The Blacksmith
The shop wasn't in the nice part of Orario.
Not even close.
I followed Marco's directions west along the main road until the streets stopped pretending to care. Cracked stone. Shuttered windows. Buildings that leaned together like they were sharing bad secrets.
Tucked between a boarded-up tavern and something that might've been a warehouse in a previous life, I found it.
A building held together by stubbornness and bad decisions.
Smoke leaked from gaps in the roof like the place was sighing. The sign above the door was hand-painted, uneven letters that read:
FORGE
No name.
No decoration.
Just function.
I checked the parchment again.
This was it.
The door stood open. Heat rolled out in waves, thick with coal smoke and hot iron. I stepped inside and immediately regretted wearing sleeves.
The place was small. One room. No wasted space.
Forge against the back wall, glowing red. An anvil beside it, scarred, dented, and very clearly loved. Racks of half-finished work lined the walls—blades in various states of becoming dangerous, armor pieces waiting for final touches, tools everywhere like the shop itself had given up on organization.
A young man stood at the anvil, hammer in hand. Soot-smudged face. Dark hair tied back with a strip of leather. Sleeves rolled up, arms thick with the kind of muscle you only get from doing the same violent motion every day.
Mid-twenties, maybe.
He noticed me. Paused. Set the hammer down.
"Help you?"
Flat voice. Not rude. Just tired.
"Marco sent me."
That did it.
Something shifted in his expression.
"Uncle Marco?" He wiped his hands on a rag. "You a customer? Or—"
"Yeah. Customer."
He nodded once. Looked me over—my worn clothes, my stance, the way I stood like I was expecting bad news.
"Can't offer jobs," he said. "Already broke."
Fair.
"Name's Levi."
I blinked.
Paused.
"…Levi."
"Yeah. Problem?"
Marco. Levi.
I kept my face neutral.
"No. Just… reminds me of someone."
He shrugged and turned back toward his workbench. "So. What do you need?"
"Light armor. Something that won't slow me down. And two weapons."
He glanced back. "What kind?"
I hesitated.
Then walked over, grabbed a piece of charcoal near the forge.
"Mind if I borrow this?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Sure?"
I found a scrap plank leaning against the wall, set it flat, and started drawing.
No detail. No flourish. Just shape.
Two blades. Broad. Slight curve. Single edge. Thick spine. Handles long enough for one hand, reinforced at the base.
I stepped back.
Levi stared.
Tilted his head.
"…What is that?"
"A knife."
"That's not a knife."
"Two knives."
He picked up the board, squinting. "This looks like butcher knives."
"Exactly. But for dungeon use."
He set it down slowly.
"You want me to make you butcher knives. For the Dungeon."
"Yep."
"…Weird."
"Can you?"
He thought for a moment. "Steel's easy. Shape's simple. Balance might be strange."
"Can you make them?"
He met my eyes.
"…Yeah," he said. "I can make them."
"How much?"
He glanced at the drawing again. Did some math in his head.
"Big one—ten thousand. Smaller—eight." He gestured at the racks. "Light armor, mobility-focused. Reinforced leather with metal plating. Thirty thousand."
I did the math.
Forty-eight thousand.
My stomach dropped.
"I have forty-two."
Silence.
He looked at me. At my hands. At the drawing.
"That's all?"
"Yeah."
He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Armor's thirty. Non-negotiable. Materials are what they are."
I nodded.
He stared at the plank again.
"Tell you what." He tapped it. "Never made anything like this. Sounds interesting. I'll do both knives for twelve total instead of eighteen."
My heart jumped.
"That still puts me at forty-two exactly."
"I know." He crossed his arms. "You come back here. When you need more gear, you buy from me. That's the deal."
I blinked.
"…You're giving me a discount for a promise?"
"Investment," he said. "Most adventurers don't last a month. If you do, you'll need upgrades. I want a repeat customer, not a corpse who paid full price once."
That was… reasonable.
I pulled out my pouch, counted out forty-two thousand valis, and slid them across the bench.
He took it. Nodded once.
"Come back tomorrow. I'll have everything ready."
"Tomorrow?"
"I've got the materials. These—" he tapped the drawing "—just need balance figured out."
I turned to leave.
"Hey."
I stopped.
"Thanks, Welfy boy."
The words escaped before my brain could tackle them.
Silence.
I froze.
Slowly, Levi turned.
"…Welfy boy?"
"Uh—"
"Nicknames are fine," he said flatly. "But boy?" He set the charcoal down. "I'm older than you. Should be calling you kid."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"…Fair point."
"Damn right." He picked up his hammer again. "Welfy's fine. Drop the 'boy.'"
"Got it."
He nodded. "See you tomorrow."
I left.
---
Between Hammer and Blood
The street didn't stay quiet for long.
Two blocks out, the noise hit first—raised voices, boots scraping stone, the wet thud of someone being shoved into a wall.
I slowed.
Didn't stop.
Didn't speed up either.
A trio of low-level adventurers had someone cornered in an alley. Cloaks mismatched. Gear cheaper than their confidence. The kind that hunted people instead of monsters when the day went bad.
"Cough it up," one of them said. "Guild won't miss a few valis."
The cornered man shook his head too fast. Shop clerk by the look of him. No armor. No weapon. Just a satchel clutched to his chest like it could substitute for a spine.
I took one step closer.
Then stopped.
No gear.
No margin.
Not my fight.
That thought lasted exactly half a second.
One of them punched the clerk in the stomach.
He folded with a sound that made something cold crawl up my back.
I moved.
No heroics. No speeches.
I grabbed a loose brick from the rubble pile by the alley mouth and threw it—not at a head, but at the wall beside one of them.
CRACK.
Stone dust exploded.
They spun, startled.
That was enough.
I rushed in, low and fast, shoulder-first into the nearest body. He stumbled, surprised more than hurt. I didn't stay to see him fall.
"Three on one? That's almost fair."
The second one swung.
"Almost."
I ducked, grabbed his wrist, and slammed it into the wall—hard. Not breaking. Just enough to make him scream and let go of the knife.
The third backed off.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
"Not worth it," he muttered.
Smartest one of the three.
They ran.
I stood there, breathing hard, hands shaking—not from the fight.
From how close that had been to going wrong.
The clerk scrambled up, bowing too many times, words tumbling over each other.
I waved him off and left before gratitude turned into attention.
Two streets later, I leaned against a wall and laughed quietly.
Not because it was funny.
Because it wasn't.
That was Orario.
That was what happens when you don't have steel in your hands.
I looked down at my empty palms.
Tomorrow, that would change.
Tomorrow, I'd have weight. Balance. Edges that answered when I moved.
Tomorrow, I wouldn't need bricks.
And somewhere behind me, Levi was figuring out how to make a butcher's knife into something monsters could fear.
That felt like progress.
***