  I take a moment to inspect the book, already noticing the damage.

  "Is there a version in better condition?" I ask, lifting my eyes to him.

  "Nope. Thankfully, we only have one copy of it." He says, grinning. "Ignore the damage and random writings in it. As soon as you get tired of it, just return it here."

  "What?" I can’t help but stare at the book. It’s clearly been stabbed through with something sharp.

  "I won’t be blamed for the current damage?" I ask, not fully believing what he’s saying.

  "Of course not. Deputy Terbal sent you, right? He always does that. Everyone returns it within a day or two. Just make sure all the pages are still there." The assistant gives a small, almost knowing smile.

  "Thanks." I take the book, my thoughts swirling, and leave the building.

  It only takes a few minutes of reading for the state of the book—and why it’s returned so quickly—to become clear.

  The first page is the typical pompous mission statement that all these books seem to have. It’s filled with exaggerated claims about how the book will change your life or revolutionize your practice. It’s nothing new. Some boasting, a little gloating—expected.

  But then it continues... and continues... and continues. Ten pages of this? Skipped. Who actually reads this nonsense?

  The first chapter is different. Mostly because a lot of it’s been underlined. Whoever did it only marked the important parts, and a quick glance reveals it’s about a tenth of the content. The rest? Author biography, self-promotion—classic filler.

  The underlined parts are actually interesting, though. A basic explanation of smithing and its history. It’s not critical information for modern smiths, but it’s useful for a general understanding. Some of it I’ve already read elsewhere, but it’s a solid foundation.

  I keep reading through the underlined text, jotting down notes every now and then. It’s a bit slow, but not too bad. Then I reach the next chapter.

  And... there’s no more underlined text.

  I flip through the pages, hoping for more, but my fears are confirmed. Only three chapters have been filtered. The fourth chapter’s attempted filtering is a mess—there are scribbled notes and curses in multiple languages.

  I stare at the words.

  Do I have to read and filter through this whole mess myself?

  I sigh. It’ll be a lot of work—mentally and physically. But now I understand why everyone returns the book so quickly, and why the assistant acted like that.

  I don’t want to go through this myself.

  Maybe there’s another, better book out there? Something more polished?

  I have money so maybe I could buy a good one.

  Ha.

  Who am I kidding?

  Nothing comes easy around here. Any real knowledge will either be kept hidden or beyond my reach. And no one will just share it out of the goodness of their heart.

  The Deputy recommended this book to me—and to many others. There must be a reason.

  Maybe this is a test.

  ...

  No one is interested in your FUCKING childhood or your extremely ‘rare’ bug collection! This is a book about a craft! ‘DEFENSE’ motherfucker!!! WHERE THE HELL IS IT?

  A few short moments later control returns back to me and I resume reading the cursed artifact and underlining a few rare words.

  The next five pages are mostly about the Averi clan and their achievements over the past few centuries.

  No one asked, and no one cares about that! PUT IT INTO YOUR FUCKING DIARY IMBECILE!!!

  I stop myself short of throwing the book into the forge. This brain damage written onto paper must be returned with all the pages still present.

  I take a deeper breath, trying to calm myself down.

  Air in.

  Air out.

  Air in.

  Air out.

  Air in.

  Nope.

  I promise you Dham Averi, I WILL find either you or your grave, and then...