Aron!
Carlos panicked, his voice shaking slightly. "Yes, yes… he was just a kid when we came here the first time."
"Did he come here?" Carlos asked again, eyes wide with urgency.
The chef behind the counter made a confused expression, wiping his hands on his apron. "Long time ago… a kid named Aron came here," he said slowly. "At first, he seemed normal, quiet, just another boy. But one day, he asked me where to find wood. I told him… the place where my dad lives."
Carlos' eyes lit up. Relief mixed with determination. "Ohh… so that's why. Okay, forget all of this for now. Tell me exactly where your dad lives."
The chef nodded, pointing toward the streets outside. "Follow this street straight. Then take the small streets. There's a secret door that will lead you out of the city. From there, there's a road you must follow, and you'll have to hike a little. If you leave now, you'll reach there by tomorrow sunrise."
Carlos nodded eagerly. "Thank you so much for helping me."
The chef shrugged, a small smile on his face. "It's really okay, no problem. Just give my regards to my dad." He handed Carlos some food and supplies. "Take these as well… for your journey. Enjoy your meeting."
Carlos waved goodbye as the chef left. The door closed behind him. He looked up at the skies, clouds painted in soft oranges and pinks from the rising sun, and wondered how everyone would react to what he was about to do.
...
Inside a small, dimly lit blacksmith workshop, Aron was hammering swords one by one. Sparks flew with every strike. His sweat dripped down his forehead, his hands blackened from coal and soot. Each sword was shaped meticulously, edges honed, balance tested. His body was strong, sculpted from years of hard labor, yet every inch bore marks of scars, burns, and scratches — reminders of the battles he had fought in and the labor he endured.
The door creaked open.
Balrad stepped inside, his steps weary. He sat heavily at the table, reaching for a cup of water and resting for a moment. "This darn folk… they don't understand how much time it takes to even shape a sword…" he muttered under his breath.
Aron noticed immediately. "What happened? You seem… a bit off. Did something happen? Something worrying you?"
Balrad sighed deeply. "I got the biggest order… maybe ever in my generation. Over one hundred and fifty swords… for the Amrock Kingdom."
Aron paused mid-strike, wiping sweat from his brow. "The guys we met? They were from Amrock too, right?"
"Yeah," Balrad replied. "But the thing is… they're paying in gold coins and some silver. My friend told me we have to deliver the goods in eight or nine days. That's nearly impossible. We'll need at least three or four blacksmiths, and the metal is all finished. Though they will deliver more, we still need manpower…"
Aron nodded slowly, determination flashing in his eyes. "Don't worry, Balrad. Let's take it. One hundred and fifty swords sounds horrendous, yes, but we can do it. We'll sacrifice sleep if we have to… for some days."
Balrad looked doubtful. "Really? Can we do it? You know, at this stage in life, I need to rest more than work more…"
Aron smiled faintly, confidence unwavering. "Don't worry, Balrad. I will give my best. I'll do what I must."
Balrad stood up and placed a hand on Aron's shoulder. "Thank you, Aron. Let's start right now. I'll go get the items. You start preparing the swords."
Aron nodded, returning to his forge, hammer raised, sparks flying once again. Balrad watched him for a moment, admiration settling in. I am so glad, he thought, smiling. Then he left to fetch the supplies.
The rhythmic strike of hammer against metal rang through the workshop, little pieces of flame dancing everywhere. Sweat, determination, and the scent of molten metal filled the room.
...
"The world is going to end very quickly… I can tell you that for sure," said Cathedral, the man in charge of the government in Wingman City.
His sharp eyes gleamed behind glass, cautious and calculating. Every move he made carried a weight of awareness.
"Well… I don't care," said the man sitting across from him, voice low, tired. "After all… what is left in this ruined abyss? Everything is gone… yet we are still here."
Cathedral's jaw tightened. "Losing trail was surely a pain in the ass," he muttered while staring at the man, annoyance flaring. "It could have been handled easily." He thumped his hand on the table, frustration evident. "I'll try to do it… but I'm busy right now."
Cathedral rose from his chair and walked down the corridor, leather boots echoing softly. Outside, the fog rolled through the streets. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, smoke curling around his face. The cap on his head shadowed his eyes.
The day had no sun, only a pale gray light, muffled by the fog. Cathedral inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke fill his lungs. "The world feels… strange," he whispered to himself. A moment of calm, a moment of clarity.
How long will it take? he wondered.
Humans… they are truly destructive. They cause annihilation… and yet… even I… am part of it. How bad am I?
He exhaled slowly, smoke dissipating into the cold air. Though I get over it all the time, there is still something stopping me from going down that path. What could it be?
Frustration rose inside him. He threw the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "Why am I cursing myself?" he muttered. "Let's see what it really means… and I hope Trail returns."
He turned and headed back to his room, leaving the foggy streets behind. Silence settled in the corridors, thick and heavy.
"Silence will flow soon… your words were steep, Trail…"
And the sound of his footsteps echoed through the darkness, returning him to his position.