Chapter 4

  Two days passed in a blur of metal, heat, and work.

  Elias slipped quickly into a rhythm, taking over more tasks around the smithy than the older craftsman had expected. Morning till late evening, he worked—shaping raw iron into tools, reinforcing pickaxes, hammering out brackets, fittings, hinges. Always pushing, always refining.

  The system was there, humming quietly beneath each strike. He could feel the subtle shifts every time he finished a piece—the way his hands moved just a little cleaner, the way mana responded just a little faster.

  It wasn’t all simple repetition, either.

  Elias made quiet improvements where he could, slipping in Earth-born metallurgy tricks no one here seemed to recognize.

  Instead of basic iron blades prone to chipping, he mixed small amounts of vanadium and nickel into the molten metal when reforging damaged mining picks, creating a crude but highly durable low-alloy steel. For hinges and carriage fittings, he replicated a simple form of manganese steel, increasing toughness without sacrificing too much malleability.

  To the smith, it must’ve looked like magic:

  Sharper edges. Tougher tips. Metal that rang differently when struck, cleaner and higher.

  By the end of the second day, when Elias finished a set of reinforced wagon axles that didn’t bend under load testing, the old smith just stared at him, scratched his beard, and grunted something that sounded suspiciously like admiration.

  He even paid Elias more than the original rate—an extra five bronze slipped into his wages without a word.

  Elias didn’t ask questions. He pocketed the coins with a slight nod and moved on.

  And at the end of that second night, after the last tool was quenched and set to cool, the familiar ripple of the system washed through him once more.

  [Level Up! Level 4 Reached]

  [You have reached Level 5.]

  [Stat Points +3]

  [Skill Selection Available!]

  ?

  He sat back on the bench by the forge, wiping sweat from his forehead with a worn cloth. His body ached—the kind of ache that came from real, honest labor—but under it all, he felt stronger. More grounded. Like the weight of his hammer was becoming a natural extension of himself.

  The system’s window floated in front of him, waiting patiently.

  Two more stat points

  And, more importantly:

  His first skill choice.

  Elias leaned forward slightly, excitement flickering under the exhaustion.

  The interface shimmered softly, shifting from the level-up message to a new list.

  ?

  [Skill Selection – Tier I]

  Select one of the following skills. Choices scale with use and may evolve with mastery.

  ?

  [Quench]

  You may induce a partial quenching effect through direct will, reducing internal stress and improving structure even without liquid. When used with proper quenching material (e.g., water, oil, brine), effectiveness increases significantly.

  [Repetition Memory]

  Your hands remember. Repeating the same crafting process improves efficiency and precision. After three or more identical tasks, gain a temporary increase in speed and stability. Bonus resets when task type changes.

  [Basic Forge Control]

  You gain a subtle awareness of heat flow during forging. Enables better thermal control while heating, hammering, or cooling. Can prevent overheating or structural warping in common metals.

  Elias studied the list.

  Nothing game-breaking. No golden-tier superpowers.

  Just… fundamentals.

  But that was fine. He didn’t need a cheat button. He just needed tools. And these?

  These were the kind of skills a real craftsman could build something on.

  He leaned back slightly, considering. One of them would shape the next leg of his journey. And unlike stats, this choice wasn’t reversible.

  He had to pick right.

  Elias rubbed his fingers together, feeling the slight ache of yesterday’s work still lingering in the joints. That ache helped him think.

  Repetition Memory was useful—especially for mass production. Faster, more stable work the more he repeated a design. Efficient. Profitable. But that wasn’t his goal. Not yet.

  He wasn’t here to churn out swords by the dozen. He was here to experiment, to learn what metals could do in this world. What mana could do to them. He needed flexibility, not routine.

  He dismissed it.

  Basic Forge Control was solid. Predictable. A subtle edge in heat handling could prevent countless small mistakes. Less waste. Less risk. But again—it was the kind of thing he already had a decent grip on. His forge was built for precision, and with his experience, he could already read heat like most men read books.

  It was good. But not necessary.

  That left one.

  Quench.

  It didn’t improve speed. Didn’t let him pull miracles from nothing.

  But it was foundational.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Being able to reinforce structure without a proper quench—especially when dealing with strange alloys or out in the field without full equipment? That could be the difference between success and scrap.

  And with a proper setup, it only got better.

  He gave a small nod.

  That was the kind of skill that scaled with him.

  [Skill Acquired: Quench]

  The words lit up, then faded. In their place, he felt a new, quiet presence in the back of his mind. Not loud. Not dramatic. But steady.

  Like a breath held just beneath the surface.

  He exhaled slowly and stood, brushing his hands against his apron.

  Alright then, he thought. Let’s put it to work.

  “After I assign my points,” he muttered under his breath.

  He pulled up his status again. Two more levels meant two more stat points. He thought for a second, then dropped one into Strength, one into Constitution again. Same logic as before. The work wasn’t getting easier—and if anything, mana-infused metals were testing his limits more with each project.

  The subtle shift in his body followed almost immediately. His arms felt a touch more solid, his breath a little deeper. It wasn’t dramatic, but it stacked. Slowly but surely.

  A gruff voice broke his focus.

  “Oi, Varnen!” the smith called from the front counter. “Come get your pay before I forget again.”

  Elias wiped his hands, unfastened his apron, and stepped over. The smith was sorting through a heavy leather pouch, then tossed over a small bundle wrapped in cloth. It clinked in Elias’s palm with a satisfying heft.

  “Three days of good work,” the man said. “Did better than I expected.”

  “Appreciate it,” Elias said, then paused, weighing the bundle in his hand. “But… I gotta ask. What’s this actually worth?”

  The smith squinted. “You serious?”

  Elias offered a sheepish shrug. “Got separated from the caravan before we hit any of the towns. Handled the forge, not the coin.”

  The smith grunted and leaned back, folding his arms. “Huh. You really are green to the roads, huh?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Alright. Lesson time.” The man grabbed a short iron rod and used it to draw rough shapes in the ash by the forge.

  “There’s four common coins in the kingdom of Lorarra. Copper, silver, electrum, and gold. Standard stuff. A hundred copper makes a silver, ten silver to an electrum, and ten electrum to a gold. Big jobs, noble work, or rare materials? That’s where gold shows up. The rest of us live in copper and silver.”

  Elias nodded slowly. “And the value? Like… what can copper buy?”

  “Depends where you are. Here in Marrow’s Edge, a copper gets you a loaf of bread. Maybe a cheap drink. Three to five’ll get you a hot meal. Ten? That’s a night in a decent inn, with breakfast.”

  He jabbed a thumb to the coin bundle Elias held. “I gave you thirty copper and two silver. That’s more than fair. Covers three days, plus extra for the quality. Most apprentices would’ve gotten half that.”

  Elias raised a brow. “So this town’s not poor, then?”

  “Eh. Border town,” the smith said. “We’re on the northern rim of the Sable Crescent. Trade routes from the south come through here to avoid the mountains. East is all Spine Range—mountainfolk and bandits. West’s the plains. Not much but ruins and monsters that way. But we get enough traffic to stay afloat.”

  Elias tucked the coin pouch into his coat. “Got it. Appreciate the rundown.”

  The smith waved him off. “Spend it smart. And don’t get cocky just ’cause you leveled up a few times. Plenty of young bloods think they’re hot steel after their first evolution.Most end up bent.”

  Elias smirked. “Guess I’ll just have to stay straight, then.”

  The man snorted. “Get back to the bench before I dock your pay.”

  The next few hours passed in a blur of cooling steel and the rhythmic clang of hammer against iron. Elias wrapped up the last of his assigned tasks—a batch of reinforced mining chisels—and neatly arranged them on the finished rack. His body was sore in a satisfying way, and every now and then he caught himself smiling faintly at how natural it all felt. Right work, right place, even if the world around him wasn’t his own.

  As he scrubbed the worst of the soot from his hands and wiped his tools clean, he hesitated.

  It had been three days now.

  Three nights sleeping tucked into the corner of the forge, curled up near the banked coals with his coat for a blanket. Not exactly comfortable, but warm and safe enough. No one had complained yet… but if he was going to stay longer, it was probably time to clear the air.

  He straightened up and approached the smith, who was busy setting a heavy iron kettle onto a side burner.

  “Master Harren,” Elias called out.

  The smith looked over with a grunt. “Yeah?”

  “I wanted to ask.” Elias scratched the back of his head. “Would it be alright if I kept sleeping here? I’m not looking for handouts. I’ll keep the forge clean, and I’ll still work off my rent if it comes to that.”

  Harren stared at him for a long second. Then longer.

  “…You mean you’re not staying at an inn?” the older man said, incredulous.

  Elias shrugged. “Didn’t really seem necessary. The forge is warm, dry, and there’s space. I’m used to roughing it.”

  Harren blinked at him like he’d grown a second head. Then let out a loud, short laugh, shaking his head.

  “By the Sundered Nails, boy. Most greenhands blow their first silver on drink and soft beds. And here you are, sleeping in the ash like a half-tamed stray dog.”

  Elias gave a sheepish grin. “Well, the way I see it, if I save my coin, I can buy better tools. Better materials. That’s what matters.”

  The smith’s amused snort turned into a more approving grunt. He scratched at his beard thoughtfully.

  “Fine by me,” Harren said finally. “You’re pulling your weight. And honestly, if you’re half as serious about the craft as you sound, I’d rather have you close to the forge than wandering drunk through town.”

  He pointed a thick finger at Elias.

  “But. You keep it clean. No sleeping past sunrise. And if you mess up my inventory or spill something important, you’ll be out on your ass. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Elias said without hesitation.

  Harren gave a final nod and turned back to his kettle, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “damned mad apprentice…”

  Elias couldn’t help but smile.

  It wasn’t much. But for now?

  It was home.

  ______

  Later that evening, once Harren had retired to his small loft above the shop, Elias quietly sorted through the scrap pile the smith had pointed him toward. Bent nails, twisted rods, cracked fittings, warped tool heads — junk to most eyes, but to Elias, it was potential.

  He set up his small section of the forge, kindling a low, steady flame, and selected a handful of the better pieces. Tonight wasn’t about artistry. It was about practice — and experimentation.

  He started simple. First, breaking down the scrap into usable pieces.

  Heating, hammering, folding — the familiar rhythm settling into his bones like an old dance.

  He cleaned the worst impurities out with [Alloyweaver], forming the scraps into a few rough but serviceable iron ingots.

  The system acknowledged his work with a faint ping each time, but nothing dramatic. These were just practice runs, after all.

  Once he had a neat stack of ingots cooling to one side, he decided to push further.

  Let’s see what this Quench can really do.

  He took a basic blade blank he’d drawn out — a simple dagger, no frills — and heated it back to a dull orange glow. As he worked, he activated [Quench] for the first time.

  There was no dramatic flash or roaring surge of mana.

  Just a tightening — a coiling of focus in his hands and mind.

  The metal responded, the structure settling faster than usual, the grain tightening even without him dunking it in water.

  Elias studied the results critically after a few test strikes.

  Better than an unquenched blade — definitely tougher, less brittle — but… not quite what it could be. A little too much internal stress still lingered.

  Alright. Let’s try it the proper way.

  He heated the second dagger blank, once again activating [Quench], but this time, he plunged the glowing metal into a quenching barrel of water nearby.

  The difference was immediate.

  The blade hissed, steam billowed, and the mana-infused iron practically sang in his senses — settling into a far denser, more cohesive structure than normal.

  When he withdrew it, cooled and blackened, Elias ran a thumb carefully along the spine.

  Stronger. Cleaner. Sharper.

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Without liquid, [Quench] gave him a useful edge when he didn’t have the time or resources to cool the metal properly — like out in the field or working with tricky alloys.

  But with liquid…

  It pushed his work a full step higher than before.

  Exactly the kind of foundation he needed.

  He spent the next few hours alternating between forging rough blades and reforging scrap, familiarizing himself with the fine control the new skill offered. Sometimes he used the quenching barrel, sometimes he didn’t — testing the difference, feeling out the boundaries.

  The forge fire crackled and roared, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and Elias, deep in the rhythm of creation, lost track of the hours.

  Piece by piece, mistake by mistake, he was rebuilding himself.

  ______

  The forge was empty.

  And a little too quiet.

  He’d never minded the solitude before. Preferred it, really. But tonight, he caught himself wondering how late Harren usually came in. Not because he missed the man’s company—but because… maybe it was nice having someone who didn’t look at him like he was strange.

  Elias exhaled through his nose, annoyed at himself. One week. One smith. Don’t get soft.

  Still, when the front door creaked in the early dawn, and Harren’s voice echoed into the forge with a gruff, “You still alive in here?”, Elias didn’t mind hearing it.

  Not that he’d ever say so.