Evan stood in front of the decrepit smithy, one brow arched high.
'Did Bram prank me? Is this really the place…?'
The sign above the warped wooden door swung lazily in the wind, its iron hinges creaking with each sway. Painted in bold black letters, the name read: EMBER & ANVIL.
At a glance, the building looked ready to collapse under its own weight—a punch in the wrong spot might reduce it to splinters. But Evan had learned long ago that appearances were deceiving. He narrowed his eyes, studying it closer.
'Run-down, but not abandoned. Hmph. Let's see what's inside.'
He stepped through the crooked doorway.
The contrast struck him instantly.
Where the outside screamed ruin, the interior was… functional. Not pristine—far from it—but everything had a strange, purposeful order. The floor was swept of dust but bore the stains of years of work. Weapons were displayed across the front racks, though many had dulled to a rusty sheen, their edges soft with neglect.
Evan moved closer, his fingers ghosting over the hilts of swords and axes. Caldo ranks, most of them. A few Erith. And shoved to the corner like discarded bones—a heap of Vernis-grade trash.
'So the skill's there… but the fire's gone cold', he mused, his gaze hardening. 'A good blacksmith doesn't produce this by accident. Something's wrong.'
A sharp clang shattered the silence.
Evan's hand snapped to his spear. Lightning flickered faintly along its shaft as he advanced toward the noise, each step measured, silent.
He pushed through a door at the back—and stopped.
The smithy's heart lay before him: furnaces, anvils, and tools scattered like fallen soldiers. Empty bottles littered the floor, their stench sour and heavy. And amid the wreckage, sprawled awkwardly on the ground, was a man. No—not a man.
A dwarf.
Evan blinked, momentarily thrown.
Dwarves were rarities, even in Tier 1 Expanses, their kind blessed by iron and flame, famed for forging legends from steel. To see one here—in a Tier 0 backwater, drunk and collapsed in his own forge—was almost surreal.
Lowering his spear, Evan crouched and shook the dwarf's shoulder.
"Hey. You alive?"
The dwarf stirred, mumbling, his stubby fingers clawing weakly at the air. "M-My… bottle…" His voice cracked, half-asleep and half-desperate. "Gimme… my damn… bottle…"
Evan stared at him flatly. "...Seriously?"
The dwarf gave no reply, already slipping back into unconsciousness.
Annoyance prickled at Evan's temples. He scanned the room and spotted a barrel of cold water in the corner. For a moment, he hesitated. Then a slow grin tugged at his lips.
"...Yeah, that'll work."
He hoisted the barrel with both hands and upended it over the dwarf.
The reaction was immediate.
"BWHAAA—!" The dwarf bolted upright with a strangled yelp, sputtering as icy water soaked his beard and dripped from his nose. He blinked around wildly, dazed, until a sharp crackle of lightning zipped past his ear.
That did it. He focused on Evan, eyes wide and furious. "WHO THE HELL—?! Who are you?! What're you doin' in my smithy?!"
Evan remained seated, calm as stone. "Relax. Bram sent me. Said you were the best blacksmith around." He gestured loosely toward the front. "Came here to place an order. Found you unconscious. Saved your sorry hide. You're welcome."
The dwarf's glare softened by a fraction. He wiped his wet beard with a scowl and sighed through his nose. "...Thought you were a damn thief."
He stood, wringing water from his sleeves, his movements sluggish but practised. "Look, kid. Whatever you're after, find someone else. I'm done makin' weapons. Shop's finished. Time's up for Ember & Anvil."
Evan tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Funny. The forge is still hot. There's a blade mid-process on your anvil. And these weapons,"—he gestured to the racks—"aren't more than a month old. You're not retired. You've just given up."
The dwarf froze mid-wipe, his jaw tightening. "That blade… isn't for sale," he muttered, voice low and frayed. "It's my last commission. After that, I'm done for good."
Evan leaned forward, gaze sharpening. "Then make mine too. Name your price. Double whatever that guy's paying."
The dwarf let out a bitter laugh and turned away. "You can't buy what he gave me."
"Try me."
Finally, the dwarf faced him, eyes blazing under his soaked hair. "He gave me a flame, brat. Not a coin. Not status. A flame. Unique and alive, like forged by gods themselves. You got somethin' like that? No? Then get out!"
Evan blinked, then smirked faintly. "Ah. So that's it…"
He stepped back, and the dwarf scoffed, assuming retreat.
But then Evan lifted a hand.
A greyish ashen flame flickered to life above his palm—ethereal and wrong, its heat bone-chilling, its aura heavy enough to make the air tremble.
The dwarf's rant cut off instantly. His pupils shrank. His breath hitched.
"What… what is that?" His voice shook as he stumbled forward, half-mesmerised, half-terrified. "I've worked in a forge my whole life. I've seen sacred fires, cursed embers, dragon hearts back at my home… but this—" He reached for it instinctively.
The flame vanished, and Evan's calm voice cut through his trance. "You'll get to work with it if you take the job."
The dwarf blinked, then straightened abruptly, coughing into his fist as though to mask his slip. "Ahem. Well. Where are my manners?"
He thumped a fist against his chest. "Name's Drogmir Ironbelch. Dwarf of the Ironbelch Clan. Once of the Ember Forges. Now…" His jaw tightened. "Now just a smith with debts and ghosts."
He met Evan's gaze, his earlier lethargy burned away, replaced by the faint glint of a craftsman's hunger.
"You bring me that flame again," Drogmir said, voice steadier now, "and I'll make you weapons the expanse's never seen. But first—I need to know exactly what I'm dealin' with. Let me study it. Test its limits. Then we'll talk metal."
Evan's lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. "Deal."
Evan leaned back in his chair, lips curling faintly as he studied the dwarf's expression. Greed flashed across Drogmir's face with every breath, so vivid it was almost comical.
'Typical. Dangle a flame in front of a starving craftsman, and suddenly I'm the most important person in the world.'
"Good," Evan said casually, his tone light but edged with amusement. "Now we're talking. If you'd said this from the start, we'd be done by now."
But then he stood, glancing deliberately at the weapons on display. "Actually, on second thought… I might leave. Most of what you have here is Caldo rank. I came looking for Erith-grade at minimum."
Drogmir nearly choked. "W-Wait!" His stubby hands waved frantically, sending droplets of water flicking off his beard. "I said those words before, but that was without your flame in the picture. With that flame, lad, everything changes! I can forge you weapons no one else could dream of. … lend it to me!"
Evan tilted his head, as though weighing the desperation dripping from the dwarf's voice. "Now that's how you ask nicely," he murmured. "Fine. Let's say I agree. I provide my flame, you make my weapons. Simple enough?"
Drogmir nodded so vigorously his wet hair slapped against his forehead.
"Good," Evan continued, his voice firm now. "Then let's discuss the terms what I want. What you need. And one more thing—" He leaned forward slightly, gaze narrowing. "I'm in a hurry. You'll have to work fast."
"Ha! Don't worry about speed," Drogmir said, puffing up his chest like he'd just been handed back his pride. "First, let's settle the order itself. Then we can squabble over the small things later."
He bustled about, grabbing a dusty chair and wiping it down with his sleeve until it looked almost respectable. He gestured dramatically. "Sit. Sit, Sir…" His voice trailed awkwardly. "…Uh…"
"Evan," he supplied.
"Sir Evan," Drogmir repeated solemnly, as if committing it to sacred memory. He plopped into his own chair opposite him, pulling out a small, battered notebook and a stub of graphite. His demeanour had shifted—serious now, though the greed still flickered behind his eyes like a persistent ember.
"All right," the dwarf said, licking the tip of his graphite for luck. "What's the order? Swords? Spears? Armor? Bows? Say it all now."
Evan tapped his finger against the table thoughtfully. "Armour first. Not basic warrior or mage sets—I want a hybrid. Sixty percent warrior, forty percent mage. Durable but mobile. Something that keeps me alive without slowing me down."
Drogmir scribbled furiously, nodding. "Hrrrm. Complicated. Possible. Continue."
"Weapons," Evan said, his tone decisive. "One double-handed sword. Twin daggers—swift and lethal. Two single-handed swords; make them match if you can, but I'll settle if you can't. A shield—big enough to cover my whole body. Don't worry about weight." He paused, then added, "And one more thing. A unique broad blade—"
His words died on his tongue as his gaze snagged on something near the wall.
Covered in a thin cloth, resting against the wood as though forgotten, was a blade. Sleek. Broad. Single-edged. Evan stepped toward it, curiosity prickling like static under his skin.
He pulled the cloth away.
The weapon glinted in the dim forge light—a blade unlike anything else in the room. Its length mirrored that of a standard sword, but its hilt was distinct, carved with a strange balance between elegance and menace. The blade itself was broader than a katana, its edge whispering promise and violence in equal measure.
"What… is this?" Evan murmured, fingers hovering just above the steel. "It looks like a katana, but it's not. The proportions are off. The balance feels different."
Drogmir blinked, caught off guard. "Oh, that? Didn't make many of those. My father forged similar blades long ago for some old family. This one's a special request." He scratched his beard, thinking back. "The client told me, 'Forge it like this. No questions.' I suggested slimming it like a proper katana, but he refused. Said it had to match his master's design."
Evan's lips quirked upward. "Make me one, too."
The dwarf's eyes widened. "What? No. That thing's impractical. Looks pretty, sure, but it'll snap after a few fights. Waste of material."
"No," Evan said, his voice steady, his fingers tracing the air above the blade as though memorising its shape. "It's perfect. Make it for me. I'll cover the materials."
Drogmir huffed but relented, muttering under his breath as he jotted it down. "Fine. But it's your coin burning, not mine."
"Speaking of coin," Drogmir continued after a moment, glancing up with a calculating gleam, "you realise this order will cost you. Heavily. And that's not even counting the flame."
Evan shrugged. "Tell me what you need, and I'll bring it."
Drogmir grunted and disappeared into the forge, rummaging through shelves, mumbling to himself about alloys and enchantments. Minutes later, he returned with a long sheet of parchment scrawled with materials.
Evan took one look at the list, and his eye twitched.
Hide from beasts between Level 70 and 90. Heavy Metal in bulk. Common Iron by the crate. Specific beast bones and vials of their blood. And to top it off—
"Thirty silver coins," Drogmir said cheerfully. "Half upfront, half on delivery."
Evan's lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. 'Thirty silver. For weapons, I can't even swing yet. Wonderful.'
He opened his pouch and counted out fifteen silver coins, the clink of each coin feeling heavier than it should. But just as Drogmir reached for the payment, Evan paused, his hand hovering.
"Tell me something," Evan said smoothly. "You're not padding this list, are you? Charging me for things you don't need?"
The dwarf's face flushed crimson. "What?! How dare you!" He thumped a fist against his chest, water still dripping from his beard. "I'm a High Dwarf of the Ironbelch Clan! We don't cheat our clients. Not in this forge. Not ever!" He yanked his hand back dramatically. "If you doubt me, take your business elsewhere!"
Evan chuckled faintly and handed him the silver. "Relax. Just a thought. Make my weapons, Drogmir. I'll be back with the rest of the materials."
With that, he tucked the list under his arm and strode out of the smithy, disappearing into the street crowd.
Drogmir watched him go, the coins clutched in his calloused palm. Slowly, his lips stretched into a wild grin, and laughter bubbled out of him like steam escaping a cracked boiler.
"Yes…" His shoulders shook, his voice low and fevered. "Yes! Heaven's heard my plea. My problems—solved in one stroke. No sacrifices. No dirty deals. Just… power. Real power!"
His laughter echoed through the empty forge, but as it faded, a shadow of grief crossed his face. He glanced toward the back of the smithy, where half-finished projects and shattered dreams lay buried under dust.
"This time," he whispered, voice trembling between hope and resolve, "I'll forge my way out of this pit. And when I'm done… they'll see what Drogmir is truly capable of."
Outside the smithy, Evan unrolled the crumpled material list and studied it under the fading light of dusk.
Seventy-one silver. Seventy-one bronze. That was all he had left.
A dry chuckle escaped his lips. 'So much for savings. Guess everything's going into this gamble.'
He tucked the parchment under his arm and headed toward the marketplace—the kind of place where low-ranked adventurers haggled over scraps and desperate merchants tried to offload their latest haul.
The hunt was gruelling. He drifted from one stall to the next, weaving through sweaty bodies and cracked voices shouting over prices. Iron dust clung to the air, the tang of monster hide mixing with the smell of fried street food.
Hours passed before he had almost everything packed into his inventory: hides, bones, odd reagents. But three things eluded him.
>Blood from a flame-attribute beast.
>Heavy Metal in the quantity Drogmir demanded.
>Bulk iron, currently bought out by blacksmiths hoarding for their own projects.
>By the time he struck his last deal, his purse felt insultingly light—just twenty-four silver and eighty-two bronze clinking inside.
'Tch. All this for one craftsman's dream. Hope he's worth it.'
When Evan returned to Ember & Anvil, the city sky had darkened, lanterns flickering to life along the streets. The smithy itself was unrecognisable.
The dusty weapons he'd seen earlier were gone. The clutter had been scrubbed clean. New pieces gleamed faintly on the shelves—nothing extraordinary, but enough to suggest Drogmir had actually worked for once.
And there he was, emerging from the back, cradling a freshly forged blade in his thick arms. His beard was still damp from sweat, his face alight with a craftsman's pride.
"Oh, Sir Evan!" Drogmir's voice boomed as he noticed him. "Didn't hear you come in."
Evan raised a brow but didn't comment. "I figured you'd want the materials as soon as possible." He swung a heavy sack from his inventory and dropped it onto the counter with a satisfying thud.
Drogmir's eyes gleamed as he sifted through the haul, his fingers moving with a strange mix of reverence and hunger. Then, inevitably, he frowned.
"Some things are missing," he said flatly, holding up the list.
"Yeah," Evan replied easily. "The rest will take a few days. Heavy Metal's being hoarded, iron's backlogged, and the blood's… complicated. Work with what you have for now."
The dwarf scratched his beard, pretending to think, though his grin twitched at the edges. "Fine. But your special blade and shield will take longer. Everything else—" he slapped the side of the sack, "—give me a week."
"A week works."
Evan turned toward the door, but Drogmir didn't notice the way his gaze lingered for a moment—just long enough to catch the flicker of greed twisting the dwarf's smile when he thought no one was watching.
Outside, the streets were thinning as people headed home. Evan walked in silence until a familiar presence materialised beside him.
Arven's voice cut through the night like a whisper of steel. "Kid, you're not naïve enough to miss it. That dwarf isn't clean. Don't trust him blindly."
Evan smirked faintly, his eyes scanning the shifting crowd as they walked. Not clean?
'Relax,' he thought back, his tone calm but edged with amusement. 'I've lived through worse. Met his type a hundred times, in this life and others. Let him think he's clever. When the cards flip, we'll see who holds the deck.'
That strange glint returned to his eyes, sharp and calculating, as he adjusted his path toward the inn. Pathfinding, as always, was his Achilles' heel—he still managed to take the long way around, muttering curses under his breath when he realised he'd circled the same plaza twice.
Finally, he found the inn. Seven days upfront—fifty-six bronze. He slid the coins across the counter, then moved to the bar for a quick meal. The noise of clinking mugs and tired laughter filled the air, grounding him after the chaos of the market.
One week, he thought as he finished his plate. Then everything changes.
--THE NEXT DAY--
Evan woke before dawn. The air was cool, the streets still damp from last night's mist. No time to waste—not when half his order was still incomplete.
He headed straight for the vendors who'd promised results. Shop after shop, haggling after haggling, until finally—
A middle-aged merchant, his hands stained with soot, grinned as he slid two crates toward him. "Heavy Metal. Took some favours to pull this batch. And extra iron. Price is steeper, though."
Evan didn't flinch. He paid the difference, loaded the materials, and moved on. Only one thing left now: blood from a flame-attribute beast and some bones.
As he walked, his mind connected the dots from last night's revelation. The blade Drogmir was forging—the one that wasn't a katana but carried that same deadly grace—wasn't random. It wasn't the dwarf's idea.
It was someone else's design.
Kael, Evan realised, his lips curving slightly. Eternal Flames. Phoenix-blooded bas*ard. Who else would demand a blade like that?
If Kael's weapon required such blood, Drogmir had probably sourced it through someone tied to the Flame Master himself.
Which meant Evan had a lead.
At the Adventurers' Guild, the air smelled of blood and smoke. Hunters unloaded carcasses onto stone slabs, and butchers carved through monster hides with practised efficiency.
In the middle of it all stood Bram, elbow-deep in the ribcage of a beast, his arms slick with gore.
Evan approached, rolling the parchment in his hand. "Bram," he said evenly, "I need favour."
Bram didn't even glance up, mistaking him for someone else. "If it's another high-maintenance request, you better be paying in advance."
Evan smirked, stepping closer as the crimson light of sunrise bled through the guild windows. "Don't worry. This one's worth it."
The beast Bram was working on was massive—taller than a carriage, its long, stilt-like legs ending in talons sharp enough to pierce steel. Its wings, though, were what drew the eye: great sweeping spans of feathered blades, each quill glinting like a forged weapon.
Bram worked methodically, prying the bladed feathers loose with a blacksmith's precision. His hands moved fast, but until he saw the client who approached him and sure—until one of the spikes slipped with a mistake of losing focus.
—Shk!
"Ghh—!"
The blade drove into his palm, and in an instant, Bram toppled backwards.
Evan's brows furrowed as he rushed forward. Already, the veins beneath Bram's skin were shifting to a pale, icy blue, spreading up his arm like crawling frost. His breathing hitched, shallow and ragged.
Poison.
Bram tried to speak, pointing weakly toward a crate of supplies, but Evan wasn't going to waste time guessing.
"Tch. No choice," he muttered, planting his palm over Bram's chest. "Hope you don't mind the intrusion."
[Radiant Sanctum – Sanctum Pulse]
A golden-green burst of energy rippled outward, light blooming like the dawn. Warmth flooded Bram's body as the frost-blue veins receded, the wound stitching itself closed as though it had never been. His breathing steadied, then slowed into the deep rhythm of unconscious rest.
Evan exhaled, swiping imaginary sweat from his brow. "Close call."
He had just started to rise when a voice, sharp and furious, cut through the air.
"WHAT are you doing to Sir Bram?!"
Evan didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Kael stood at the entrance, framed by the guild's heavy doors, two companions flanking him. His aura burned hotter than the torches lining the walls, his face locked in grim resolve. In his hand, a slender, slightly curved blade shimmered—its surface licking with flame.
His eyes locked onto Bram's prone form. Then, onto the smear of blood on Evan's knees.
The air snapped.
Flames roared to life, sheathing Kael's sword in searing heat. He vanished in a blur of movement, appearing above Evan like a falling star.
Evan's enhanced stats caught the attack in motion—just enough for him to twist aside as the blade carved through the space he'd been standing.
A wave of heat singed the edge of his sleeve. 'Can't let those flames touch me,' Evan thought, already shifting into a defensive stance.
"LISTEN," he started, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of fire. "It's not what you think—"
"Shut. Up." Kael's voice cracked with raw rage. "You tried to kill Bram. Now you make excuses?" His sword whipped in a second arc, flames scattering like angry serpents. "You're dead!"
The room erupted into chaos.
Evan dodged, countering with bursts of earth to block the strikes, his spear still unsummoned. He could win if he went all out—but he wasn't eager to escalate this mess.
Then Mirra moved.
"I'll help you get him!" Her voice rang with vicious delight as she leapt forward, her bloodline-boosted speed turning her into a streak of motion.
Great. Now it was two-on-one.
Her blows were precise and heavy, forcing Evan to divide his focus between her wild physical strikes and Kael's burning slashes. Each impact shook his arms, the air thick with the stench of scorched wood and churned earth.
'They're strong,' Evan admitted, 'but still Tier 0. Manageable. Annoying, though.'
He was just about to switch to offence—spear forming in his mind—when another voice finally cut through the madness.
"STOP!"
Elira's voice carried like a bell, sharp enough to slice the tension. She was kneeling by Bram, her hands hovering protectively over him. Her gaze darted to Kael, then to Evan. "Kael, look! Bram's fine. You're wrong!"
Evan froze mid-step. Across from him, Kael hesitated too, flames flickering uncertainly along his blade.
Then Bram groaned, sitting up weakly, his voice hoarse but steady. "Stop… Kael. This man saved me. If not for him…" He coughed, managing a tired smile. "I'd be dead."
The words hit like cold water.
Kael's sword dropped, flames vanishing as the steel cracked and splintered under its own heat, shattering into useless fragments at his feet.
"Tch." His jaw tightened, looking at his shattered sword, voice low but audible to Evan. "Another one down."
Evan adjusted his sleeves, brushing ash from his coat. "Now do you see what I was trying to say?"
Kael didn't meet his gaze. "...Sorry. I overreacted." He turned to his companions, his tone brisk and cold. "Mirra. Elira. We're leaving."
Elira shot Evan a look of quiet apology before following. Mirra, however, glared daggers at him, her expression promising this wouldn't be their last encounter.
Kael didn't wait. "Sir Bram," he said without looking back, "rest well. I'll cover the damages later." Then he walked out, shoulders stiff, vanishing into the street.
Evan exhaled through his nose. 'If I hadn't healed Bram, I'd probably be plastered on every wanted poster in this city by now.'
Shaking his head, he helped Bram to a chair.
The smith gulped down a full jar of water, draining it in one go. "I'm sorry, Sir Evan," he said finally, bowing his head. "Kael's not a bad kid. He just… loses control when it's personal."
Evan smirked faintly. "Don't worry about it. And honestly? Even if all three of them had come at me together…" His gaze glinted, calm but razor-sharp. "They still wouldn't have touched me."
Bram blinked, his eyes widening in awe, as though Evan had just declared himself an unshakable truth.
Bram flexed his fingers, still marvelling at how the poison had been purged so cleanly. His gratitude was written all over his weathered face.
"Sir Evan," he said, standing a little straighter despite his earlier weakness, "I owe you my life. Whatever brought you here, name it. I'll help however I can."
Evan waved him back down with a faint smile. "Relax. I'm not here to collect favours. Just looking for materials—a flame-attributed monster's blood, preferably from something above Level 70, and some high-grade beast bones."
Bram's brows rose. "Then you're in luck. A few days ago, Kael brought in a Molten Lizard. Level ninety-two. Nasty thing, but it's got blood hotter than molten iron. As for bones…" He gestured toward the storeroom. "I've got plenty."
'Nailed it,' Evan thought, his earlier suspicions confirmed. 'That strange blade back at the smithy was his, then. Tailor-made.'
Bram returned moments later, carrying a cloth sack in one hand and a flask of dark crimson liquid in the other. The glass radiated warmth; even through his glove, Evan could feel the faint thrum of power within.
"Here," Bram said, offering them forward. "Enough bones? Or should I fetch more?"
"This is perfect." Evan stored the items in his inventory, then paused. "How much?"
Bram blinked, almost offended. "How much? Sir, you saved my life. I wouldn't take a single coin from my benefactor."
"You extracted and processed this stuff. That's worth something," Evan countered, unwilling to take charity.
"If you want to pay me…" Bram's voice dropped to a stubborn growl. "…then kill me first. Because my debt to you is already settled." He closed his eyes as though daring Evan to strike.
Evan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. You win." He smirked faintly. "But I'm keeping the items, so consider us even."
Bram chuckled, the tension easing from his face. "Deal."
Evan left the Adventurer Guild soon after, ignoring Bram's attempts to rope him into another butchering session, and returned to the Ember & Anvil. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal greeted him even before he reached the door.
Inside, the shopfront was empty, but the forge roared alive in the back. He followed the sound and found Drogmir hunched over a half-formed blade, each strike of his hammer sending sparks dancing like fireflies.
"I've got the rest of the materials," Evan said, pulling the sack and flask from his inventory and laying them on the bench.
Drogmir froze mid-swing, then turned. For a heartbeat, raw delight flickered across his face—quickly masked, but not fast enough to escape Evan's notice.
"You… actually gathered them already?" The dwarf's voice cracked with disbelief. "By the Ancestral Anvil, you work fast."
"How long until the set's done?" Evan asked, his gaze sliding to the half-shaped weapon cooling beside the anvil.
"Six days," Drogmir said, almost reverently running his hands over the new materials. "Come back then. But before you leave…" He gestured toward the forge, where a flickering flame burned low, its once-bright power clearly fading. "Ignite your fire there. Mine's nearly spent."
Evan didn't hesitate. Ashen-grey flames coiled around his hand, the forge's light bending toward it as though pulled by a greater authority. He pressed his palm to the edge of the crucible, and his flame consumed the weaker one, reshaping it into something sharper, colder, and infinitely more dangerous.
Drogmir stood frozen, eyes wide, the reflection of that unnatural fire dancing in his pupils. His expression twisted briefly—greed, awe, and something darker flashing all at once.
Evan caught it, of course. He didn't comment. Not yet.
On his way out, his gaze snagged on the cloth-draped stand where the strange blade had been.
"Did its owner pick it up already?" he asked casually.
Drogmir blinked out of his daze, his expression softening into something almost melancholic. "Aye. Took it today, just half an hour ago. Said it was… perfect for him."
Evan hummed, filing the information away. 'So Kael's got his weapon now. Figures.'
Over the next two days, Evan buried himself in work. His coin pouch had taken a brutal hit, and he wasn't about to limp into the next stage of his plans broken. Hunting high-level beasts was out of the question without proper weapons, so he opted for lucrative clean-up quests: exterminating monster nests, clearing pests, escorting caravans too stubborn to hire elite guards.
By the end of the second day, silver flowed back into his hands, and his coffers felt stable again.
He also saw Kael—wielding his new weapon.
It was unmistakable, tailored for him in every sense. His flames no longer shattered his sword with each strike; instead, the weapon amplified his fire, the two feeding into each other until Kael's attacks were leagues deadlier than before. Even from a distance, Evan could tell: this was a blade born to burn worlds.
And then there was Arven's quiet observation, dropped like a casual knife into Evan's thoughts:
'There's a wisp of Velma's soul inside him.'
Troublesome. Very troublesome.
Still, for a brief moment, life settled into something almost simple. Gold stacked neatly, quests cleared smoothly, and Drogmir's promised weapons were only days away.
Until, on the fourth day, the city stirred.
A new arrival. A presence heavy enough to warp the air, and obnoxious enough that Evan's first thought was:
'Tch. This is going to be a pain.'
But who it was… that could wait until next time.
--> To Be Continued...
Hello everyone, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Are you ready for more trouble and action in Evan's life? Please share your thoughts in the comments.