Three days had passed since the A-rank hunter had left Tyler a broken ss. He sat in a rough-hewn wooden tub, the warm water doing little to soothe the lingering aches. The mory of his declaration to Grone—his desperate wish to beco a hunter—still echoed in his mind. Lisa, Grone's wife, had vehently opposed the idea, citing the inherent dangers of the profession. She'd voiced the sa concerns when Grone himself had aspired to be a hunter, but Grone, it seed, had no choice. Grone, though sympathetic, echoed his wife's concerns. "You don't have to be a hunter, Tyler," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You're weak now. With your current rank—and hunters are ranked E to D and below—it'll be incredibly difficult." He paused, considering. "There are other jobs you could do." The following day, Grone outlined so options: working on a farm, selling goods in the marketplace.
Grone ntioned another option. "I have a friend, a blacksmith. He crafts weapons, and could use an extra hand. He lost his last assistant, so… I'll speak to him and see if he's interested in hiring you."
Tyler nodded. "Okay," he said. "If he's willing, I'll work for him." In the days that followed, Tyler found himself increasingly preoccupied by the system. Whenever he focused his thoughts on it, the crafting nu would appear. He'd been experinting, using Grone's firewood to practice, crafting crude wooden katanas and swords. He still had no idea how it worked.
Tyler realized sothing unsettling: the system seed fixated on weapons. No matter what he tried to craft, it always revolved around weaponry. Then, a mory surfaced: he had crafted armor once. Yesterday, Grone had urged him to bathe—his first bath since arriving in this world. The cleansing water had been incredibly refreshing. Now, considering the system's stats—defense, agility, strength—everything pointed to one conclusion: this system, with its relentless focus on combat, was designed to turn him in to a hunter.
Grone and his wife’s worry was palpable. Being a hunter was dangerous; he could die. Tyler understood their fear, and felt so of it himself. But a deeper truth resonated within him. From the mont he was old enough to work, he’d never had an easy job. Part-ti construction, grueling gardening, anything that demanded physical strength and endurance. So, honestly, being a hunter. It was just another tough job. Only this ti, the circumstances were different—a new world, strange creatures, and a desperate need to survive. He had crafted weapons before, even a rusty blade. The fact that the system could produce a rusty blade, however crude, suggested it could create far superior weapons, weapons with greater durability and higher attack power. Lost in thought, he heard a knock on the door.
"Tyler, you in there?" Grone called.
"Yes, I'm here," Tyler replied.
"Rember that blacksmith friend I ntioned? The one I said I'd talk to about needing an assistant?" Grone's voice was firm, as always. Tyler felt a knot of nervousness tighten in his stomach.
"Yeah?" Tyler managed.
"Well, he agreed to hire you. Of course, he'll want to et you and see if you can handle the work. So, co out and et outside after you're done bathing, alright?"
"Yeah, I'll be quick," Tyler said, already starting to dry himself.
After a deep breath, Tyler pulled on his new clothes: a thin, almost sweater-like shirt, and trousers of a dark, muddy brown, the fabric surprisingly tough despite its thinness. He slipped on his shoes and went outside to et Grone.
"That was quick," Grone comnted.
"Yeah," Tyler replied, his nervousness still evident. "Didn't want to keep you waiting."
"Okay, let's go," Grone said, starting to walk.
Tyler fell into step beside him, realizing they were heading back towards the marketplace. They joined the main road, walking straight ahead, passing rows of houses. A familiar chill ran down his spine as he recognized the spot where the A-rank hunter had attacked him, stealing his money. He quickly shook off the mory, focusing instead on the present. He was getting a job in this new world, assisting a blacksmith. He had no idea what the work would entail, but he hoped it would be manageable.
As they walked, Tyler noticed they were approaching the marketplace. Stepping inside, the familiar bustle hit him. People thronged the walkways; vendors hawked fruits and food. He knew the tastes of apples, oranges, and grapes from his old world. The fruits here, however, were completely different. The flavors were alien, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Only one fruit he'd sampled had a remotely familiar taste—vaguely reminiscent of a banana.
Tyler glanced to his left and saw the familiar silhouette of a hamr and anvil above a shop. "Here we are," Grone said. The shop wasn't large, more like a dium-sized house. Stepping inside, Tyler saw a man behind a counter, a variety of weapons arrayed behind him. Knives and axes hung on the walls; on the left, suits of armor stood displayed.
"Hector," Grone said, "How's it been? How's your day?"
Hector, a head taller than Grone, possessed a short, blonde crop and a slightly bulky but not intimidating physique. A simring anger flickered in his blue eyes. "Not great," he said, his voice tight with frustration. "It's just that I had so kid co in here and steal a dagger earlier this morning. I chased him down the street, told the guards, but they couldn't catch the little brat."
"Those kids are still causing problems, huh?" Grone remarked.
"Yeah," Hector sighed, "Those street kids need to learn a lesson. If they keep stealing, they'll end up locked up eventually. Too bad there isn't an orphanage in town. I even told them to go to Lyria, to the orphanage there, but they'd need a guardian to take them. I kind of feel sorry for them, you know," he admitted, his anger softening slightly. "But I'm still frustrated about that dagger. Do you know how long it took to make that?"
"I'm not really a craftsman, so I wouldn't know," Grone said with a chuckle. "Oh, yeah, I'm here to introduce you to that boy we talked about. This is Tyler. He's the one who wants to be your assistant."
At Grone's words, Hector walked around the counter, hand resting thoughtfully on his chin. He studied Tyler intently, his gaze sweeping over his physique, circling him slowly as if assessing his capabilities. Finally, he said, "Can you lift your arm for ?" Tyler obeyed.
"All right, put them down," Hector said, and Tyler lowered his arms. Hector looked him over again, then shook his head. "Yeah, sorry, but this isn't going to work."
Grone looked surprised. "What? What are you talking about?"
A wave of nervousness washed over Tyler. He knew he wasn't exactly physically imposing. He wasn't thin, but he certainly wasn't ripped either. He'd always been a bit chubby before he started taking on those hard jobs, and while the work had toned him up, it hadn't exactly sculpted him into a paragon of physical fitness.
Tyler's mind raced. Was this it? Was his physical appearance the reason? He didn't consider himself unlucky, per se; he just felt he had no luck at all. Then, Hector surprised him. "Um, I don't know," Hector said, "The kid kind of looks stupid."
Grone said, "What do you an?"
Hector replied, "Yeah, look at him. He doesn't look bright at all. His face kind of looks like Jim's."
Tyler felt a strange mix of offense and relief. Grone, however, seed to have a different perspective.
"Just give him a chance," Grone said. "He's just starting; he's never really worked for a craftsman before."
Hector looked Tyler over again, then shrugged. "Alright," he conceded. "Okay, can you start today?"
Grone turned to Tyler. "Can you?"
"Yeah, I can start today," Tyler replied.
"Okay, co with ," Hector said. "And, Grone, it was great seeing you."
"Yeah," Grone replied. "Take care of him for ." Then he left.
"Okay, kid, let's head out the back," Hector said, gesturing towards a door tucked into the corner beside the counter. He opened it and stepped through, Tyler following close behind. Tyler gasped. The back room was a stark contrast to the relatively tidy shop front. The floor was rough-hewn earth, packed hard but still uneven underfoot. The air hung thick with the sll of coal smoke and hot tal, the heat radiating from a massive furnace dominating one side of the room. Anvil stands, so worn smooth with years of use, others newer and gleaming, were scattered around the space. Half-finished swords, gleaming and dull, lay on nearby workbenches, interspersed with hamrs of various sizes, tongs, and other tools of the trade. The walls were blackened with soot, a testant to years of forging. It was a chaotic yet strangely organized space, a forge in its truest, most elental form.
By the door, a wooden bucket overflowed with rusted tal scraps, a mix of tals including what looked like zinc. "Oh yeah," Hector said, "Can you throw those out for ? They're no good anymore. Just toss them out the back; you'll see a hole in the ground. Throw them in there with the rest."
"Oh," Tyler replied.
"Harry," Hector began, then corrected himself, "Tyler, I'm about to teach you how to help craft," Hector said.
Tyler took the bucket and went through the back door. Behind the shop, there were no cobblestones; just bare earth. He could see other houses in the distance, but the imdiate area was simply ground, and a sizable pit filled with discarded tal scraps. The system notification appeared again: tal Scraps.
A mory surfaced: he'd once used scrap tal found in the forest to craft a rusty blade. If he was right, he could do the sa with these. He considered selecting so unrusted pieces and adding them to his inventory. A thrill of excitent shot through him. He tossed the remaining scraps into the pit and returned to the forge, where he found Hector shirtless, his physique surprisingly ripped, a large X-shaped scar prominent across his chest. "Hurry up, kid," Hector called out impatiently.
"Alright, kid," Hector said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. "First day, you don't need to help yet. Just watch. Pay attention." He gestured towards a length of steel, already roughly shaped but far from finished. "This is going to be a longsword. See how it's already been drawn out? That's the first step, getting the basic shape. Now, we need to refine it."
Hector hefted the steel to the furnace, the orange glow reflecting in his intense eyes. He shoved it deep into the heart of the fire, the tal hissing as it t the intense heat. The air filled with the roar of the flas and the clang of the bellows as Hector worked the fire, coaxing the heat to exactly the right level. He checked the steel with practiced ease, using tongs to pull it from the fire, the tal glowing a bright cherry red. He placed it on the anvil with a heavy *thunk*, the sound echoing in the small forge.
Then ca the rhythmic clang of hamr against steel. Each strike was precise, powerful, and controlled. Sparks flew, showering the air with incandescent motes. Hector worked with a focused intensity, his muscles bunching and relaxing with each swing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breathing grew heavier, but his movents never faltered. He turned the steel, shaping it, refining it, inch by inch. The rhythmic clang was hypnotic, a steady beat against the backdrop of the furnace's roar.
Tyler watched, fascinated. He'd never seen such skill, such precision, such raw power channeled into such a delicate task. It wasn't just brute force; it was artistry. He saw the way Hector's eyes never left the steel, the way his body moved with an almost intuitive grace. This wasn't just work; it was a dance, a conversation between man and tal. Finally, Hector pulled the glowing steel from the anvil. He plunged it into a trough of water with a hiss of steam, the tal singing as it cooled. The process was repeated several tis, each ti refining the shape and temper of the blade. Tyler was completely captivated.
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