Gandren nodded. "That was indeed the case. Bruno spent a long time running around, searching for Storm Warhammer blacksmiths, making quite a stir over the whole thing, but in the end it came to nothing."
Charles's expression shifted, a touch of emotion in his heart. "He..."
"Yes, he lost a lot of face for it." Gandren sighed. "But rules are rules, unfortunately."
Charles was deeply moved. He could just imagine how, after refusing him that day, Bruno—overwhelmed with guilt—must have gone everywhere, bowing and pleading for favors, hoping someone would help his friend.
As Gandren spoke, the old forge domain pastor extended his thick, callused, work-worn hand toward Charles. "Give it here. I'm not supposed to do things like this, but these are extraordinary times—and for an old friend's sake, I'll make an exception for you."
In this moment, Charles no longer hid the delight in his expression. "Thank you!"
He drew the Storm Warhammer from his Bag of Holding and handed it over. Squinting, Gandren examined the dwarven runes etched across the weapon as he asked, "Any particular requests? For example, expanding the charge capacity, or giving it a self-charging function?"
"Self-charging" meant, just like Charles's spellbooks, the weapon would automatically regain a one-shot charge every twenty-four hours—letting him activate its function once without expending Spell Slots.
Charles quickly shook his head. "No need for expanded capacity or self-charging—I'm a spellcaster myself, and, well... rather flush with Spell Slots."
Then, thinking quickly, he organized his thoughts. "You can strip out all the storage modules. Also, since most demons have strong resistance to electricity, I'd like the electrical damage aspect replaced with thunder."
"That way the power might be a bit lower, but it'll let me stun and deafen foes for a longer period."
His eyes brimmed with hope. "Is that possible?"
Gandren nodded. "No problem at all—those are basic requests. Give me seven days, and after that, come to my workshop to pick it up."
He handed Charles a business card. Relieved, Charles took it, then asked casually, "By the way, what about Bruno? It's a chaotic time—he must be busy too, right?"
He made up his mind to thank that dwarf properly at the first opportunity.
However, Gandren's face went cold and his eyes stayed fixed on the Storm Warhammer. "He... has already returned to the embrace of Great Moradin."
Charles's pupils shrank; his heart plunged into ice. "What—?!"
He never would have thought that the very first dwarven friend he made in this world... was dead?
The sudden news was hard to take. His heart hammered in his chest, blood pressure soaring, and his vision suddenly grew red.
No matter how accustomed one becomes to blood and death, no one ever grows used to losing a friend.
It's as if someone had lodged themselves in your emotions and memories—only to be ripped away by overwhelming force.
"When did it happen?" His voice trembled.
"It was when they assaulted Rockseeker's Outpost. He fought bravely to defend his kin and fell in battle," Gandren said. "It was probably done by a minotaur... I don't even know for certain—only half his body was ever recovered."
"Now his remains have been sent home for burial. And as his final request—I must help you as well."
For a moment, the mood was heavy. Charles bowed his head, all his earlier happiness evaporated.
He knew the destruction of Rockseeker's Outpost was a tragedy for many, but tragedy strikes hardest when it is close—impossible to accept.
He took a deep breath and nodded solemnly. "I understand, Gandren."
Unconsciously, his fists had clenched tight. Rage began to smolder in his chest. He swore to himself: the true culprit would pay the price.
...
South Harbor District, Amazon Fisheries Company Headquarters, Intelligence Division, Reception Room.
On either side of the clean and bright coffee table by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, Porter, sitting cross-legged with a cup of coffee, was hosting a special guest:
Daevyl Starsong, senior agent of a shadowy intelligence network—a sun elf.
Ever since the two sides coordinated to eliminate the Xanathar's Guild's hold over South Harbor District and successfully laid all blame on Kendrz, the Amazons and the Zhentarim had developed a stable working relationship.
More accurately, it was Porter and Daevyl who shared a covert partnership. After all, one party was a legitimate company on the surface, the other an illegal intelligence organization—their cooperation could never be made public.
From time to time, Daevyl Starsong would drop by and the two would exchange some intel, keeping the arrangement mutually beneficial.
Today was no exception.
"Ms. Porter, here's the information you asked us to look into last time."
The elf wore his usual polite smile, placed a folder on the table, and explained, "In summary, even though there are still major transportation routes awaiting repair in the other districts, the Department of Transportation has approved your application—if you're willing to pay the costs yourself, they'll assign a construction crew to South Harbor District."
He nodded gently. "Perhaps I should offer you advance congratulations? Your company is sure to make a fortune soon."
Porter frowned. Hearing the news, she was of course pleased, but knowing how Liberl Port bureaucracy worked, she also knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.
"Why, though?" she asked. "Other districts also have more urgent problems. I'd have thought we'd have to spend a little more 'persuasion' to pass this proposal."
Daevyl shrugged. "Who can say? Maybe the Minister of Transport is truly honest and wants what's best for Liberl Port?"
"Or maybe it's because he wants his daughter to have more chances to visit her lover? Heh—honestly, I think that's more likely."
Porter scowled. "So, you don't know either?"
Daevyl's smile faded. "We do have some reliable information to back up our guesses."
"But… in exchange, we also want you to share something of interest to us."
"How much?"
"No money," Daevyl replied. "Intelligence."
"About what?"
"That priest."
"Who? Charles?"
"Yes, him." The sun elf nodded and smiled. "His recent activities have, frankly, surprised us quite a lot."
Porter's brow furrowed. She hesitated for a second, then suddenly smiled. "Why are you interested in him? He's just a soft-hearted kid."
She was more than ten years older than Charles; in her eyes, he really was just a boy.
Daevyl didn't argue. "We merely want all information to circulate freely. Even if it's useless, we gather it."
"Does your company have secrets you can't share about him?"
Porter was quiet a moment and then replied, "Absolutely not. The company and he barely have any direct ties."
"Ask anything," she said. "But I only know him in passing—I can't promise I'll have answers."
The implication being: as long as Charles agreed, they could easily become quite close.
Daevyl didn't mind. "Very well, then I'll ask."
"In fact, the Minister of Transport has a political rival..."
As he spoke, he reached into his Bag of Holding and took out a second, neatly organized document. Everything here was genuine—except for the fact that it had nothing to do with the conversation at hand.
No one realized that the Amazons' good fortune in this case was purely due to a little act of power wielded by the Minister of Transport, who simply wanted his daughter to grow up stronger.
Porter carefully took the folder, then said, "Very well, Mr. Daevyl—what exactly do you want to know about Charles?"
Daevyl's expression turned serious. "I want to know—he and those battle nuns of his. How did they come by their power?"
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