Clank! Clank! Clank!
The sharp rhythm of tal striking tal rang down the cobblestone street, a lody of labor and fla.
Each strike sent sparks leaping through the dim workshop like fireflies escaping from a dream. The scent of burnt coal, hot iron, and sweat drifted out to where Auren stood, hands in his pockets, watching the glow of the forge flicker against the blacksmith’s walls.
Inside, the craftsman moved with chanical precision, each swing of his hamr smooth yet forceful, like a man who had been born and raised beside molten steel.
"Are you perhaps the famous Herbon, the new mber of the Blue Bound?" the blacksmith asked suddenly, his deep voice rumbling through the clangs as he caught sight of Auren from the corner of his eye.
Auren blinked, caught off guard.
’Is he talking to ?’
Behind him, the town bustled with life—the neighs of horses, the chatter of rchants, the laughter of children darting between crates and wagons. The sound of living civilization wrapped around the forge’s steady rhythm.
"I don’t expect to be that famous even here," Auren said with a faint grin. "But yes, that’s ."
The blacksmith’s stern expression softened into a welcoming smile.
"Well then, welco to my shop! What can I do for you today, freshman of the Blue Bound?"
The man stepped closer, wiping his brow with a soot-stained cloth.
His arms were thick and bronzed, muscles corded from decades of hamring fire into form. A trimd black beard covered his jaw, and a faintly glowing tal monocle sat embedded on one side of his face, clicking softly as he adjusted it to examine his work.
His workshop was a forge of wonders. Half-finished blades and spears leaned against the walls, while sturdy shields hung beside tools and tongs, all neatly arranged despite the chaos of sparks and heat.
Even the farming tools—hoes, pickaxes, scythes—looked crafted for battle rather than soil.
Auren’s gaze drifted to the man’s calloused hands. The thick scars told stories—burns healed over years, cuts sealed by grit and will.
He didn’t need to guess the man’s experience; his Divine Fra shimred faintly beside him, revealing the truth.
*
Na: VuerkelLevel: 44Class: BlacksmithTitle: Expert tal Crafter*
Auren nodded to himself.
He is definitely the right man for the job.
"I wanted you to check on sothing," Auren said, activating his storage ring and pulled out his broken Divine Rapier. "And see if there’s anything you can do for it."
He laid two broken halves of his Divine Rapier onto the table. The elegant weapon, once gleaming with light and power, now sat dull and lifeless, the runes across its length fractured like broken veins.
The hamr in Vuerkel’s hand dropped onto the table with a heavy thud. His eyes widened so much Auren thought they might fall out.
"Holy mother of tals!" he gasped. "Is... is this what I think it is?"
He snatched the blade pieces, his hands trembling as he brought them beneath the light of the forge. The monocle whirred, zooming in as he squinted through it.
"This texture... these veins... the grain of the steel... by the forge’s fla, there’s no mistaking it!"
His voice quivered in awe.
"This is Runesteel! But that’s impossible. This tal only cos from the elven lands of Runewood!"
Auren didn’t answer. He simply smiled and watched the man’s fascination grow.
"Runesteel," Vuerkel muttered again, pacing back and forth.
"One of the three legendary tals known to mankind. And to see it broken like this... it ans sothing even stronger struck it. Bloodbane, maybe? Or—no, no, that wouldn’t be enough either..."
He trailed off, his thoughts spinning like a whetstone before he turned sharply back to Auren. "Tell , is this yours?"
Auren hesitated for a heartbeat. "It’s a gift from soone dear to ," he said, voice even.
"Would you consider selling it?" Vuerkel asked imdiately, his tone respectful now, almost reverent.
"Na your price!"
Auren shook his head.
"Sorry, not this one. It’s... priceless."
The blacksmith sighed, disappointnt clear on his face.
"Figures. But you’re a herbalist, aren’t you? You’re not exactly known for swinging blades. Word around town says you’ve got a fancy weapon that shoots fire instead."
’Wow,’ Auren thought. ’Gossip here travels faster than plague.’
He shrugged with a faint grin.
"What can I say? It’s not a bad thing to learn a few different ways to defend yourself."
"Fair point," Vuerkel said, setting the rapier pieces down with surprising care.
His thick brows furrowed.
"Still... what a sha. I’d give my left arm to lt this down and craft sothing new. Imagine—Runesteel daggers, or even a spear!"
Auren laughed lightly. "You’ll have to live with disappointnt, I’m afraid. Think you can repair it?"
The blacksmith fell silent, his expression tightening as he studied the weapon closely. The forge’s fla crackled beside them, its orange glow dancing across his face.
"I can," he said at last.
"But Runesteel has a hardness scale of nine. That’s nearly impossible to work with. It’ll take at least five days, maybe more."
"Five days, huh? I can manage that," Auren said.
"How much are we talking?"
Vuerkel’s monocle clicked as he leaned closer again, whispering as if speaking to the blade itself.
"The mana channels are carved with remarkable precision. These grooves—they’re designed for perfect energy transference. And these runes..."
He traced the markings with one thick finger.
"Fla affinity. Elegant, powerful, deadly. Whoever forged this was no re craftsman."
Auren smiled, rembering the expert elven blacksmiths back at Runewood.
He exhaled slowly.
"I can fix the blade’s body, but the runes? Those are elven work. I’d risk damaging the enchantnt if I tried to reforge them."
Auren nodded, expression unreadable. "Do what you can, then."
"It won’t be cheap," Vuerkel warned.
"I expected that."
The blacksmith raised three fingers. "Three gold coins."
Before he could blink, three gold coins landed on the counter with a solid clink.
"Here you go."
Vuerkel froze, blinking like a man who’d just seen a miracle. No haggling, no hesitation—just effortless wealth.
’Are herbalist really that rich?’
For a mont, he forgot to breathe.
’Three gold coins,’ he thought, clutching them in disbelief.
’That’s enough for a year’s supply of ore!’
"Ahem," he coughed, pocketing the coins quickly.
"Pleasure doing business with you!"
He cleared his throat again, trying to regain composure.
"Since your sword’s in recovery, do you need a temporary one?"
"Actually, yes," Auren said, turning toward the racks of gleaming steel.
"Show your best."
The blacksmith’s grin widened like a proud father unveiling his masterpiece.
"Be my guest, co on in."
...
A few hours later, Auren was wandering through the market district, the warmth of the forge replaced by the cool breath of twilight. The streets were alive with color and scent—hanging herbs, sizzling at, fragrant oils.
"Good sir! Over here!" shouted a rchant, waving a bundle of green roots. "
You look like a man who appreciates fine ingredients! Fresh Blood Boons, Mana Seeds, Fairy Tooth Flowers—all harvested this morning!"
"Don’t listen to him!" another cried out. "Talsay Roots! Grunting Peanuts! Perfect for stamina and mana recovery! Extrely rare nowadays!"
"Blood Boons! Just a copper each!" yelled a third, his voice cracking as he tried to out-shout his neighbors.
Auren chuckled under his breath, brushing aside his hair as his eyes darted from one stall to another. The familiar sll of crushed leaves and earthy oils hung thick in the air.
He felt like he’s in his normal elent. Too bad, those are far from being called fresh.
’Not the best quality,’ he thought, examining a wilted bunch of Fairy Tooth flowers, ’but they’ll do for now.’
He haggled lightly, collecting herbs, powders, and a few new glass vials.
Every trade, every clink of coin, added a quiet satisfaction to his day.
The repetition of it all—the buying, the sorting, the quiet care—grounded him. For all his strange fate and broken weapon, monts like this reminded him that he was still human.
By the ti he left the market, the sky had darkened into streaks of violet and rose.
The lanterns flickered to life one by one, painting the streets with warm pools of light. The noise of rchants faded into a soft hum as the night settled in.
"Until Bigbird cos back, I can’t risk traveling to Thaasa," Auren muttered, adjusting his storage ring now full of herbs and materials for his potion supply.
"And honestly, I’m still not convinced this team can handle what’s waiting out there."
His mind wandered briefly to the Primordial Beast he sought—the creature whispered to hold power great enough to shift destiny itself - Druka.
Facing it would require more than raw strength. He’d need allies who could stand firm when the world began to break.
For now, that dream still felt distant, and it is wise to prepare.
By the ti Auren reached the Blue Bound headquarters, the moon hung high above the rooftops.
The guild’s manor lood ahead, its tall banners bearing the image of a eagle with a sword on its hands covered in blue fire.
Warm light poured from its windows, spilling across the cobblestone courtyard where guards stood in formation.
As Auren approached the gate, two armored sentries snapped to attention. The manor’s butler—an elderly man with silver hair and a crisp black uniform—stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Welco back, Lord Herbon," they said in unison.
Auren froze mid-step, blinking.
"Wait... Lord Herbon?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)