After a couple of laughs and drinks, Rachel stretched her arms toward me and said:
—It's time to deal with the main matter. Let's go see old Go.
—I thought all that alcohol had made you forget about it.
—Never. No matter how much I drink, I always keep an eye on what matters, Tris —she said, winking—. Well… can you help me stand up?
—You're the one forgetting about yourself.
—Tris… I'm already dead. I couldn't care less about what I eat. Besides… just help me.
With little room for argument, I lifted Rachel and supported her on my shoulder. The sweet marshmallow scent was gone, replaced by a dense smell of alcohol. However, by the system's magic, that odor quickly faded, and the slackness in her body vanished as well.
—Thanks, Tris.
Without saying much else, she stepped away and stretched her arms and back. Rachel was perfect again—marshmallow scent included.
—What do I smell like…?
—W-What kind of question is that, Tris?!
—Ah, sorry… forget I asked…
—Rose soap, I think… and a bit of vanilla… —she said, stepping dangerously close to sniff me carefully—. And… new plastic? Honestly, I don't understand the system. Nobody does. Don't obsess over things like that.
—I guess. Hey, you lead the way.
—Sure —she hummed, gesturing for me to follow while placing a hand on my back.
The Silver corridors were still almost empty. It was impressive to think an entire floor could look like this when, according to Axio, more people arrived daily than were disqualified. Unless the percentage of Steel and Metal players was truly overwhelming.
I must have looked deep in thought, because Rachel eventually interrupted my internal debate.
—You're thinking again, Tris. Seriously, don't overthink the system. The Nexo has neither sense nor logic. Just focus on yourself and on those who earn your trust. That's the best thing you can do. Oh—and one future recommendation.
Rachel stopped abruptly without turning around, still facing away from me.
—If you ever decide to play alongside someone you care about, make sure you do it together. That way, you minimize the chances of becoming enemies in the game.
—That's… valuable advice.
I couldn't help but stop as she resumed walking.
From a distance, emerging from Gobann's massive shop, appeared the first people I'd seen on this floor. We exchanged a simple gesture of mutual respect and continued on our way.
Old Gobann hammered away with indomitable spirit between blazing furnaces fitted with large fluorescent timers. The anvil seemed to scream with every strike. I found it curious that the furnaces had counters, yet he still worked entirely by hand.
—Well, well. Mr. Nobody is Bronze now —he said in a deep, playful voice, like a drum echoing from his chest—. You've grown faster than I expected. Maybe—just maybe—you're worthy of that story.
He pointed toward the furnace at the back of the shop. Its color had shifted to an almost sulfurous white. It hurt to look at directly, like staring at a star or a freshly polished diamond.
—In there —he explained— the story you gave me last time is still being forged. Even I don't know what shape it'll take after refinement. It's quite exciting, I must say. It's been a long time since someone brought me something as insane as you did.
I swallowed.
—I suppose so.
—I like your new aura, boy. Let's make a deal. If you reach Gold before that furnace opens, I'll sell it to you for… let's say… five hundred thousand credits, labor included.
—FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND…?!
I shouted so loudly that even the story-forger covered his ears.
Rachel clicked her tongue, arms crossed.
—Don't be stingy, Go.
The blacksmith let out a deep laugh.
—Alright, alright. Three hundred thousand. But not a credit less. Quality work still costs.
Two hundred thousand. Literally everything I had. And I couldn't even be sure I'd recover that amount even if I reached Gold. That meant never losing—and funneling every single credit earned into paying for the weapon.
Sacrifice stat growth for a weapon?
And if I failed to level up, would I even be worthy of it?
"Stop being pathetic, Tristan."
I felt as if someone with a thick voice and a wide grin whispered in my ear.
—Go… that's too much, even for me…
—I'll do it.
Both Rachel and Gobann turned toward me in surprise. The blacksmith's face lit up as if he'd found something precious, while Rachel adjusted her glasses, trying to hide her reddened face.
—That's the spirit. He who doesn't risk, doesn't win, kid. Just for that—and if you truly are worthy of the weapon—it might even consider letting you pay on credit. With interest, of course —he said, making an "OK" sign with his hands.
—Whatever the case —I interrupted as he crossed his arms again— first, I want you to check this.
Gobann's eyes went wide when he saw Babe. They quickly grew moist, and his smile faded. He ran a hand over his face and swallowed. He asked no questions. He had forged that axe; if someone else carried it, there could only be one explanation.
—You carry a beautiful axe, boy —he said, taking it as if it weighed nothing—. But even if you're tired of hearing it, you are not worthy of this story. In fact… only one person ever was.
—I know.
Rachel slowly placed a hand on my shoulder. After a gentle pat, I continued:
—I want to repair it. I want that axe to recognize me as its owner.
—Well… going from a knife to an axe is quite the leap.
The forger placed Babe on the anvil and struck it with a test blow. Blue sparks flew out and lingered in the air before him, as if he were inspecting a massive invisible interface. He touched the sparks—sometimes amazed, sometimes laughing. It was like watching a movie only he could understand.
Finally, one spark caught his attention. After examining it, he let out a long sigh and looked at me with something akin to pity.
—My condolences, boy.
I lowered my head. I felt his judgment, as though he understood more than I did about what had happened with Paul. I couldn't meet his gaze.
—Lift your head.
It was Rachel. She cupped my cheeks and raised my face. Her gaze was clear, understanding. Then she guided my eyes back to Gobann, who merely blew his nose.
—Alright. Don't take this the wrong way. I'm the server's blacksmith. Almost every legacy has passed through my forge. That's why they call me the "Forger of Stories." Each one is a part of me. Each one is like a daughter—a daughter I let go with men and women I deem worthy —he said as he gently placed Babe back on the anvil. Finally, after a deep breath in and out, he concluded—. The axe is yours. That much is clear. Its former owner would agree, and Babe would too. But that girl is no longer with us. With her essence, with her memories, I will forge the weapon you will refine— a weapon worthy of your legacy, Tristan.
My heart ached again with the truth.
—He… he let himself—
—Don't say nonsense —the blacksmith interrupted—. He fought and died the way he chose. The outcome can only be judged by those who crossed blades. If you won, then you won. That's all there is to it. And as I said before—she accepts you.
—Thank you. I'll honor that trust —I replied, lifting my head proudly.
Gobann smiled again and turned back to the anvil.
—What, thanks? —he scoffed—. You think this is free? You'll owe me seventy thousand credits. Pay up, or take the corpse home with you.
—Go, now you're really being greedy —Rachel snapped.
—I like eating well, sleeping well, and sleeping with women, you know?
—That last part was unnecessary.
—Fine. I'll pay the seventy without issue.
—That's what I like to hear. Clear business, long friendships. Come —he gestured toward the anvil.
Rachel nodded for me to comply. I stepped forward until I stood before it. The metal was black as coal—hard, dense, alien to any material I'd ever known on Earth. Babe rested at its center, and before me was a panel inviting me to touch it.
—Place your hands.
—You're insane —I shot back immediately—. I'm not letting you hammer with my hands there.
—For God's sake. Even if I crushed one, you wouldn't feel it, and you'd recover it just by stepping out of my shop —the blacksmith exclaimed, grabbing my hands firmly—. Stop whining, kid.
He forced my hands into place with little resistance.
The moment I touched the metal, my mind emptied. The struggle faded. Only cold words formed in my thoughts.
"Give me a name…"
And then I saw it.
A frozen shadow. Blue scales like sapphires. Molten crystal forming an impossible body.
Frostmagnar.