The night was thick—like the leg hair of a saint who betrayed her kingdom for a fleeting thrill.
No light, no moon, only the breath of the wind chewing the alleys like a stray dog looking for a story to die in.
Eiron stood before the shop door—or what remained of it.
Wood gnawed as if the earth itself had grown tired of its existence, and a tilted brass plate, letters eroded, shyly declared:
"Old Mork's Smithy – Weapons for men who don't live long."
He read it silently. Then smiled like a man who found his own obituary printed on a wedding invitation.
One knock.
Then another.
And just as he raised his fist for the third—
The doors exploded.
No, they didn't open… they exploded—like the memories of abuse erupting in the mind of a regretful nun.
A short arrow burst forth as if the devil himself had fired it—zipping a finger's width from his right testicle, leaving behind a shiver in his spine that had nothing to do with dignity.
"Damn you! I almost gelded you, you sewer rat!"
The voice came from inside—rough, cracked, like someone had used his throat as a strainer for molten piss.
Then the dwarf appeared.
Short, yes—but not the cute or cartoonish kind.
No magic mushrooms. No fairy tales.
He looked like a severed part of a man, reforged in a furnace of hatred, then forgotten there.
Bald, save for a short, rough gray beard that looked like someone had scraped their ass with it after a battle.
His skin was dark and cracked, covered in black-gray splotches like burn marks that never got an apology.
His left eye was covered with a leather patch—probably made from a dead beast's backside. And the other eye?
It glimmered with suspicion, and murder, and nights where the light isn't turned off until someone dies.
He wore a half-open leather apron, revealing a chest covered in scars—not battle scars, but the kind you get on nights when you say "yes" to things you never should.
His left leg?
Rusty metal, giving off a sound with each step—like the sigh of an old dog no one's petted in twenty years.
In his hand, a tightly drawn shortbow—crafted with care, but lacking beauty. It had one purpose: quick death.
A long knife hung from his side—long enough to make Eiron's testicles hold an emergency meeting.
Eiron didn't move.
It was the first dwarf he'd ever seen. And he'd have preferred it stayed theoretical.
Didn't look like the stories. Didn't sound like the songs. Didn't resemble anything but…
A small man born from the womb of a historical mistake.
"If you're not a thief, then you're a fool… Either way, you're not welcome."
Then he spat.
A dark, thick glob that hit the ground slowly, like it carried the remains of a life no longer useful.
Eiron raised his hands slowly—not out of fear, but in respect for the madness before him.
"I came to ask for a weapon."
"Shut your mouth before I fill it with molten kryos... I don't sell at this hour, and I don't sell to men wearing shiny shoes after midnight. That's a sign you're either insane… or rich enough to be suspicious."
Eiron lowered his hands, his voice coming out like a man who survived seven spiritual rape attempts.
"I'm looking for a sword."
He said it in a calm, steady tone—like a scream from a holy book forgotten in a public toilet.
"Everyone wants swords!"
The dwarf growled, pacing like regret inside the heart of a retired killer.
"Everyone wants to slice! To cleave! To prove! What? Their manhood? Their worth? Their spiritual height? Damn you all… You die using tools you never learned to love."
Then he stopped.
Because Eiron said it.
The word.
The name.
The lust-cursed, blood-sealed name.
"The Black Gilos."
The air itself changed.
Not a metaphor. Literally.
As if the night gasped, the shadows shivered, and forgetfulness withdrew for a moment.
The dwarf didn't move… but he was no longer the same.
His spine curled, then straightened—as if a ghost inside him had stirred.
His gaze transformed. No longer watching… now burning.
"What did you say?"
His voice came out weaker, more painful—like someone recalling a bullet they didn't fire when they should have.
"The Black Gilos sword."
Eiron repeated, eyes dead from exhaustion, tongue fluent in reciting sins the way others recite the names of whores.
A moment of silence.
Then a step.
Then another.
The dwarf approached. Slowly.
The sound of his metal leg screamed like a war memory that never ended.
Then he asked, in a voice not his own.
A voice that came from a deep well inside him… something drowned, then returned.
"Why… do you want it?"
His one eye widened. Then shrank.
Wavered between anger, pleading, and an unexplainable fear.
Then, more importantly…
"First… how do you even know about that weapon?"
At that moment, Eiron didn't answer directly.
He reached toward his testicle, gently checking if it was still intact, then said:
"You won't believe me… Hell, if I were in your place, I'd spit in my face for saying this crap."
His gaze was tired, but his tone remained sarcastic, insolent—like every word had been slapped around inside his skull first.
"But since you fired an arrow at my balls without even asking questions, let's finish what we started—with filthy honesty."
He inhaled, as if preparing to confess a sin he never truly believed in:
"I'm not from this world."
He raised a finger, preemptively stopping interruption.
"No, I'm not a demon. Not a monster's son—though I did crawl out of one's belly last week."
He cleared his throat, added mockingly:
"Ask the smell if you want."
The dwarf stayed silent. But he didn't shoot—and that was encouraging.
"What I mean is… I have something called the Supreme Desire. A system. Like games… You know them? Video games? RPGs? Don't know if you've heard of them, Master Dwarf, but in my world humans waste years killing monsters to get rare socks."
He stepped closer.
"This system asked me for a sword. Not just any sword. But… The Black Gilos."
Then lowered his voice, like he was speaking a name forbidden by air itself.
He gripped his testicle again, squeezing gently—like a man who knows pain:
"And if I don't get it…
I'll be punished.
A painful punishment, my friend… like someone jamming a wooden spoon into your honor."
The dwarf was silent for a few seconds. His one eye stared at Eiron, as if trying to read whether this was madness… or truth.
Then he said, quietly—but loaded:
"I don't know what this crap is you're vomiting… System? Games? A penalized testicle?"
He breathed slowly, weighing options.
"But what I do know… is that you carry the scent of something dangerous. Something that shouldn't be here."
He turned slowly, pointing toward the door:
"Leave.
You… and your ghoul's stink."
Eiron raised his eyebrows, stunned—as if someone opened a classified file in his face.
"Wait… how did you know?"
The dwarf didn't smile, didn't scoff—just said coldly:
"I'm a dwarf, you idiot. My sense of smell is stronger than the honor of a treacherous queen.
Your scent says you screwed something that shouldn't be screwed. Or tried to… doesn't matter."
He paused, spat again, and said without looking back:
"The kingdom is hunting that ghoul.
There's a reward for her capture… and punishment for anyone hiding her.
Your presence here, with that smell, will bring enough trouble to shut this place forever."
He raised his bow again. Slowly… drew the arrow. But this time—not just as a threat.
"The next arrow… won't miss your testicle."
He nodded precisely at Eiron's crotch.
"It'll pierce through it."
Eiron didn't move. Stood still, staring at the drawn arrow like he was daring fate.
Then opened his mouth, speaking calmly:
"Wait, just a minute… Just hear me—"
The dwarf cut him off, his voice dry as a gravestone:
"No.
Enough nonsense.
Go tell your system that the dick it'll lose isn't worth more than my head if the kingdom finds out you were here.
Move, before I make you sing in a higher pitch."
Eiron stayed a moment, staring…
Then suddenly, without warning—he knelt.
Kneeled.
To the damp ground reeking of iron and old blood.
He raised his hands like praying to a broken idol, and said:
"I'll do anything… you hear me? Anything! Just… just give me that damned sword!"
His voice cracked—not from truth, but from practiced deceit.
From the masterful acting of someone like him, the way mercenaries draw swords.
"It's not madness! Not just a bloodlust or compensation for a missing manhood!
This isn't only for me…"
He paused, then whispered—carefully calculated:
"…It's for Zarah."
He turned, eyes watery—faked.
Voice trembling—acted.
"They all think she's just a slave… just a whore gifted to the king…
But they don't know the truth.
She wasn't a sex slave, she was… part of a rite. A red, terrifying rite.
If I fail my mission… if I don't get that sword, it's not just the kingdom at risk…"
He lowered his head, murmured:
"…the whole world might fall."
He knew half of what he said was a lie.
The other half? Exaggeration.
But if there's one thing Eiron was good at—it's blending lies so well the truth seems insignificant.
The dwarf didn't move.
Stood silent, frozen, like ancient winds passed through him.
Clearly weighing something heavier than words.
Then, after a long silence…
He said, without changing his dry tone:
"Hmm…"
He lowered the bow. Slowly. Like forcing something inside himself to back down.
Then looked at Eiron with that one eye—no longer cold, nor burning… just tired.
"You'll do anything?"