Eager to finally see the result, I reach out to check the System message, when I hear it.
A groan.
Wood creaking.
The old chair shifting.
"...Did I fall asleep?"
Erob's voice is low, gravelly, still thick with half-dreams. I turn, and there he is, blinking blearily, scratching his beard, staring at me like he's not sure if I'm real or just the result of a particularly vivid dream involving fatherhood.
"You didn't burn the place down," he says after a moment. "That's… surprising."
"Good morning to you too," I mutter, exhausted.
He stretches, groans again, then stands and walks over to the workbench. His eyes fall on the sword.
He pauses.
Doesn't say anything right away.
He just… looks.
Picks it up, tests the grip, checks the weight with a flick of the wrist, holds it up to the light.
Then: a slow nod.
"This is yours?" he asks.
"No," I say. "A traveling god of metallurgy borrowed my hands for the night."
He doesn't laugh, but his lips twitch. Almost.
"You used the Arwintar bar."
"Yes, and thanks again. What do you think?"
"You cleaned up."
"Sure... I meant the sword, though."
Erob steps forward and picks up the sword without a word. He turns it in his hands, his expression unreadable.
"You got the temper right. Edge is clean. Tang's tight. Grip's solid. Even the wrap's clean. You used the boar leather?"
Then he hands it back to me. I take it carefully, almost reverently. The weight is familiar now. Real. Mine.
"Yeah."
"Smart. That hide was a pain to tan."
A pause. Then:
"You know, when I was your age, I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps too... as a blacksmith. It started as a job, but somewhere along the way, I realized I loved it. The craft. The creation. Watching raw metal become something alive. And you? You've done good work. You've got the hands and the heart for it. You could be a real smith."
"I am a real smith," I shoot back. His eyes light up, there's pride there, unmistakable, but then I say, "I just don't want to be only that." And the spark vanishes like it was never there.
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then he sets the sword down gently.
"You made a sword," he says. "Not a toy. Not some training stick. A real sword. And with it, you can hurt someone. So don't be reckless. Promise me you'll only use it if you have to, only to protect, never to harm."
"Yeah," I say softly, staring at it. "I promise."
"Alright. Go sleep before you pass out and fall on it. I don't want to have to pry you off your own blade."
"But I-"
"Nope. Not arguing. That's an order."
And just like that, I'm six years old again, being sent to bed with soot in my hair and pride in my chest.
I stumble back inside, limbs aching, eyelids half-shut. I strip down, splash my face and arms with icy well water, and scrub myself with a rough cloth until my skin stings. It's the closest thing this world has to a bath and right now, I'd kill for a real shower. I throw on something dry, groan, and collapse onto the bed before the cold can sink in.
[Ding]
Oh... right. Sorry, System. You don't like being ignored, huh? Kind of hypocritical, really, considering you ignore me half the time. This is karma, isn't it?
Still, every time I hear a "Ding," a small part of my heart lights up. I know we don't get along, System, but... thanks. I guess.
The interface floats above me, dim and polite, like a waiter who's been watching me eat for two hours and just now decides to hand me the check.
I focus on the message.
[Class conditions met. Would you like to acquire the Common Class: Blacksmith?]
I stare.
Unblinking.
No.
No.
NO.
Blacksmith?
That's it? That's all I get? I was expecting something cool. Something worthy.
I spend the whole night crafting something from raw ore, pouring in blood and sweat.
I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or punch the System interface in the teeth.
I bury my face in the pillow and scream. Not loudly. Just one of those silent, existential baby goat screams that echoes only inside your own skull.
Come to think of it... that notification hadn't shown up before. Maybe all it took was creating something from scratch. Great. That's all it needed. I hate how this works. Couldn't you have given me something... cooler? Just once?
What's next?
[Common Class: Woodchopper] for sharpening a stick?
[Common Class: Dish Washer] because I wash a bowl?
This is a joke.
This has to be a joke.
And yet… the notification doesn't vanish. It just floats there. Passive-aggressive. Waiting.
Mocking me.
I sigh.
Deeply.
Painfully.
And I tap.
[Decline]
And of course the window disappears. That, at least, it does flawlessly.
Now, I sleep.
I feel more tired because of the System than from forging all night.
The next day, I wake up late... way later than I should have.
That should've been my first warning.
The second is the feeling of someone crashing down beside me like a sack of smug potatoes.
"Hey Lucy," Tina whispers, far too close, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "Lunch is ready."
I jolt so hard I nearly roll off the bed. My brain crashes. My soul crashes. My spine tries to eject from my body.
Tina has absolutely zero concept of personal space. She's lying next to me like we're siblings in a festival storybook. Smiling.
Evil.
"Wh-why are you, what are you doing?!" I manage, voice cracking like cheap porcelain.
"Waking you up. Sofia said I should make sure you're not dead."
"By sleeping next to me?"
"I wasn't sleeping," she says sweetly. "I was just... supervising."
I groan. Loudly. "I hate everything."
"Not lunch, I hope," she adds, hopping off the bed with way too much energy for a human child.
I drag myself up, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and ignore the smirk she throws over her shoulder as she heads to the kitchen.
I step into the kitchen, still groggy, only to be greeted by a wooden spoon waving in my direction.
"Lucien!" my mother scolds, hands on her hips. "You worked the whole night? Without sleeping? Do you think you're made of stone?"
I blink. Once. Twice. "Technically I-"
"No backtalk! Your father told me you'd be working late, not all night. And yes, he said what you made was impressive. But still, next time you tell someone before deciding sleep is optional, understood??"
"Yes, Mom."
She sighs, turns back to the stew, and mutters something about children and iron brains.
As I reach for the bread, I glance across the room and there he is.
Erob. Sitting at the table, a half-empty mug of milk in front of him, his face drawn with exhaustion but calm.
We just look at each other.
I grab a piece of bread, nod respectfully at the pot, and escape before she remembers I haven't done any chores this morning.
I rush to the forge, grab my sword, and let out a quiet, manic chuckle. "Hehehe... I think I'm actually happy" I whisper to no one, like some kind of soot-covered lunatic finally reunited with his true love.
I grab my sword.
My sword.
And head outside.
The forge yard is quiet. The air carries the scent of pine and recent rain. I wrap my fingers around the grip and squeeze, firm, steady, satisfying. It's like that feeling when you buy your first car and take it for a spin.
This time, I train with a real weapon.
The blade whistles through the air, clean, sharp, alive. I move through the drills slower, more deliberate. Each swing a message.
My mind starts to drift, slipping into a mess of half-formed thoughts.
Of course, Tina appears.
"Hey," she says, watching me from under the ash tree. "What's its name?"
I pause.
Then glance at her. What name could I even give it? It's not some legendary weapon forged to last a thousand years... and yet...
"You already gave it one, remember?" I say with a grin.
She blinks. Then smiles.
"…Flame Fang?"
I nod.
"Perfect," she says. "Try not to cut your foot off, Lucy."
"Thanks for the confidence."
She sits down cross-legged in the grass and opens her magic notes, flipping through them with practiced ease as I return to my stance, blade steady in my hands.
And for the first time in a while… it feels like everything's in the right place.