Chapter 92 – A Guard's Work is Never Done
It had been a week of travel, and every day followed the same routine. Reyn would drag us into some city or town, strutting around like an eccentric noble while disguised as an old man, and judge whether the locals were "worthy" of one of his flashy weapon trials.
Most of the time, the answer was no. He'd squint at the kids training in the yard, mutter something like, "Not enough grit," and move on. Some nights, he didn't even bother sleeping—just locked himself inside his vault of divine artifacts, scribbling schematics and hammering away like a madman.
Kael didn't complain—much. Reyn paid him well enough to keep his stomach full and his pockets heavy. But that didn't mean he understood the man. Who else carried half a city's worth of weapons in a pocket, yet still tinkered like some restless craftsman who couldn't sit still?
Now we were one day away from Vice Count Magnum's territory and the city of Viremont. The Vice Count was also Reyn's friend Alistor's father, and his city was known for business and entertainment. I figured we'd finally get a break from this madness.
Of course, Reyn had other ideas.
He wanted to make "one last stop."
Since there was nowhere outside to hide it, Reyn simply marched his so-called moving forge straight up to the gates of the nearest city. Its massive legs kicked up dirt like a drunken giant on parade.
The guards froze.
People in line dropped their goods.
A merchant nearly face-planted into his apples.
"What in the Emperor's name is THAT!?" one guard shouted, stumbling back.
"A building—no, it's walking!" another cried.
"Forget the building, it's got… six legs!"
Reyn, wrapped in his old-man illusion, hobbled forward like everything was perfectly normal. He waved his credentials at the guards as casually as a traveling merchant, as if the hulking workshop behind him wasn't the most absurd sight they'd ever seen.
"Just a shop," Reyn grunted in his gravelly fake voice. "Don't mind the legs. She's… temperamental."
"Temperamental!?" a farmer barked. "That thing nearly crushed my cart!"
The guards exchanged uneasy looks. Finally, one muttered, "…The paperwork checks out. Gods help us."
Once inside, Reyn parked the forge in an open lot. The entire city gathered to gawk like it was a festival. Reyn turned to us.
"All right, Kael—you're on guard duty. Scare off anyone stupid enough to try something. Liora, you're at the counter. We'll just be selling small stuff today."
Small stuff.
Kael snorted. Apparently, that meant cooking knives, pots, pans, and cutlery… all forged from ores and alloys kingdoms would bankrupt themselves over just to craft a single weapon.
Then Reyn slipped out to scout the city for promising youths.
Kael leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, lion tail lazily flicking. Liora stood behind the counter with her polite smile ready.
At first, people came in out of curiosity. Then the disbelief began.
"Pots? …That's starmetal?!"
"That'll be five hundred gold coins," Liora answered sweetly.
"F-five hundred—?! For a pot?! That's more than my house!"
"Ten gold… for a frying pan?!"
A burly adventurer picked up a knife. "This thing's sharper than my sword! You could gut a wyvern with it. But… for cooking?"
Another froze at the sight of an adamantite skillet. "Why… why would anyone waste the kingdom's rarest ore on a pan?"
A noblewoman whispered to her maid, "Who in their right mind forges pots from skysteel?"
Kael stifled a laugh. Reyn, that's who. Bastard had no concept of normal.
Some adventurers wandered in hoping for weapons, but Kael sized them up instantly. Weak stances. Mediocre auras. "Hmph," he muttered. "Half these guys wouldn't last a bar brawl, let alone wield Reyn's steel."
Still, the absurd cookware dazzled the crowd. More than once, Kael had to slam a clawed fist on the counter to silence hagglers or loud complainers. That usually ended the discussion.
Hours passed, the rhythm repeating: wide eyes, disbelief, retreat.
Until someone different entered.
A young man stepped inside—calm, quiet, gaze steady. He didn't rush toward the weapons, nor gawk at the prices. His eyes lingered on the cooking tools, tracing every line of craftsmanship.
More curious than the boy, though, was the beast at his side. A fat, black dog—or so it appeared. But the way it moved—smooth, deliberate, silent—made Kael's instincts bristle. Its eyes swept the room like it owned the place.
The boy spoke softly, almost to himself:
"Incredible craftsmanship… This should last. Unlike all the others, breaking under my mana after one use."
Kael straightened, hand brushing the grand fist bracelet. Who looks at cookware the way knights look at holy swords?
Finally, the boy said plainly, "I'll take this set."
Liora blinked. "You… do realize the price? The entire set is ten thousand gold."
The boy nodded like it was pocket change. "Fair enough."
He reached into a pouch and laid down glittering stones, each pulsing faintly with inner light.
Magic stones. Fresh, dense, mid-grade—worth at least a hundred gold each.
He stacked them neatly until the full amount sat before Liora.
"Ten thousand," the boy said. "Count them if you wish. Wrap the tools carefully—they'll see much use."
The black dog sat calmly, tongue lolling, eyes sharp.
Liora nearly fumbled, but managed to wrap each item with care. The boy placed them gently into a spatial bag, adjusted the strap, and turned for the door.
Kael called out, "Oi, kid. Before you vanish with half the shop, mind tellin' me your name?"
The boy paused. His tone was flat, but carried a strange weight.
"…Sylas. Sylas Fang."
The black dog gave a low whuff as if confirming the name.
The bell above the door jingled as they left.
And just like that, the shop's atmosphere dimmed. People whispered about the boy and his strange beast. No one else dared to buy a thing.
By evening, when Liora locked up and Kael stretched with a yawn, Reyn returned, disappointed.
"Nothing good today," he sighed. "Couldn't find anyone worth the effort."
Kael smirked. "Well, you missed the highlight, boss. Quiet kid, strange mutt. Dropped ten thousand in magic stones on cooking tools like it was nothing."
"…Cooking tools?" Reyn blinked.
"Didn't even glance at the weapons. Said his name was Sylas Fang."
The surname hit Reyn like a thunderclap. His eyes widened. "Fang…?"
Liora frowned. "What's the matter, Reyn? Why so worked up over a name?"
Reyn's voice carried awe.
"Don't you remember the story my mother told us? About the Fang family. Born from the love of a mortal and the God of Cooking at the dawn of life. Each generation, only one child inherits their secret techniques. They travel the world, selling food, honing their craft… destined to surpass even the god of cooking himself.
"And their dishes… their dishes were said to be miracles. Meals that could enhance growth, permanently double strength, heal any wound or illness. Their wines so fragrant, the aroma carried for miles, enthralling all who breathed it."
Kael scratched his chin. "I've heard that too. My brother swore that during the Great War, a Fang child cooked a meal so irresistible that a hellhound rivaling Fenrir itself switched sides and fought for us. Not chained, not bound—won over by flavor."
Liora gasped. "Then that black dog with him today—?"
Kael gave a slow nod. "Could be. That wasn't just some mutt. History might be walking among us again."
Reyn's chest tightened, excitement flickering in his eyes.
That night, lying in his room, he stared at the ceiling. Sylas Fang… This reminds me of a story I read in my past life.
If the legends were true, he had to find the boy again. And when he did… Reyn would forge what was worthy of him.
The Golden Dragon Bone Kitchen Knife.
The Black Turtle Constellation Wok.
The White Tiger Heaven Stove.
The Phoenix Chef Robe.
The Purple Qilin Ladle.
A grin spread across his face as plans for the impossible began to form.