Inside the blacksmith's workshop, the sound of hammers and fire usually filled the air. That day, however, the furnace burned quietly, the only sound being the heated argument between a master and his apprentice.
"Oi, Vale. From today onward, you are dismissed," said the dwarf, his voice stern, though his eyes betrayed hesitation.
Vale Adam, the apprentice, froze mid-slurp. He had been enjoying a rare delicacy from the eastern continent, long strands of flour dough boiled in broth, something the locals called "noodles." He still held his chopsticks in midair, broth dripping back into the bowl, as his green eyes widened in disbelief.
"What do you mean dismissed?!" he shouted, bits of broth clinging to his handsome face. He quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of sauce across his cheeks. "I still have so much to learn from you!"
The dwarf, a stout figure with half his head bald like a scholar gone mad, carried the dignity of both age and craftsmanship. His thick mustache and braided beard framed his wrinkled face, and though he stood only chest-high to Vale, his presence filled the entire forge.
"There is nothing left I can teach you," the dwarf said. His gravelly voice softened, though the weight of the words pressed heavily on the apprentice's heart. "The swords you forge already surpass the blades of my own making."
He let out a long sigh and looked directly into Vale's eyes, as if forcing himself to cut through his own reluctance. "From this day forth, you will no longer work here. Vale Adam, you must walk your own path."
The young blacksmith's heart pounded violently, like a hammer striking an anvil far too fast. The words pierced him deeper than steel could ever cut. His throat tightened, and the world around him seemed to blur.
"No… impossible," he whispered hoarsely. "If I am not your apprentice, then who am I? Where do I go?" His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the table. "Every time I forge a sword, I feel it is never enough. Not yet perfect. Not even close…"
The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Then tell me, Vale. What is perfection to you?"
The question hung in the air like smoke, choking him. Vale opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. He realized he did not know. He had chased the idea of perfection his entire life, yet he had never once defined it.
For twelve years, he had lived here. He had grown from a boy into a man under the hammer and anvil of this very workshop. This forge was his home, his world, his only place of belonging. If he left now, where could he possibly go?
But deep inside, Vale knew his master was right. If he stayed, he would remain trapped in this quiet farming village, surrounded by fields of golden wheat, never once stepping beyond.
Finally, he exhaled. His shoulders sagged, but his eyes hardened with resolve. "Very well… I will go."
He stood, wiping the broth and tears from his cheeks, then began gathering his belongings. A hammer, his tools, some rations, a set of spare clothes. And most importantly, he dragged with him the heavy anvil that had been his companion through countless days and nights of forging.
"Oi! That's my anvil!" the dwarf barked, stamping his foot.
"I do not care, you stubborn old man!" Vale shouted back, hauling the massive weight onto his back. "I will not miss you, not one bit! Farewell!"
"Foolish apprentice! I will not miss you either!" the dwarf growled, his face turning red as the forge fire.
They turned away from each other, both pretending to be angry. Yet neither could stop the tears that welled in their eyes. The forge, usually so warm, now felt unbearably empty.
Vale stepped into the road beyond the village, his bundle tied in cloth, his hammer at his belt, and the anvil strapped to his back despite its crushing weight. His legs ached with every step, yet he refused to falter.
"You will see, Master," he whispered to the wind. "One day, I will return with a name so great that the whole world will know it. I swear it."
The path before him stretched into uncertainty. He did not know where he was heading, nor how long the journey would take. Yet Vale Adam walked with conviction, carrying his oath and his anvil.
The master dwarf simply snorted, wiping away the tear that had traced a path through the soot on his cheek. "Hmph, then come back when it happens," he muttered under his breath, his words a gruff echo of his apprentice's vow.
The other workers in the shop, all burly dwarves with beards as thick as Vale's hair, glanced at him from their stations. One of them, a blacksmith with a scarred eyebrow, lowered his hammer. "You're too cruel, old man," he said, his voice flat.
Another dwarf chimed in, "Yeah, you know that boy can't tell north from south, don't you?"
The old master froze, his expression slowly changing from stubborn resolve to sheer panic. They were right. Vale Adam… he always forgot to bring a compass and had no sense of direction. He could get lost walking in a straight line.
"VALE...!!! GET BACK HERE RIG--" he began to shout, whirling around.
But the young man with the red hair was already gone, vanished into the village street. The master's cry hung in the air, unanswered.
The other workers just watched him, then, with a shake of their heads, returned to their work, the rhythmic clang of their hammers resuming.
"You're a cruel master," one of them said without looking up from his anvil.
"You even drove him out in the middle of summer, without a map," another added, the quiet accusation hanging in the air.
The old dwarf stood there, his face ashen, mouth agape as if his soul had just been sucked out of him. He looked like a statue of regret, frozen in the spot where his apprentice had just been.
Perhaps he would regret his decision today, or… perhaps not?
Only fate would tell.
And so began the journey of a blacksmith who sought not just to forge swords, but to forge the very meaning of perfection itself.