Reward
“Mr. Garrett, a VIP customer has arrived.”
Guided to the back of the forge, I found a space much like the smithies I'd imagined—broad and walled in brick, dominated by a massive furnace and various workstations.
Swords that looked freshly forged hung along one wall.
And in the center—
Clang!! Clang!!!
—hammering away at a slab of metal was the forge's owner, the man they called Garrett.
...Bigger than I'd expected.
His hair was white, his face etched with deep wrinkles, but his burly frame made him seem more middle-aged than elderly. The muscles in his arms stood out sharper than mine, and even hunched over his work, he looked like he'd brush the ceiling if he straightened up.
I'd pictured fantasy meant dwarf—short and stocky—but this guy was the polar opposite.
Still...
Whoosh—boom!!
Watching those massive, elongated arms swing the hammer down, I could tell he'd craft one hell of a weapon.
And the speed, the power—it was impressive. Almost like an Aura user...
...No, definitely an Aura user.
A strong one, at that. Formidable presence.
As I sized up his skill—
“You've got a sharp eye, young man.”
Garrett paused his hammering and rose from his anvil.
Just as I'd guessed, his frame was enormous. His belly protruded a bit, but he radiated the aura of a mighty warrior more than a mere smith.
“Ah, did I offend you?”
He was an elder, after all, and sizing up his strength might've been rude, but...
“Nah, it's fine. I've done the same.”
He dragged a chair over and sat before me, his torso so broad it made my own solid build look half-sized by comparison.
“Not bad for a young pup. Which house are you from?”
“...The Boyd family.”
“Fine stock.”
Garrett brushed off his hands, then extended one thick with calluses.
“Ticket.”
“Here.”
I handed over the VIP ticket; he pocketed it.
“Few of these to go around. Gotta get it back.”
“...I see.”
“Can't just hand 'em out willy-nilly. Anyway, this one's from Rowell. You his apprentice?”
“No.”
Rowell's apprentice...? Nah, I wouldn't call myself that. He gave me a map, sure, but I doubt he sees me as a disciple.
“He wouldn't give this to just anyone. Be straight with me.”
“...I'm really not.”
“Fine, if you don't wanna say.”
He stood.
“So, what do you want?”
“A sword. Something sturdy that won't snap.”
“Never heard one of mine break. Good choice coming here.”
Garrett gestured to the wall of blades.
“Any of those would satisfy, but since you're VIP, you want a custom job, right?”
“Yes.”
“Straight to the point. VIP gets two options.”
He raised two scarred, callused fingers, then pointed to the blade he'd been working on.
“Pay up front, or bring your own materials.”
“If it's money...”
“Cash means I use our stock. Starts at ten gold coins, minimum.”
“...”
Ten gold?
Impossible for me. Maybe borrow from Rowell? That old man might have some...
“Other option's fetching materials—our pitch to youngsters like you.”
“What kind of materials...?”
“I'll list what I need for a custom fit. Hunt 'em in the Kaine Mountain Range.”
“Ah, yes... Kill monsters there?”
“Mostly their parts, yeah.”
...Better for me?
No choice, really.
Rowell sent me off without a coin, probably expecting the hard route.
“Bring monster bits, and VIP service covers the metal from our forge.”
Materials it is, then—sounds profitable.
Hard-to-get stuff from auctions...
“But you gotta procure 'em yourself.”
“...Alone?”
“Team up if you want, long as you go personally.”
“People could buy 'em secretly, though.”
“If you think you can fool me, go ahead.”
Garrett stepped closer.
His bulk hit like facing an orc—oppressive, inhuman pressure.
“Lemme see your arm.”
“Here.”
I offered it; he examined closely.
“Hm?”
He poked my forearm, sounding puzzled.
“How old are you?”
“Pardon? Eighteen.”
“What?”
He stared in disbelief.
...Do I really look that rough?
Nobody guesses my age right.
“Why the look?”
“Thought you were younger—baby-faced. Impressive realm for your age.”
“Ah.”
Makes sense. Aura users spot each other; my level threw him off.
“Huh. Gotta factor that into the blade.”
“Growth spurt?”
“Balance matters. Could wait two years otherwise.”
“...No.”
More missions from Rowell ahead—no time to dawdle.
“Make it big, then. I'll adjust.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I'll adapt.”
My old weapons were Coliseum hand-me-downs or enemy loot anyway.
Adapting to the blade suited me; dedicated gear wasn't my style.
“Alright, materials list first.”
True to form, he fetched a large sheet and scribbled.
“...All this in the Kaine Mountain Range?”
“Would I ask for what ain't there?”
The list was absurd.
“I'll be grown out of it by the time I hunt these.”
What bizarre stuff.
Top item: troll molars.
For a sword? Ground to powder?
“Or pay up—your call.”
“...I'll gather them.”
Fine, whatever.
I folded the paper and tucked it away.
“See you.”
As I turned for the mercenary guild—
“Hold up.”
“Yes? More to say?”
“You're unarmed right now.”
Garrett plucked a hefty, long longsword from the wall.
“Made this recently. Didn't like it.”
Whoosh—
He tossed it; I caught it—heavy, solid.
“This is...”
“Heavy, yeah? Packs a punch. Use it till you bring materials.”
“You're giving it?”
“Lend, idiot. Lose it, you owe extra.”
“Ah, yes...”
Didn't ask, but...
Whoosh—whoosh.
A quick swing—perfect balance. Nothing like my old junk.
“I'll take good care of it.”
No brainer.
“No scabbard, so carry it open.”
“Eyes will—”
“You look born to swing steel. Who cares?”
“Ah, yes...”
True. Suited up, I'm a knight. Stripped down, gladiator.
“Thanks.”
“Hunt smart. Bring 'em fresh, same day if you can.”
“Yes, freshness guaranteed.”
With the sword snug at my hip, I exited the forge's inner sanctum.
“To leave...”
“This way.”
The receptionist guided me to the terrace entrance. Peering down, I saw the line still snaking along.
Thud!
I leaped straight to the ground floor.
“You...”
“That sword—is it...?”
I ignored the envious stares fixed on my blade and headed for the commercial district.
Next: mercenary guild.
The Adel Kingdom's mercenary guild capital branch.
As the kingdom's hub, with the monster-rich Kaine Mountain Range nearby, it was always swarming with mercenaries.
Among them, the real heavy-hitters were Silver-rank.
And Jeban—Silver-rank leader commanding a dozen Silvers, infamous in the capital with his moniker Continuous Strike—
—was fidgeting uncontrollably at a table, leg bouncing.
“Boss, calm down.”
“Shut it, Hans.”
Fucking hell, tangled with some psycho.
Looks early twenties, Aura user so maybe early thirties tops—but that killing intent...
Even guild staff warned to tread carefully—like some noble scion.
Why demand a fake ID? Made a good one, but sweat poured anyway.
Chasing the reward was the mistake. Should've bolted?
But a shot at learning Fleet—slim odds, worth grabbing.
Ding—
A bell like a heart-skip echoed from the door.
“He—y, Jeban.”
That terrifying voice calling him—he whipped around.
“Right on time, as promised?”
“Shit.”
The psycho brought a sword.
Bare, no scabbard.
Jeban shot up, slamming his forehead to the floor.
“Please, spare me!”
Drawing steel in the guild? True madman.