"Bul-Kathos's name."
Bul-Kathos muttered, plunging the metal, refined with over fifty material infusions, into water. Steam hissed, condensing as droplets on his beard, a comical sight. The fist-sized metal gleamed with unimaginable strength, yet it was too small for a barbarian's weapon.
He thrust his arm into the forge's flames, relishing the heat. Finally, he could drink deeply.
"Damn it, when will this flask work without injury?"
His "quiet" grumble echoed. Without battle, he had to harm himself to taste liquor—a minor but annoying discomfort.
"Perhaps try our world's wine?"
The Ancient One's voice came from the doorway, earning a scornful glance.
"Your world's wine tastes of chemicals and rusted metal!"
A master brewer, Bul-Kathos's palate was exacting.
"Maybe you haven't tasted the best yet."
She tossed him an ornate gourd. She knew his coinless state limited him to cheap convenience-store beer—industrial swill unfit for a barbarian.
Bul-Kathos set the metal aside, pouring the cooling water onto the anvil. Steam surged, raising the room's heat. Sweat beaded on the Ancient One's bald head.
"Mage, use your magic. Your frail body can't handle this."
He sniffed the gourd's contents, approving. Her enduring the heat was respect for his domain—this crude room, his property. Sharing it was his return gesture. Wealth meant nothing to him.
"Thank you for your generosity."
She bowed slightly, her sweat vanishing instantly.
"How are you settling in?"
"Not bad, but this world's so idle it's rusting me."
His praise was for the gourd's wine; "idle" summed up his view of Earth.
"For the gear you gave us, I offer thanks, though late."
She'd felt the bracer's power—doubling her strength, shielding her from a grenade's blast. A novel experience for a mage whose might lay in spells, not flesh.
"So, mage, what can you do for me?"
His voice boomed, harsh as ever. He'd never whisper—war cries were a barbarian's strength. Mages, barely above demons, earned little courtesy.
"You can't do anything. I don't need help."
He drained the gourd. Good, but mundane compared to his brews.
"With quality grain, I could make wine a thousand times better."
He tossed the empty gourd back, pulling a silvery flask from his pack.
"Endless Diamond Potion."
Beyond healing, it granted elemental resistance—fire, lightning, anything. His countless potions were just flavor labels. This matched her gourd—wheat-distilled, purified—but infused with demon blood and Heaven's springs, far superior.
"Mages die young. Keep this."
His words, potentially a curse, were his kindest tone for a mage. Mages dodged foes but fell to one mistake.
"Your potions only work when injured? If I lose an arm, how do I drink?"
She held the flask, sensing its healing power, but questioned its use. In Diablo, countless warriors must have died unable to drink.
He raised a brow, softening his stern face.
"I drink because it's liquor I love. For healing, just will it."
The flask's true use was mental activation—swift, effective healing.
"Rest's over. I'm forging. Watch if you want, but don't disturb me, mage!"
His brusqueness needed no courtesy. She knew the flask's value. Setting food on a grimy table—plastic bags shielding it—she accepted his battlefield-born disregard for cleanliness.
The smithy rang again with hammer on metal.
(End of Chapter)