I glare at the wooden ceiling of my room, scowling.

  It’s normal for me to spend at least an hour in bed, rolling back and forth while my stupid brain replays everything I said and did throughout the day. And, frankly, it’s not a fun experience. It always starts the same—overanalyzing the wrong words I used, the awkward body language, the dumb decisions. The feeling’s a lot like taking the wrong turn at a fork in the road and realizing it too late. Regret. Shame. The whole package.

  Does this happen to everyone?

  I’ve seen people lie down and start snoring in under a minute. Under a minute. What kind of black magic is that? Why has no one taught me this sacred art? Is there a scroll? A book? A spell?

  But no. For me, time slows to a crawl as I lay there glaring at the ceiling, betrayed once again by the absence of sleep. So I keep tossing and turning like a frustrated rotisserie chicken.

  Eventually, I give up.

  I get out of bed, open the nightstand, and pull out a small satchel filled with white tablets.

  They helped yesterday.

  But... should I keep relying on them every single night?

  A choice.

  No. Maybe later. Tomorrow’s an important day.

  I take one tablet and wash it down with a sip of water.

  Then I lie back down. Eyes heavy.

  Slowly, finally, darkness takes me.

  ...

  The sound of birds wakes me.

  I rise slowly from bed and walk to the small wooden window. With careful hands, I ease it open, making sure not to let it creak.

  Lana might still be sleeping. And if there’s one person I don’t want to disturb, it’s her.

  My eyes land on the rising sun stretching over the rooftops, its light spilling across the city like a slow tide.

  Another day, I guess.

  There’s a lot to do. I should get started. Breakfast can wait.

  A deep sigh escapes me as I begin changing into my work clothes. The routine anchors me. Familiar. Predictable.

  Toolbag on my shoulder, I descend the stairs with soft, deliberate steps. Some might say I’m going overboard—it’s not like I’m staying here for free. But just imagining the idea of waking Lana makes my skin crawl with unease.

  Quietly, I close the door behind me and step out onto the empty street. The city stirs as I walk. Doors creak open, shopkeepers shuffle out, yawning and chatting with their neighbors, fussing over displays. Life gradually resumes.

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the smithy. Key already in hand.

  The door is open.

  Every instinct sharpens.

  Mike never comes in this early.

  A thief?

  I draw Light from my hip and step inside, careful not to let the floorboards betray my presence. The room is dim, lit only by slivers of sunlight slipping through the door behind me. My shadow stretches along the walls.

  I scan the space.

  No movement. Just tools hanging on the walls. Still, silent.

  Did Mike forget to lock up?

  A low groan breaks the silence. I turn toward it.

  There, in the corner, is a body half-slumped in a puddle of vomit, surrounded by empty bottles.

  I close my eyes and sigh.

  Maybe it’s time to find another space. One with proper security... no drunks passed out on the floor... somewhere I can actually work without navigating someone else’s downward spiral.

  Still, I head to my corner and begin checking things. Nothing seems missing—not that I leave anything too valuable here, but still. It’s not about the coin. It’s about the principle.

  Another groan.

  Then mumbling.

  I approach, half-hoping my steps rouse him. But I stop a few feet away, frozen mid-motion.

  He’s sobbing in his sleep. His face streaked with tears, voice broken and soft as he mutters the same name over and over.

  "Sorry, Belle... I’m so sorry..."

  I don’t know how long I stood there, just... watching.

  I always knew there was a reason for the drinking. But I looked away. Told myself it wasn’t my problem. I had things to do. My own life to sort out.

  But now, seeing him like this—raw, broken—it’s harder to look away. Something presses on my chest, heavy and unwelcome. Like a mistake made long ago is finally catching up to me.

  But I don’t know what that mistake is. Or how to fix it.

  Should I have helped?

  Should I help now?

  What’s the right thing to do?

  ...

  "It shouldn’t have taken that damn long," Joe grumbles, pushing aside an empty mug with a clunk. "We had to sign what—twelve? Fifteen forms? Just to claim something that was already ours!"

  Olev exhales and shakes his head with a dry chuckle. "You know how bureaucracy works in this city. They needed to verify all the numbers, confirm the reports—"

  Joe slams his palm lightly against the table. "We had all the receipts! Stamped and signed by their quartermaster. What else could they possibly want? A notarized letter from the gods?"

  "Maybe they were counting orc ears on their side," Olev mutters, raising an eyebrow. "The final battle wasn't exactly small."

  "They said they didn’t count those," I say quietly. "That last battle... it was different."

  A heavy silence falls over the table for a moment. Everyone stares at their plates, as the memory of battle still lingers. The groans that follow are soft but telling. No one wants to remember too much.

  Olev lifts his mug, forcing a smile. "Well, it was still worth the wait, right?"

  Joe hesitates, then smirks faintly and nods. "Yeah... I guess it was."

  Olev leans in a little, lowering his voice so the surrounding tables can’t hear.

  "Our team did well. 290 gold is a damn good haul. Split three ways—and we each walked away with 96 gold and 6 silver."

  Joe snorts. "For what Harv did? That’s still too damn low."

  I shrug and stir my drink. "Well... they did give me an additional fifty gold for my ‘contribution’ in the final battle. Some kind of valor bonus, I guess."

  Joe leans back in his chair with a grunt, arms crossed but nodding slowly. "Still feels cheap, if you ask me."

  "Shouldn’t you be happy?" Olev asks, blinking in confusion. "That’s more than enough to get your merchant business off the ground, right?"

  "I’m not ungrateful," Joe says carefully. "But let’s not pretend we didn’t almost get gutted out there. Would’ve been nice to feel a little more... appreciated."

  Right on cue, the waitress returns with our food—three heavy wooden platters stacked with roasted meat, baked potatoes, and a scattering of green vegetables. She sets them down with a warm smile and a wink before retreating to the next table.

  Our complaints vanish for the moment. The ritual of making food disappear begins.

  Joe speaks through a half-chewed mouthful, "So... any plans now that we’re swimming in coin?"

  "I’ve got to head back to training," Olev replies between bites. "Brian’s convinced he can turn me into some kind of walking war machine. Won’t shut up about ‘unrealized potential’ and ‘battle instincts.’"

  I chuckle. "Can’t blame him. You said it yourself—he’s still blaming himself for what happened."

  Olev’s eyes darken for a moment. "Yeah... I know. But it’s starting to feel less like training and more like penance."

  I glance at him, but he’s already focusing on his plate again, jaw tight.

  "Well," Joe says, trying to lift the mood, "all of us deserve a little break. Or at least a change of pace. Harv and I will be busy enough. Money won’t make itself, and neither will weapons and custom armor."

  He flashes me a sly grin.

  A deep sigh escapes me.

  "Calm down. I will keep my word. One step at a time. No need to hurry."

  Joe simply nods.

  I resumed eating.

  Why is he so obsessed with making more?

  Every single one of us has enough saved up to live like spoiled nobles for at least a year.

  Olev lifts his mug in salute. "To change. To gold. And to not die horribly next time."

  We clink our mugs together with a dry laugh.

  And for a few precious moments, everything feels... lighter.

  ...

  "Happy?" I say, eyeing the paper in the healer’s hand with a crude face drawn on it—smiling, round-cheeked, two dots for eyes and a curved line for a mouth.

  The healer gives a slow nod, scribbling something into a worn leather-bound journal with a practiced hand. He hums thoughtfully and flips to the next paper.

  "And what would you call this expression?" he asks, lifting a different sketch—this one, the mouth is curved downward, the eyebrows slanted slightly.

  "Uh... sad, maybe? I’m not sure."

  Another nod. More notes in the journal. His pen scratches against the parchment like a whisper.

  He cycles through the pile, carefully selecting another. This time the face has furrowed brows and a flattened mouth.

  I frown, studying it. A long pause stretches between us.

  "Well?" he prompts, voice calm but curious.

  "Angry?" I guess. "I... I don’t know. It’s hard to say without seeing the rest of the body."

  "Body?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

  "Well... yeah. Like... are his muscles tense? Are his arms crossed? Is his stance rigid? Is he, I don’t know, squared up like he’s ready to fight or defend?"

  That actually seems to catch his attention. He tilts his head slightly, then writes something else—longer this time.

  I shift in my seat. The wooden chair creaks beneath me.

  "Sir," I say, unable to keep the frustration from seeping into my voice, "you still haven’t told me why we’re doing this. How are these little face drawings supposed to help with my headaches? Or the fact that I can’t sleep without taking the tablets you gave?"

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  The healer’s eyes linger on mine for a long moment. He sets the papers down and folds his hands atop the journal.

  "The human mind," he begins, "is a very complex thing, young man. In the body everything is connected. One affects many and many affect one."

  He pauses, and his gaze sharpens slightly.

  "A single hole in the hull of the ship may sink the whole ship. And to find that hole we need to examine all boards. Solve one thing, and you solve all others. But we are getting ahead of ourselves, we’ll go over it, one step after another."

  I blink, absorbing his words, but before I can respond, he’s already flipping through his pages again.

  "Now then... let’s return to the matter at hand. Would you say you find it difficult to read what other people are feeling? Or thinking?"

  I hesitate again. The question feels odd.

  "Yes?" I reply after a beat.

  There’s something in the way he looks at me—curiosity, not judgment.

  But still, a quiet question coils in the back of my mind.

  Isn’t that normal?

  ...

  Turning away from the sleeping drunk sitting in the corner I resume rechecking the items on display in my corner.

  Simple wooden shelves with an assortment of items, pots, kitchen knives, shields, swords and nearly a dozen ‘Harv bows’. The last ones have been heavily requested.

  In general everything for a reasonable price.

  I’ve explored other shops and compiled a list of prices. The analysis is still not complete but there are a few items I’ve found that are in demand while not requiring much effort which could generate a decent amount of income.

  I turn around at the sound of footsteps and find a customer entering, only to pause for several long seconds as I recognize the face and red hair.

  "Hello?"

  "Uh... Sorry. Yes. Welcome. Hello."

  Shit wrong order. First ‘hello’ and then ‘welcome’.

  "Are you open?" the girl with red hair says, glancing at the sleeping Mike.

  I can’t blow up my first real customer!

  "Yes! Of course! Is there anything specific you’re looking for? We also accept custom orders." I say forcing a smile.

  "I’m just looking for a... knife."

  "We’ve got a wide selection. Is there a specific purpose or requirement in length or width?"

  "It needs to be sharp and concealable..." she says with uncertainty.

  I pause and she notices my confusion.

  "It’s for self-defense!" the girl states quickly.

  "Oh."

  Noticing the change in her body language and how her weight has shifted in the direction of the exit, I decide to be proactive before she can leave.

  "Is there a specific area you would like to hide it? Like a rear pocket or a carry bag." My words move quickly trying to drag the flow into my favor. "There are long and narrow ones with thin handles and are easy to hide in your sleeve."

  I quickly find the smallest fish knife and show her how to hold it and use it. While she tries it out I provide several more alternatives.

  "On the other hand, there are these short and thick ones, which are foldable if you want maximum discreteness."

  She inspects the new item with sparkling eyes, folding and unfolding it out of its shell. I proceeded to offer several more options, but in the end, she decided to buy the foldable one. After the transaction was completed she left giving me a final nod with a small satisfied smile.

  While she walks away I wonder what kind of situation can force a bard to be concerned about self-defense...

  Sadly she hasn’t appeared on the stage of ‘Old boar’ since her last performance. It’s mostly the same ladies in fluffy dresses dancing in unison and raising their legs high to the music all while the crowd whistles in appreciation of the view.

  I would like to hear her sing again though...

  As I’m about to return to inspect the items, a group enters the smithy.

  My eyes travel over them critically and they shift uncomfortably noticing my glare. I sigh deeply and motion them to come in.

  "I told you, didn't I?" I say while clearing things away from the counter.

  They place their equipment on it one by one and I start the inspection while their leader tries his best to come up with an excuse.

  "It wasn’t our fault..." he says as his younger brothers stand behind him. "Some assholes dragged their monsters to us and ran away."

  "And you decided to stay and fight rather than run away too?"

  "There wasn’t any space! And we’re not leaving our catch and equipment behind!" he snarls.

  "Better equipment than lives... And again, I told you, hunting monsters in a dungeon is different from orcs in an open forest. The tightness of corridors, the maze structure, hidden enemies behind every corner, and more."

  I freeze as my eyes stop on a specific item. I raise the shield and show him the damage.

  "This is an Acidgrub." I say pointing to the melted part "And this." I continue pointing to a blacked spot covered in soot in a different location, with a massive crack passing through it "This is a Boomroach, which shows up only after the 7th floor."

  The silence lasts for several long seconds as I await his response, but it doesn’t come.

  "I told you not to go deeper."

  His face goes red with fury.

  "We didn’t have a choice! There aren’t any orcs around so the dungeon is the only option! But ratroaches are hard to come by on the upper levels! And so we have to go deeper or we won’t earn anything!"

  "And you’ll earn nothing if you die." I counter with heat and he goes silent while still shaking in fury.

  Neither of us adds anything to that.

  They all stand mutely as I inspect the damaged equipment.

  The half-melted and deformed arrow tips would either need to be reshaped or reforged. Are they really hunting acidgrubs? Those are barely worth anything, but not nothing...

  The armor and swords aren’t in much better shape.

  Damn.

  There’s a lot of work ahead huh.

  At this moment the drunk in the corner decides to stir awake and proceeds to huff in displeasure when he sees the group.

  He kind of has a point. It’s not like you can earn much from anyone who lives in an orphanage, but I simply can’t leave them after everything...

  "Come back the day after tomorrow." I say shoving the damaged gear into my corner, already planning how to approach the dropped shitload of work.

  "How much?" the leader asks with apprehension.

  I turn back to him with distaste. I won't scam them like the other smiths! I thought I earned that much by continuing to be reasonable with the price. Yet here I stand, calculating where I can cut corners and how to bring the price down while they tremble in fear that I’ll leave them without pants.

  "A gold at least, maybe two. I’ll see what I can do to bring that down."

  He nods and mumbles a quiet thanks as the tension leaves his body. The whole group proceeds to repeat the thanks after their leader. They all fully understand that others would charge them several times that amount. Hopefully, this charity won’t leave me homeless.

  "Do any of you know any spells?" I say trying to come up with any solution to their problem.

  Silence.

  "Not even a [Fireball]?"

  Same response.

  A groan escapes me, not because of them, but because of me. It’s logical really if you think about it. How could they? Only the nobles and those well-off could afford the time and resources to learn those. Hell, even the close combat skills they have are likely the result of self-learning rather than tutelage from someone who had decades to polish their craft.

  They don’t have money because they can’t earn it. They can’t earn it because they don’t have the skills. They don’t have skills because they don’t have money.

  Shit.

  The churches in the capital have somewhat remedied it by gathering orphans and providing them with Sunday school education, which also taught them some basic craftsman skills. Those that displayed uncommon competency are always given more attention and resources... much more attention too... Quite a few Heroes have come from those churches... But the price of that is indoctrination, which is quite apparent when you interact with their zealous graduates...

  But any religious groups are banned here in the ‘Silence Plateau’, so that’s not an option for them. I don’t know how much the city provides to the orphanages, but that can’t be enough... Especially now that there’s a rebellion... which explains their desperation...

  God damn it.

  They likely spent all their recent earnings by joining the Adventurer Guild. Ten gold per person. No wonder they’re taking such risks...

  Fuck.

  "We don’t have any ‘awakened’ either." their leader says, interrupting my thoughts.

  A grimace appears on my face.

  It’s been quite some time since I’ve heard that term, which I deeply hate. Even though I understand the need to have a word for ‘people who have Classes’, it still brings bad associations to mind.

  Awakened rarely stay in this province, their skills are of a much higher value in the capital or the south, near the Light border.

  Unawakened are those that didn’t have the luxury to pass through the extremely expensive process of awakening and yet there’s still a chance for them, a hope, a dream which keeps people moving.

  The colorless are those that somehow got the opportunity and yet miserably failed. Someone who rolled dozens of dice and got one on all of them.

  Essentially: awakened - good, unawakened - bad but can be good, colorless - very bad and can never be good.

  I stir myself away from the subject before it can drag me down.

  "Do any of you have any sort of mana skills? Anything would be fine!"

  A pause as they look at each other.

  "I have mana and can move it. It’s not much, but enough to activate a Tier 2 artifact." says the leader, shifting uncomfortably.

  Another pause of silence.

  I’m drawing blanks. Not that I can recommend they throw stones at monsters. They have neither the training nor money to buy any decent artifacts to use as at least a temporary crutch. Affording some basic lessons in hand-to-hand combat would be beyond their means. And even offering them such a possibility would be wrong and cruel, if the repair of basic equipment is already that painful for them then...

  Shit.

  My way of thinking and fighting just won’t help them much. It’s like a drowning man trying to help another man dying of thirst in a desert.

  No.

  I must do something. Anything.

  Hm.

  The leader is the pillar, everything depends on him. If he improves his skills, he can drag everyone with him.

  I walk to my corner and pick up something which I hand over to the leader a moment later.

  "Train with it for two days. It has pathways. I will add those to your sword too for free."

  His eyes grow wide as his siblings around him quietly gasp.

  "Careful with the sword, it’s worth twenty gold."

  He freezes.

  "Don’t lose or try to sell it. I know where you live." I add coldly.

  All of their eyes turn to the sword while the leader audibly swallows saliva with his hands trembling slightly, not hearing my warning.

  I’m somewhat unused to such a reaction. The sword is not anything special, just a standard one I usually make. I have to provide ten of those each month to the army. So it’s not that valuable to me... but to them...

  "Push mana through it, try to spread it evenly throughout."

  He nods and attempts that, but his mana simply wobbles chaotically around the hilt.

  That bad huh...

  "You’ll get better, just continue practicing."

  After giving me who knows what number of thanks and a promise to return it in perfect condition the whole group left.

  I turn to the corner with damaged equipment and sigh deeply.

  "You reap what you sowed." says Mike with disgust in his voice. "Playing a hero and hunting orcs for a week was not enough. Now you want to be a hero here too? Ha! Shouldn’t have gotten so involved. "

  He points at the door.

  "They’ll depend on you more and more until a point comes when they can’t continue without you. You’ve bound them and ruined their future."

  Mike shakes his in disappointment.

  "Do you think you’re the only one with compassion? Do you think no one else wanted to help them? Play stupid games and win stupid prizes."

  Something snaps in me. How dare this useless fucking drunk lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong. Him, this alcoholic excuse of a smith!

  "Like with Belle?"

  His face freezes, then turns into an enraged grimace.

  "Who told you that!?" he growls "That fat cow baker?!"

  Light jumps into my hand. But I freeze at the very last moment before I can do something I would come to regret.

  Long seconds pass as I seethe with anger while glaring at the alcoholic.

  "Don’t blame your mistakes on others, you drunk shithead! You’ve been moaning her name for days while you were blacked out in a pool of your vomit!" I pause and continue a few seconds later "And if you insult Lana one more time..."

  He glares back at me, not realizing how close he came to getting stabbed, and snarls back at me.

  "Never mention her name again. Never! Not in my smithy. We aren’t friends. I’m the owner here! And you’re just a hick paying for a corner. Do NOT forget that. My life and my problems do NOT concern you. I own this place! And make sure whatever you do with those ragtags doesn't affect MY business!"

  He finishes and turns away, not seeing how my eyes shot wide.

  Who affects whose business you goddamn waste of space!?

  Do you think it’s that easy doing business while some fuckface like you lies piss drunk in the corner?

  Maybe I should start looking for a different place.

  ...

  "And what’s the difference from just getting it the normal way?" says the tall man with wide shoulders who’s inspecting the sword in his hands.

  "That way is NOT normal. This one is."

  He raises an eyebrow.

  "And just to make sure you fully understand the ramifications, I won’t provide maintenance of anything you got through them."

  He lowers the sword with shocked eyes.

  "But it has your insignia on it!" he practically shouts.

  "Yes it does, because I’m the one who made it. And I stand by the quality of all products with my insignia on them."

  I paused and continued, staring directly into his eyes.

  "And nonetheless, I won’t service them as I don’t earn even a penny from their sale that way. The army decided to liquidate the ones which should’ve been sent to the frontlines. It’s their choice, I can’t do much about it. You know the situation... Everyone is trying to keep afloat using all kinds of methods." I add with a shrug.

  His eyes study me in silence for several long seconds after which they move back to the sword in his hands.

  "So you’re saying that if I buy this one from you, you would repair it for free?" he says without looking at me.

  Fucking cunt.

  "Not for free, but if you decide to stick my sword into acid or the blade is dulled after you use it to cut rocks you can come to me to repair it. I simply won’t service the ones not sold by me and you can approach other smiths for such tasks."

  And those sleazy fucks will charge you an arm and a leg for that, after which they’ll proceed to sell you their junk with a wide smile.

  "How would you even know which ones are which? You said they’re the same." he says with suspicion.

  "I said they’re nearly identical, no two swords are exactly the same. And with respect as to how I would know... I’ve got my ways."

  He studies me for several seconds and I groan in response as my reply didn’t seem to convince him.

  "Listen, I won’t tell you what to do. You’re the customer and in the end, the choice is yours. It’s cheaper here anyway and it comes with a sheath. And as you’ve learned already, Joe is my only real distributor. You can always buy from a third-party reseller rather than me, I’m sure the army would be happy if you did just that."

  His eye twitches.

  The man resumes inspecting the sword thoroughly. And we simply stand in silence as no more questions come while he pushes his mana through it, checking the weight distribution, trying to find blemishes. Finally, he slides the sword back into its sheath, takes out his pouch, and starts counting the coins, until there are fifteen on the counter.

  The sword IS the same one the orphan's leader returned yesterday. He didn’t seem to want to part with it, with his eyes longingly staring at it, but quickly changed the tune when he saw his sword, reforged with a pathway in it. I had to clean this one and polish it a bit to look more presentable but that’s it.

  "What about custom swords? The blood-bound ones. Can you make those?" he says, attaching the sheath to his belt.

  I clench my jaws shut at the very last moment before a remark could escape me. There’s no need to correct him. It’s useless to force everyone to use the correct naming convention. I mean I could waste time and explain to him the reason why ‘Blood bound’ isn’t even remotely correct, like the fact that nowhere in the process is blood used or how exactly mana binding works, but in the end, it doesn’t matter.

  Not like he would even care in the first place.

  A moment later I pass him Heavy and he raises a single eyebrow. But the reaction makes a sharp 180 when he tries to push his mana inside and his eyes shoot wide. He audibly swallows and returns it to me with an apparent fascination.

  "And how much would one of those cost?" he says, still not looking away from Heavy.

  I clear my throat and his eyes turn back to me.

  "It really depends. There’s the effort and ingredient side, which depends on the size of the final weapon, and there’s also the time and cooperation side from both of us. It’s the details. There’s equipment which you can bind and doesn't require all of those steps, and you can already buy those from many smith shops in the city, but I assume that you’re looking for true bound equipment..."

  He nods but raises his eyebrow a moment later as if he has yet to hear the answer.

  I sigh.

  "Even the simplest dagger would start at a hundred gold, and something similar to what you already bought would be at least twice that amount."

  The man nods once more—slowly this time—and I catch the subtle drop of his shoulders. He mutters a quiet goodbye and steps out into the street.

  I stare at the entrance for a moment, then look down at the neat stack of gold coins on the counter. With a small flick, I send one sailing through the air toward Joe, who leans casually against the far wall and has been quiet the whole time. He catches it with the reflexes of a man who’s done this before, his grin blooming instantly as he tucks the coin into his inner pocket.

  "I’m still working on sourcing that steel you wanted," he says, his grin growing wider. "And I’ve already lined up a few folks who can make sheaths on the cheap. Decent craftsmanship, too. You just focus on doing your thing. I’ll handle the rest. We’ll be swimming in gold soon enough, my friend."

  I raise an eyebrow at the optimism but say nothing. Given his track-record, there is no reason to doubt him.

  This is already the fourth customer he’s personally brought through the door this week.

  Is that a lot? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the start. Maybe the dam hasn’t even broken yet. Maybe the real wave of orders is still crawling over the horizon.

  Still, I can’t deny it. The shelves are emptier than before. The backlog’s growing. The tools are getting worn down from actual use.

  And the money just keeps flowing in.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  If only this fucking headache would stop though everything would be great.