She walks around the room completely nude, her wide hips swaying with each step.

  I try to ignore it.

  I try to focus—to remember what happened yesterday.

  One step at a time.

  The memories come in flashes.

  I remember the troll.

  The dilettante healer.

  The tavern.

  So far, so good.

  Then Joe. Books. An auction.

  Then that strange, drunk woman.

  ...What the hell was her deal?

  No—focus.

  Then Olev’s uncle and his friends.

  Then... Splatter.

  Right.

  I remember the nickname.

  The laughter.

  The toasts.

  The booze.

  And then—

  Shit.

  Everything after that is hazy.

  "I won’t tell her."

  Her voice pulls me back.

  I turn to her.

  She’s not fully nude anymore, but... some soft parts are still visible—

  Focus.

  I study her face.

  Blank.

  I don’t know her.

  She’s older than me. Not by much—maybe a few years. Less than thirty. Could be magic keeping her young.

  "What?" I mumble.

  "I said, don’t worry. I won’t tell your girl."

  I blink.

  She slides on her panties, her long legs moving with practiced ease.

  My eyes follow before I even realize it.

  She notices.

  Her smile widens.

  Why did she put her bra on first?

  "What girl?" I finally manage.

  She pauses, then chuckles softly.

  "If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t ask."

  She turns away—bending down to pick up something, giving me a very clear view of her round, soft... assets.

  "I know that look on a guy’s face."

  What?

  "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

  She chuckles again.

  "Whatever you say, handsome."

  She sits at a small table by a mirror, applying makeup.

  Then she glances at me.

  She pauses.

  An eyebrow lifts.

  Her eyes trail down.

  I follow her gaze—

  And realize.

  I’m naked.

  Still in her bed.

  "...I’ll be late for work," she says.

  That gets me moving.

  I scramble to find my clothes, scattered all over the room.

  It takes minutes before we’re both fully dressed and outside.

  She winks as she walks away, hips swaying.

  "See you later, handsome."

  I watch her go.

  A storm of emotions churns inside me, but I shove them down.

  Not now.

  First, I need to figure out where the hell I am.

  I wander for a while before finally finding the main road.

  Then I start walking home.

  Slow steps.

  With every step, it gets harder to keep those suppressed emotions buried.

  And then—

  The floodgates burst.

  I barely have time to process them.

  But one feeling rises above the rest.

  Disgust.

  Disgust with myself.

  I’m disgusting.

  But... did I even do anything wrong?

  She’s not my fiancée anymore.

  This wasn’t betrayal.

  We haven’t spoken in five years.

  I never wrote. Never explained. One day, we were promised to each other. The next? I failed the test. I was labeled a failure and I disappeared from her life. She wouldn’t want to be associated with a Colorless anyway. Her family probably found someone else for her. Maybe they’re married by now.

  Is this me justifying what happened?

  I’m disgusting.

  ...

  "Look, kids, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m a smith, not a carpenter."

  Mike takes another long swig from his bottle of foul liquid.

  The stench alone is enough to send a wave of rage bubbling up inside me.

  How is this stuff even allowed? A mind-altering poison, available everywhere, disguised in a dozen different flavors. Booze and hunting poison aren’t that different—both leave people broken if they consume too much. Yet one gets you looked at suspiciously, while the other is chugged daily by half the city.

  Pure bullshit.

  But right now, I have another battle to deal with.

  The trio that just walked in? I know them. The same three I saw taking down orcs with flawless coordination. Young, but talented.

  And now? They’re stuck.

  Their only bow—the one that held their whole strategy together—is cracked.

  They can’t hunt without it. They can’t earn money without it. And they don’t have enough coin to replace it.

  They just need a small push. Someone to help. There’s no monetary reward for me here. But it’s the right thing to do. And if not me, then who?

  "While we can’t fix the bow," I say, cutting Mike off before he shoos them away, "we can make a new one."

  Mike turns to me, blinking.

  "Since when can you work with wood?" he asks, wobbling slightly.

  "I can’t." I admit. "But a metal bow is another story."

  Mike grimaces.

  "Metal bows are heavy and brittle."

  "But we can make one. And in the end, it’s their call."

  I turn to the trio.

  They glance at each other.

  "We don’t have enough money for something new and expensive," says the oldest of the three.

  I nod.

  "I’m still an apprentice. I won’t charge much—mostly for the materials."

  Their eyes widen. Mike’s frown deepens.

  "Officially," I continue, "you’ll pay Mike whatever price he deems necessary, while I do all the work."

  "But," I pause, "there are a few caveats."

  I let the silence hang for a moment before explaining.

  "There’s no guarantee it won’t crack. And it will be stiff and heavy, requiring far more strength than a normal bow."

  They take a moment to consider.

  Then the smallest one speaks.

  "How is that any better than just buying a cheap used bow?"

  "Price."

  I say it simply.

  "You know that whatever Mike charges, it will be a fraction of what anyone else asks."

  Silence.

  They look at each other.

  Then the medium-sized one—the one with the shield—narrows his eyes.

  "What’s your interest in this?"

  I hesitate—then decide to just be honest.

  "I saw how you worked together against the orcs."

  I cross my arms.

  "I was impressed. But also... bothered."

  Their expressions shift.

  "Your strategy was polished. It worked. But..." I pause. "Only as long as it worked."

  I point at the broken bow in their hands.

  "One mistake. One misstep—and it would have been a catastrophe."

  The big one subtly shifts, trying to hide his bandaged arms behind his back.

  "And that’s exactly what happened here."

  I glance at them.

  "I don’t even know how you survived."

  They stay silent.

  "You can’t continue without a bow. And you know that. If you try, you’ll die. That’s why you’re desperate to fix it."

  More silence.

  "We aren’t the first place you came to."

  I let that sink in.

  "I have an idea what everyone else said."

  And I also know that if they don’t get a bow, they’ll still venture into the forest anyway.

  And we all know how that will end.

  I take a breath.

  "And if I can help, why not?"

  A long silence.

  "...Thank you." The smallest one whispered.

  Maybe, with this...

  I’ll feel less disgusting.

  ...

  "Hey, I heard you made a bow so powerful it can kill an orc in one hit."

  Joe's small smile barely hides the greed in his eyes.

  I sigh. "No. Well... yes, but no." I shrug. "When you hit the heart, strength doesn’t matter much. Some people just have very good aim." A blatant lie.

  Joe narrows his eyes. "But that’s not what I heard."

  I keep my expression neutral. "It’s nothing special," I lied again. "Just a big, clunky, and cheap experiment." I add enough truth to bury the lie: "I didn’t even make any money from it."

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  For the past week, he’s been pestering me to let him be my distributor once I get my Smith’s Rank. I get it. He wants to secure a supplier before anyone else locks me into an exclusive contract. But you don’t eat a meal before it’s cooked. And this eagerness is all because of the bow’s so-called "success".

  I already regret offering help to the trio. It’s grown out of proportion, way beyond what I expected.

  The bow itself? Fine. I’ve no issue with the fact that we’ve gone through four iterations in the past week. I had no prior practical experience in bow-making—everything I knew was theory. So, of course, there were problems. Each version was based on the trio’s requests, improving on the last.

  And now? The latest version isn’t even a bow anymore. It’s a portable siege ballista. It takes all three of them to draw the bowstring. One single shot. And it doesn’t use arrows—it fires meter-long, three-kilo forged steel spears. No aiming required. Just point it, release, and watch a chunk of death significantly adjust the structural integrity of everything in its path.

  And yet—they still want the next version to be bigger. Tougher. More powerful. A fragile, unwieldy monstrosity. One mistake away from catastrophe.

  And yet... it’s effective.

  So effective, in fact, that word spread. Now, people are coming into Mike’s Smithy asking for a "Harv Bow". On the plus side, at least it’s not called the "Splatter Bow". Though it still contains my name...

  Just to be safe, I made a deal with Mike. He handles the legal side, and I provide the blueprints.

  Mike didn't care about my tinkering at first. But by the second iteration, he was already adding his own feedback—and harassing me about quality control. He acts like we’re mass-producing weapons rather than just experimenting.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Just to shut him up, I also made the trio a few swords, sold under Mike’s name. No direct ties to me. No pathways. Just sharpened steel. Nothing worth investigating if they break. Nothing traced back to me if they end up on the black market.

  The trio? They’ve been hunting nonstop. Earning so much that they could finally afford proper armor. And people noticed. Especially those from the orphanage they came from. Their caregivers even visited me to thank me.

  And the trio? Now they want more.

  They asked how much it would cost for a dozen sets of armor and bows—for their younger siblings.

  On one hand, I’ve secured future clients before I even have a Smith’s Rank. On the other hand... there’s not much money to be made on orphans.

  I should’ve guessed by their equipment that they were orphans, but as always I’m just too dense to notice the forest behind the trees.

  A deep sigh escapes me as I shift in my seat. The lavish hall is filled with people sitting in soft chairs, waiting. Thirty minutes. Wasted. Still no auction. My patience is wearing thin.

  Something tells me the delay is because of the elite attendees. They sit on the second-floor balcony, where they can see us, but we can’t see them.

  I try to distract myself, scanning the room for anything interesting. I turn to Joe, ready to make a comment—

  But then—the lights go off. Silence. Several long seconds.

  Then, a man in a colorful suit steps onto the podium.

  "Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen," he announces.

  His loud voice doesn’t match his slick hair and bushy mustache. Something about him feels... off. Like a street thug playing dress-up.

  "We all know why we’re gathered here today," he continues. "So without further ado—"

  Good. At least they’re not wasting any more of my time.

  Then—everything gets worse. Much worse.

  The first item is carried out. The bidding begins. And the madness starts.

  People shout over each other. Some even stand, ignoring the auction boards they were given. I knew some things would be expensive.

  I wasn’t prepared for this.

  I brought 30 gold. Straight from the bank. Enough for a few rare books.

  30 gold is 3,000 copper. That’s 500 loaves of exquisite bread from my landlady, enough to feed a family for an entire year, 10 months' rent for my room.

  I thought I was well-off. But everything is relative.

  52 gold—for a large colorful vase.

  24 gold—for a painting of some old guy.

  Then—the worst part. The library I came for? Sold as a single item.

  Final price?

  1900 gold.

  I don’t even want to think about how much time and effort it would take me to earn that.

  And I thought I was doing well.

  ...

  "Cheer up, Harv. It’s not like it was a total waste of time," Joe says.

  I turn to him, and his forced smile crumbles a moment later.

  "Geez, man, I get it," he says, raising his palms. "If looks could kill..." he mutters under his breath.

  We both return to waiting for our food, the lively chatter and laughter of the tavern filling the silence between us.

  I suppose it was a good reality check. Everything’s relative. And today, two idiots with a handful of gold coins had to learn that the hard way.

  I didn’t expect the whole library to be sold as a single item, but even if it hadn’t, the individual prices would have still been insane. The auction wasn’t just a disappointment—it was a slap in the face, a reminder of how far I still have to go.

  "It’s very likely that parts of the library will be resold at another, more private auction," Joe adds, breaking my thoughts.

  I glance at him, and he gives me a wry smile.

  "In smaller batches, for smaller sums, but cumulative..." He shrugs. "Big money makes big money, my friend. Someone’s about to get even richer in the coming days."

  I groan in response.

  I still believe the original seller would’ve made more by auctioning off the books separately. Sure, the individual prices might’ve been lower, and it would’ve taken longer—but the overall profit? Definitely higher. There must be a reason they did it this way... or maybe I’m just overthinking because I’m furious I walked away empty-handed.

  A few moments later, the waitress arrives, placing two plates of fried meat and vegetables drenched in sweet sauce on the table. I mumble a thanks while Joe digs in like he hasn’t eaten all day. It somewhat bothers me how enthusiastic he gets over food, but the thought fades as soon as I take my first bite.

  The meat is so tender, so rich with flavor, that for a moment, the world around me disappears. The gossip, the laughter, the lingering frustration over the auction—all drowned out by the simple pleasure of a good meal.

  Less than a minute later, a hand lands on my shoulder. I turn around to see Olev and his younger brother, Edd.

  "Hey guys, haven’t seen you in a while. How are things going?" Olev asks as he pulls up a chair.

  The waitress appears almost instantly to take their order.

  "Not so good," Joe says while I remain silent.

  "The auction didn’t go well?" Olev smirks knowingly.

  "No," I reply flatly. "It didn’t."

  As I continue eating, Joe explains what happened. Olev listens without interruption, nodding occasionally, until the waitress delivers his and Edd’s food. They dig in immediately.

  I don’t comment on the fact that their order arrived in a fraction of the time ours did.

  Instead, my mind latches onto something else.

  How did Olev know we were here?

  We only arrived around fifteen minutes ago. Did Joe tell them when the auction would end? Even so, we could’ve gone anywhere to eat, yet they found us here. Did they check other places first, or am I just that predictable? Maybe I should start visiting different taverns.

  "I heard you were so busy you didn’t have time for quests. I was starting to think you got tired of us," Olev says between bites.

  Heard from who? I glance at Joe, but he’s still focused on his meal. Him, or the trio of orphans?

  "I needed a small break," I replied after swallowing. "But I’m free tomorrow."

  "Great! The dungeon’s supposed to be open already," Olev says with a grin.

  Shit.

  I completely forgot about that. I thought he meant a quest in the forest. Maybe I can—

  "Hey, Harv," Olev interrupts before I can think of an excuse. "Sorry if this is too personal, but I wanted to ask you something about Tara."

  I freeze, a piece of meat on my fork hanging midair.

  "Who?"

  "Tara," he says, watching me closely.

  "Who’s that?" I blink in confusion.

  "Tara, the one you went—um..." He trails off.

  Seconds pass as the gears in my head turn while I'm chewing.

  "Oh," I finally said, realization dawning. "Yeah... right."

  But Olev seems to take that as a confirmation. He leans in, lowering his voice.

  "How did you do it?"

  I choke on the meat and start violently coughing.

  "What?" I manage to squeeze out, finally being able to breathe.

  Is he asking how it is done? But... he has a fiancée! He should’ve already—unless they’re traditional and waiting until marriage?

  "I heard Tara was shining the whole week," Olev continues, whispering. "What did you do? Some kind of unique position?"

  My jaw drops.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Is it normal to ask something like this?!

  I suddenly realize both Joe and Edd have stopped eating. They’re staring at me, eyes alight with barely-contained curiosity.

  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

  "I... I don’t remember," I stammer, my mind scrambling for an answer.

  Olev groans, biting his thumbnail. "Maybe it’s a tongue technique... but that doesn’t exclude mana plating of-"

  Three pairs of eyes snap to him.

  He coughs and hurriedly returns to his meal.

  We silently joined him.

  Tongue technique? Like in a kiss? Did she like my kissing? Or am I misunderstanding something?

  A swirl of strange emotions twists inside me. I can’t remember a damn thing from my supposed first time.

  So her name was Tara...

  A sudden round of clapping interrupts my thoughts, but not just mine.

  Everyone behind our table turns toward the source and we find a dozen people gathered around a table. Standing atop it is a very well-endowed woman with long platinum-blond hair, clad in skin-tight, form-fitting clothes.

  I blink. Then blink again.

  Long, pointy ears.

  An elf? This far west?

  "The Allfather of the Forest hears you, children of the land! And he knows your plights!" she proclaims in a loud, melodious voice. "The Allfather isn’t angry at you for sinning."

  I glance at Olev and Joe, finding their faces frozen in shock.

  "Big," Edd whispers, eyes locked onto the elf’s enormous chest. He seems oblivious to the reason for our reaction.

  Wait. Was that the first time I’ve heard his voice?

  A priest. A deity-bound one. Here.

  My head snaps around, scanning the room. Others mirror our unease, eyes darting toward the guards. There’s a reason priests are rare in the west province—history made sure of that.

  I shift my focus back to the elf’s ‘congregation.’ They’re not exactly listening to her sermon, more like enjoying the... view.

  In the dimly lit corner of the tavern, I finally spot a group of city guards. They’re watching the scene unfold with barely concealed displeasure, but for some reason, they don’t interfere. They sit there, silent, unmoving.

  Until the elf utters the word.

  "Heretic."

  The moment the word leaves her lips, the guards rise as one. In perfect, practiced synchronization, they march toward the elf. One of them says something—too low for us to hear. Whatever it is, it shuts the priestess up immediately. Without protest, she and her ‘followers’ leave, their exit swift and quiet.

  The whole ordeal lasts barely a minute.

  And just like that, the tavern returns to its usual hum of laughter and conversation.

  "It’s been less than a century since the purge," Olev mutters, anger simmering in his voice. "I’ve read enough about it—I don’t need to see it with my own eyes. We don’t need another one here."

  "The stories of priests and their followers impaled on city walls are still told by the village elders," Joe adds grimly.

  An awkward silence follows. The kind that lingers, thick and heavy. Appetite-wrecking.

  Still, hunger waits for no one. We force ourselves to finish eating, the meal now tasting a little duller.

  Afterward, the mood lightens as we shift the conversation back to safer topics—what quest we should take, how deep into the dungeon it’s safe to go. A few jokes, a handful of stories, just to release the tension.

  Our conversation is abruptly cut short by a loud shout from the table next to ours.

  I grimace as the sudden burst of noise assaults my ears and turn toward the source, only to find a group of drunks clad in full-plate armor, polished to a mirror shine, deep in a heated argument.

  One of them—easily the largest—catches me looking and immediately scowls.

  "Problems, peasant?" he sneers.

  I stare at the wide-jawed embodiment of arrogance for a moment, noting the details. Slouched posture, unsteady center of mass, and pristine armor that’s never seen a day of real combat. All talk, no action.

  Not worth my time. I turn back to my meal.

  "That’s right, turn back to your food," he snorts. "Dirty peon."

  My jaw clenches. I inhale sharply and close my eyes.

  One. I’m above this.

  Two. I’m better than this.

  Three. He’s not worth it.

  Four.

  Five.

  I exhale slowly, reopening my eyes just as a waitress arrives, setting a plate of fresh sugar-covered buns on our table. Strange—we didn’t order that.

  "Is there anything else you’d like?" she asks, her smile tight, eyes wide as they meet mine. She gives the subtlest shake of her head.

  Huh?

  Oh.

  I see.

  They don’t want trouble.

  I force a small smile and nod. "No, thank you. We’re about to leave."

  A sudden slap echoes.

  The waitress yelps, stiffens, then spins sharply on her heels. Her hands move behind her back defensively, her body language screaming restraint. My gaze follows hers—straight to the same drunk, now grinning at her like a wolf eyeing its prey.

  "You can't ignore such a fine meal before your eyes. Can you?" he said with a wide grin.

  She hesitates for a brief moment before retreating without a word, leaving her tray behind.

  The arrogant bastard's eyes followed her departure.

  He snorts and returns to his meal, but stops mid-motion when he notices my stare.

  "You want more, peasant?" he challenges, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Self-defense is a valid response. He’s drunk. The waitress would back me up if the guards interfere.

  Not that he’d stand a chance when he doesn't even know how to hold a-

  I blink, my gaze locking onto the sword.

  Long seconds pass as I take in the details. The hilt, the engraving—my insignia.

  The first time I’ve ever seen one of my swords in someones' hands.

  My eyes dart over him again. No army insignia. No identification bracelet.

  How?

  "Where did you get that?" I ask, pointing at his weapon.

  The drunk blinks, then looks down at it. A slow, smug smile spreads across his face.

  "Good sword, ain’t it?" He lifts it slightly from the scabbard, letting the blade catch the dim tavern light. "Cost me twenty gold." With a smirk, he slams it back in place. "Not like your poor ass could afford it."

  What?

  No.

  That sword can’t be bought. They’re sent directly to the frontlines. You can't just-

  That leaves only one possibility—theft.

  "Bought it from who?" My voice comes out sharper now, louder.

  "Oh, so the bumpkin wants one too?" He grins, his friends snickering behind him. "Why should I tell you?"

  Then, with an exaggerated smirk, he leans forward.

  "If you beg on your knees like all you dirty peasants love to do... maybe I’ll change my mind."

  They erupt into laughter.

  I see red.

  I rise to my full height, [Force Aegis] flaring around me, Light blazes with energy as I draw my blade.

  The tavern falls deathly silent.

  Across from me, the arrogant bastard mirrors my motion, standing with his stolen sword drawn, sneering unwavering. His group follows suit, weapons unsheathed.

  "Harv, leave it, man!" Olev warns behind me, his own weapon at the ready.

  The city guards in the corner spring into action, storming toward us.

  "Halt! Who disturbs the peace?!" one of them barks as the tension in the air thickens.

  I don’t take my eyes off the thief as I raise my left wrist, displaying my army bracelet.

  "I’m an army smith," I state. "And that’s stolen property." I point directly at the weapon in his hands.

  The guards exchange confused glances, looking between me, the sword, and the drunk.

  "You claim this person stole it from you?" one of them asks, hesitating as his gaze lingers on the man’s polished armor.

  "I made that fucking sword," I snap. "And it can’t be bought in a shop."

  Still, confusion clouds their faces. They don’t get it.

  I grit my teeth. "Listen. This is above you and me. Call your superiors. And someone from the army." My voice drops, grave and unwavering. "Now."

  A tense beat passes. Then another.

  Finally, one of the guards—clearly the most unsettled—turns and bolts for the tavern exit.

  I refocus on the group, sword still raised.

  "And now we wait." My voice is low, cold. "Stay where you are, thief."

  One by one, the arrogance drains from their faces.

  Replaced by something else.

  But what, exactly... I’m not sure yet.

  ...

  The last few hours didn’t go as expected.

  A dozen city guards and army officers arrived at the tavern, and both the drunk and I were taken into custody.

  I was questioned. Repeatedly.

  After recounting my side of events for the third time to yet another high-ranking officer, I was moved to one of the internal army buildings and made to wait. That was at least two hours ago. Now, I sit in a long, dimly lit hallway, two silent guards stationed beside me.

  The sun has long since disappeared behind the horizon, casting deep purples and blues through the corridor’s tall windows. It would almost be beautiful—if my mind weren’t tangled in confusion.

  I expected the army to briefly question me and then focus on the drunk. That never happened.

  After the second round of questioning, I was separated from him. And oddly, the officers seemed polite to the bastard. Almost... deferential.

  I have suspicions. Wild, unlikely suspicions. But the longer I sit here, the less outlandish they seem.

  The sound of boots against stone breaks the silence. A new officer approaches, his uniform pristine, two lines visible on his bracelet. He exchanges a few words with my guards—who also bear two lines—then motions for me to follow.

  We ascend a wide staircase to the top floor, stopping in front of an imposing set of red wooden doors. One of the guards knocks.

  Several long seconds pass. Then—

  "Come in," a voice calls, barely above a whisper.

  The guard opens the door and gestures for me to enter. The moment I cross the threshold, the door clicks shut behind me.

  The room is vast, its space filled only by a large rectangular redwood table, thick crimson curtains, a sprawling carpet, and an immense bookshelf brimming with tomes. It feels empty—yet suffocating at the same time.

  Seated behind the desk is a clean-shaven man in military uniform. His dark hair is neatly combed, his expression calm. He rolls a pen between his fingers, studying me with quiet intensity.

  My eyes widen as I notice five lines on his bracelet.

  My steps slow as my gaze shifts to the right. Sitting in a lone chair, several meters away from the man, is a familiar hairy dwarf.

  Kvahal Branderlock. The Head Smith.

  He is eerily silent with his face frozen in an emotionless mask

  For the first time I noticed four lines on his bracelet.

  Ever since I learned the significance of the lines, I can’t help but look at people’s wrists before I even meet their eyes. Do I treat people differently because of it? I can’t say for sure, but at least I’m aware of this new tendency.

  I force myself to focus. The clean shaven man’s gaze lingers on me as he continues rolling the pen, assessing me like a predator sizing up prey.

  A moment later, he blinks and looks down at the papers before him. The pressure in the room eases slightly. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  Minutes pass in silence.

  He reads. Flips a page. Read again. The pen never stops rolling between his fingers.

  I stand motionless. Speaking out of turn feels like the wrong move.

  More time drags on.

  Finally, he flips the last page, sets the pen down, and lifts his gaze to mine with that same soft smile.

  "Good evening, Smith Harv Livar," he says, his voice calm, almost pleasant. "I’m Colonel Klaus Johansen, Commander of the Rockwall Army." He gestures with his pen. "To my right is Kvahal Branderlock, whom you’re already acquainted with."

  The dwarf doesn’t react.

  My stomach knots.

  A Colonel.

  Shit.

  Why did this issue escalate so high up the ranks?

  Colonel Johansen turns back to me.

  "As far as I see, the reason for this meeting is miscommunication." He taps the pen against the desk in a steady rhythm.

  I blink.

  What?

  What miscommunication?

  Did the guards not explain what happened?

  The Colonel sighs, as if my confusion is an inconvenience.

  "Let’s address the elephant in the room." His voice remains level, but there’s a weight behind it. "None of the army’s equipment was stolen. And the scene you made earlier caused unnecessary tension with our partners, Smith Livar."

  I just stare.

  "...What?" The word barely escapes my mouth. "No, sir, there’s been a mistake. He had my sword, and that drunk wasn’t even—"

  The words die in my throat.

  Pressure.

  It washes over me like a crushing wave.

  Then, just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes.

  Colonel Johansen glances at Branderlock, who remains silent. Their gazes met. A long second passed before the Colonel exhaled through his nose before turning back to me.

  "Your reaction was understandable," he allows. "You believed army property had been stolen." He taps his fingers against the papers in front of him. "But the overreaction and violence were not."

  I clench my jaw.

  "I retrieved and examined a copy of your ‘contract’." His lips twitch in amusement. "A very amusing piece of paper I must say. But that’s a separate matter."

  He leans forward slightly.

  "The only actual requirement in your contract is that you produce and provide the Army a set number of swords each month. Nowhere does it dictate what happens to them afterward." His eyes lock onto mine. "And for your information, what the Army does with its resources is at its full discretion."

  The pieces start falling into place.

  I don’t like the picture they’re forming.

  "I assume you’re aware of the current economic strain," he continues smoothly. "The issues with the East have stretched our budget thin. The army makes the decisions it deems necessary, and if goods need to be sold or traded, then they are."

  He stops rolling the pen. Sets it down deliberately.

  "Given the miscommunication and your lack of prior infractions, I deem a verbal warning sufficient." His smile remains, but the warmth never reaches his eyes. "But I wouldn’t recommend squandering the goodwill of the Army. Especially with an upcoming Smith Rank evaluation ahead."

  A beat of silence.

  "...Wouldn’t you agree?"

  I nod. Mechanically.

  The Colonel’s smile widens slightly.

  "Good. On that note—your examiners should arrive within the next week."

  I don’t respond. I don’t trust myself to.

  "Do you have any questions?"

  I shake my head.

  "You are dismissed, Smith Livar."

  I leave without another word.

  The city is quiet as I walk back to my flat. Street lamps cast long, flickering shadows across empty roads. A few drunks stumble through the night, laughter echoing faintly in the distance.

  I replay the conversation over and over, dissecting every word.

  I should’ve noticed the waitress’s reaction. Should’ve paid attention to how respectful the army officers were to the 'drunk'.

  Partners.

  Was he a noble? I saw no insignia, but that means nothing.

  How long has this been happening?

  For years, I believed my swords went to the frontlines.

  But I never checked.

  Ten swords a month.

  Twenty gold each.

  Two hundred gold a month.

  The price of my so-called freedom.

  ...

  As has been my routine for the past three months, I stand at the reception desk of the Smith Guild. But unlike every other morning, the tall, bald receptionist with dark bags under his eyes isn’t looking at me with his usual mix of exhaustion and amusement.

  His expression is... different.

  "You’ll be contacted by your supervisor with the exact date and time of the evaluation in the coming days," he says, his voice unusually serious. "I’d recommend leaving all of next week free."

  I nod.

  Finally.

  There’s no reason to come here anymore.

  Turning on my heel, I head toward the exit.

  "Wait."

  His voice stops me just as I’m about to close the door behind me.

  I glance back.

  He looks like he wants to say something. His mouth opens, then closes. Then again.

  I raise a brow.

  After a long, visible struggle, he takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and finally speaks.

  "There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while." His voice is barely above a whisper in the empty hall.

  I frown. "What?"

  A long pause.

  "Thank you."

  I freeze, standing half way through the doorway.

  "...What?"

  Taking a deep breath while looking into my eyes he continues.

  "Thank you for coming here. Every morning. Again and again." His voice is quiet at first, but it gains strength as he continues. "I... it... these past few months have been hard for me."

  A pained expression falls upon his face.

  "I was in a dark place. A very dark place," he admits, his gaze dropping. "Slowly drowning under... things."

  What?

  "This was the lowest I’ve ever felt," he continues, shaking his head. "The future looked dim—hopeless."

  What the hell is he talking about?

  "But you... and our morning quarrels..." His eyes lift, locking onto mine with an intensity I’ve never seen from him before. "They were the only stable thing I had."

  I blink.

  He lets out a shaky breath.

  "They were the things that kept me going. Every night and every morning I’ve been lying in my bed, thinking of a reason not to come back here, not to return to this swamp, to just continue lying, forget about everything and let it all fall apart"

  He continues with his eyes staring deep into mine.

  "But you, me, our thing. I couldn’t not come. I HAD to come. Because you would be here, and if I wouldn’t come, you would know. And that... that..."

  He pauses.

  "That... that thing, it kept me alive. That kept me going, coming back here and just simply moving. It was the reason to wake up and wait for tomorrow."

  Another pause. A deep breath.

  "I feel like I’ve finally reached the end of that dark chapter. I think now I’m ready to take the next step. But for that to happen, I needed help, any help. And our thing somehow just happened to be it."

  His lips curl into a small, genuine smile.

  "I know it probably meant nothing to you. But for me... it meant the world."

  He bows his head slightly.

  "And for that... thank you."

  Silence.

  I stare, trying to process what he just said.

  Help?

  What help?

  We were just being assholes to each other.

  ...Weren’t we?

  ...

  I continue working in the silent smithy, the rhythmic clang of my hammer against metal filling the space. Each strike needs to be precise. Every moment matters.

  In the corner, the drunk smith snores softly, a half-empty bottle of something vile still clutched in his hand.

  I ignore him.

  I’ve already told Olev I won’t be available for any quests this week. Told the trio from the orphanage there won’t be any new bows for a while.

  This is the straight line before the finish.

  This is it.

  The evaluation date is set.

  I’ve been waiting for this for months. Training for years.

  This could change everything.

  Maybe the second most important day of my life.

  The first...

  Well.

  The first didn’t go so well.

  ...No pressure.