Chapter 3: The Stubborn Ox and the Humming Knife

  The bread is dense and tastes vaguely of sawdust, but my stomach doesn't care; it's food. The half-apple vanishes in three bites. Sitting on the anvil stump in the dusty morning light, I take stock.

  Stuck in medieval-land? Check. Possess only weird clothes and a weirder hammer? Check.

  Squatting in a derelict smithy? Double check. Survival rating: upgraded from 'precarious' to 'slightly less precarious'.

  Time to make this tetanus trap slightly more habitable. I spend an hour sweeping (with a bundle of twigs), organizing the few usable tools onto a shaky shelf, and failing to clean the anvil face. It still looks like despair, but maybe slightly tidier despair.

  I'm contemplating the crumbling forge hearth when a shadow falls across the doorway. Expecting maybe Brynn again, I look up. It's Farmer Ploughshare.

  And he looks furious. He practically throws the plough onto the ground in front of the smithy. His face is crimson.

  Veins bulge on his neck. He immediately starts yelling, a torrent of guttural curses directed squarely at me. "Whoa, hey!" I say, backing up instinctively.

  "What's wrong?" He points furiously at the ploughshare – the one I fixed so perfectly yesterday. Then he stabs a finger towards the path where a large, bored-looking ox is tied.

  He makes a sharp 'turn left' gesture, shakes his head violently, stamps his foot. Point. Ox. Turn left.

  NO! Repeat, louder. "He's been like that all morning," a small voice pipes up.

  Brynn is peeking around the corner of the smithy again, watching the scene with wide eyes. "Tried to take the ox out to the west field, but Ol' Bessy just wouldn't turn left past the Widow Elms' cottage. Just planted her feet."

  Okay. Context from the local peanut gallery. Thanks, Brynn.

  The problem involves the plough, the ox (Ol' Bessy, apparently), and specifically, turning left. "Wait," I say to the fuming farmer, holding up my hands. "Slow down."

  My finger jabs towards the ploughshare. "Fix... good?" Thumbs up.

  He spits out another angry word, shakes his head emphatically. "Okay, fix... not good?" I try.

  I point at the ox. "Ol' Bessy... no left?" I mimic the gesture.

  He nods vigorously, relief warring with anger. He jabs a finger at the iron share, makes the 'no left turn' sign again, adding more choice insults. This makes zero sense.

  How can iron stop an ox turning left? Unless… that weird resonance… the too-easy repair… the intent… Why did 'straight' make it hate left turns?

  Was it my focus on forcing it to resist deviation? My stomach does a slow, cold flip. Brynn edges closer, curiosity overcoming caution.

  "What's wrong with it, smith? Did you fix it too strong?" "'In a way,' I manage, my voice faint. I kneel beside the plough, ignoring the farmer's glare.

  My hand brushes across the share. It looks perfect. But I feel it again.

  That faint buzz. A field of stubborn energy. Resolute.

  Immovable. And distinctly… anti-left. Oh, crap.

  Oh, no. I did enchant it. Accidentally.

  With a 'no left turn' curse. My stupid, lightning-eating hammer. But how?

  Was it just fixing it? Or was it because I was so focused on making it straight and strong, making it hold its line? Like pouring stubbornness into the metal?

  "Is it… sparkly?" Brynn asks, peering closer at the share. "Sparkly with directional prejudice," I mutter. I look up at the farmer's angry face.

  How do you explain this? 'Sorry, accidentally imbued your farm tool with opinions?' I gesture towards the share, shake my head sadly, shrug helplessly.

  "Problem. Big problem. Fix? Maybe?"

  The farmer lets out a final roar of pure frustration, throws his hands up, and storms off, leaving the cursed plough and the indifferent ox behind. "Did you break it worse?" Brynn asks, poking the ploughshare cautiously. "'I think,' I murmur, staring at my hammer lying innocently near the forge, "I think I made it… stubborn."

  Brynn giggles. "Like Grandpa Torsten?" "Exactly," I sigh.

  I spend the next hour staring at the cursed ploughshare. Poking it. Heating it slightly.

  Nothing works. The anti-leftness is baked in. Okay.

  Experiment time. If I can do this accidentally, maybe I can control it? Or at least figure out how not to do it.

  I need data. And privacy. "Brynn," I say.

  "Maybe you should go find your friends? Might be boring here for a bit." "Are you gonna make more magic?" she asks hopefully.

  "Trying not to," I groan. She shrugs and skips off, leaving me alone with my cursed creation and my existential dread. I find a piece of flat steel bar in the scrap pile.

  Goal: simple, sharp knife. No opinions, no humming, no directional preferences. Just sharp.

  I heat the steel. Position it on the anvil. Focus intent: Sharp.

  Keen edge. Cuts well. Lift the hammer.

  That familiar resonance, eagerness. Ignore it. Focus on mechanics.

  Clang. Sparks fly. The metal shapes too easily.

  Focus harder. Sharp. Sharp.

  Sharp. Heat, hammer, heat, hammer. The process is seductively smooth.

  Quench. Grind on the wobbly stone wheel (takes forever). Fashion a crude handle.

  Finished knife. Looks okay. Test the edge on my thumbnail.

  Bites instantly. Very sharp. But… there it is again.

  That faint, sub-aural hum. The vibration of low-grade anxiety radiating from the steel. It makes my teeth ache.

  Sharp? Check. Anxiety-inducing hum?

  Unwanted bonus feature? Check. Did it again.

  Focused on 'sharp', got sharp plus free jitters. Wait. Just like the plough...

  I was focused on 'sharp', yeah, but I was also stressed. Worried about messing up again, anxious about surviving here. Did that... bleed through?

  Did my own anxiety get hammered into the steel along with the sharpness? Cold dread washes over me. It's the hammer.

  Or me through the hammer. Pouring intent into metal results in uncontrollable, unpredictable, cursed side effects. This isn't a gift.

  It's a cosmic practical joke. A hysterical giggle escapes me. I can make magic things.

  Things that are fundamentally, annoyingly wrong. Stellar.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Chapter 4: Nails and Consequences

  So, my superpower is making things that are slightly, annoyingly cursed. Fantastic. Just what every resume needs under 'Special Skills': Proficient in Microsoft Office, basic welding, accidentally cursing inanimate objects with minor inconveniences and existential angst.

  At least the ploughshare only hated left turns. The knife actively radiates 'impending doom' and makes my fillings ache. I’ve tucked it away under a loose floorstone near the forge because just having it nearby makes me want to check over my shoulder every five seconds and maybe build a bunker.

  Reality check time, Alex. Panicking isn't productive (mostly). Hallucinating about magic hammers isn't going to get me back home (probably).

  Right now, the cold, hard fact is I'm stranded in Ye Olde Times-ville. I'm broke, possessing only a handful of bruised fruit and sawdust bread as payment for my directionally-challenged farm tool repair. I'm technically homeless, just squatting in this derelict smithy that smells faintly of despair and mouse pee.

  And my only marketable skill seems to be this cursed blacksmithing gig. Like it or not, hitting hot metal with my possessed hammer is my only path forward. Unless I want to try my hand at turnip farming, which seems unlikely given my spectacular debut failure with agricultural implements.

  Which means I need customers. Real customers. Preferably paying ones.

  Or at least, one paying customer who won't try to run me out of town with pitchforks when their purchase develops an attitude or starts singing opera. Opportunity doesn't exactly knock. It more sort of… waddles up and peers worriedly into the smithy doorway, puffing slightly from the exertion.

  It's the village innkeeper, the one whose establishment I wisely avoided earlier. He’s a portly man whose stained apron stretches valiantly across a substantial belly that speaks of many sampled ales. His face carries the perpetually harassed expression of someone who deals with drunks, leaky roofs, and questionable village gossip for a living.

  He spots me lurking near the anvil, trying to look busy by rearranging rusty tools. "You," he says, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for his size. "Smith?"

  He eyes the spot where I quickly shove the anxiety knife further under the floorstone with my boot. "That's me," I say, trying to look industrious and not at all like I was just contemplating the metaphysical properties of cursed cutlery. "Alex.

  Need something fixed? Bent? Un-cursed? Actually, scratch that last one, definitely outside the warranty."

  My attempt at humor falls completely flat. His harassed expression deepens slightly. He ignores my rambling.

  He points upwards, towards the leaky, sagging roof of the smithy (which, I now notice, mirrors the sad state of his own inn's roof across the square). "Nails," he says, emphasizing the word carefully, as if I might confuse it with 'snails' or 'nostrils'. He mimes hammering furiously, adding sound effects.

  " Thwack, thwack! " He gestures outside, where dark clouds are gathering ominously on the horizon, much heavier than the earlier shower. "Big rain comes soon," he states, sniffing the air like a seasoned meteorologist.

  "Roof leaks." He points at his own inn. "My roof. Bad leaks.

  Need nails. Strong nails." He rubs his thumb and forefinger together in the universal gesture for 'money'. "Pay coin."

  Coin. Actual money. Not just bread crusts and bruised fruit.

  The thought sends a jolt through me, more potent than the electrical surge that got me here. With coin, maybe I can buy better food. Maybe proper clothes that don't scream 'I fell out of a time machine via heavy metal concert'.

  Maybe even bribe someone for information about how to get out of here. Or at least buy enough ale at his inn to forget I'm stuck here. "Nails," I repeat, nodding seriously, trying to look like the most competent, reliable nail-maker in this entire medieval dimension.

  "Strong nails. Got it." My mind immediately flashes to the fly-summoning potential, the instant-rust feature, the directional prejudice, the anxiety hum. "Right.

  Strong. And, uh… completely normal nails. Standard.

  No funny business." I try to project an aura of competence and utter normalcy, which is difficult when my primary tool is basically Loki disguised as a two-pound hammer. "Good."

  Bram seems slightly reassured, though still skeptical. He eyes my Metallica shirt again. "Many nails."

  He indicates a large quantity with his hands, like a bucketful. "Soon." The clouds look like they mean business.

  "Soon," I echo, trying to sound confident. "Strong, normal nails. You bet."

  He gives me one last dubious look, glances worriedly at the darkening sky, and waddles off, presumably to worry about his beer barrels or count his potential earnings from my nail-making prowess. Okay. Challenge accepted.

  This is my chance. A real job. A paying job.

  All I have to do is make a large quantity of perfectly ordinary iron nails using a hammer that seems determined to add its own creative, cursed spin to everything I touch. Simple. What could possibly go wrong?

  (Famous last words, part two.) Control. That's the key.

  My goal is to make something without unintended side effects. Or, failing that, screw it up in a way that's completely harmless or even unnoticeable. How do I manage the intent?

  With the ploughshare, I just wanted to fix it, make it strong and functional. With the knife, I focused purely on 'sharp'. Both times, the hammer seemed to amplify that core intent and add… extra.

  Unwanted, problematic extra. Maybe the trick is to not focus too hard on the outcome? To keep the intent purely physical, purely mundane?

  New plan: Focus entirely on the process, not the end result. Think about the heat of the metal, the angle of the hammer blow, the taper of the point, the shape of the head. Don't think 'make a strong nail that holds wood'; think 'heat this end, draw out to taper, cut here, form head'.

  Keep it mechanical. Detached. Like assembling IKEA furniture, but with more fire and less existential despair (hopefully).

  I find a rod of decent-looking iron scavenged from a pile of junk behind the smithy – maybe an old axle or reinforcing bar. I feed the forge, coaxing the low-grade coal back up to a bright heat with the wheezing bellows. Just as I'm about to heat the iron, Brynn appears in the doorway again, drawn by the renewed activity.

  "Making sparks now?" she asks hopefully, staying near the entrance this time. "Trying to make nails," I say, wiping sweat from my brow already. "For Bram the innkeeper.

  His roof leaks." "Bram's roof always leaks," Brynn states matter-of-factly. "He stuffs rags in the holes."

  "Well, hopefully, these nails will be better than rags," I mutter. I heat the end of the iron rod. Place it on the anvil.

  Okay, hammer. Just mechanics. Taper the point.

  I strike, focusing only on the angle, the force needed to draw the metal out. "Wow!" Brynn exclaims as sparks shower from the impact. "Pretty!"

  "Yeah, pretty," I grunt, trying to maintain focus. Cut. Form head.

  I bring the hammer down on the hot iron resting over the hardy tool. Clang. The first nail flies off the rod as I cut it… and promptly rusts into orange powder right before our eyes as it cools on the dirt floor.

  Brynn gasps. "What happened? Did it get old really fast?"

  "'More or less,' I sigh. Crap. So much for detachment.

  Maybe I focused too much on 'strong lasting connection'? Second attempt. Heat, taper, position over hardy.

  Focus: Just hold. Simple shape. Nothing fancy.

  I hammer, cut, form the head. This nail looks perfect. Gleaming dark iron.

  I toss it onto the dirt floor to cool. A minute later, flies start buzzing around it. Not one or two, but a whole swarm, ignoring everything else, congregating enthusiastically.

  "'Eww! Flies!' Brynn grimaces, swatting at the air. "Why do they like that nail?" "Good question," I groan.

  "Maybe they think it's… sweet?" Great. Insect-attracting nails.

  Bram will love that. Third attempt. Okay, hammer, let's try again.

  Focus: Nothing. Just be metal. Again, I heat the rod, hammer out the taper, cut it free, and shape the nail head.

  It looks... normal. But as it cools, it starts to emit a high-pitched, barely audible whine, like a tiny mosquito trapped in the iron. Annoying, and definitely not normal.

  "Can you hear that?" Brynn asks, tilting her head. "Sounds like... tiny angry bees?" "Yeah," I sigh.

  "Angry bee nails. Also not ideal." Achieving neutrality is proving surprisingly challenging.

  Maybe the fourth attempt will work? Okay, hammer, one more try. Focus: Durable.

  Plain. Uninteresting. Boring nail.

  Focusing on 'boring', I heat the iron, hammer the point, cut the blank, and form the head. It looks… normal. Completely, utterly boringly normal.

  I set it aside cautiously on a clean stone. Brynn watches it intently, as if expecting it to sprout legs or sing. Ten minutes pass.

  It doesn't rust. It doesn't summon insects. It doesn't whine.

  It doesn't do anything but sit there. Being a nail. "Is that one okay?" Brynn asks tentatively.

  "'Looks like it,' I say, relief washing over me. "Looks like the fourth attempt was the winner." I spend the remainder of the afternoon locked in a tense cycle of heating, hammering, and holding my breath, trying desperately to replicate that 'boring nail' mindset, with Brynn offering occasional commentary from the doorway ("That one looks shiny!" "Oops, that one flew far!").

  It's mentally exhausting. Some nails turn out fine. Others develop weird quirks despite my best efforts.

  One batch hums faintly with anxiety like the knife ("Sounds like sad bees," Brynn observes). Another feels strangely cold to the touch ("Like touching winter stones!"). A third batch seems to actively repel dirt, staying unnaturally clean ("Magic cleaning nails!").

  I sort the nails into piles. The 'Probably Okay' pile is reassuringly large. The 'Definitely Weird' pile contains the rusty ones (useless), the fly-magnets (nope), the whiners (too annoying), the hummers (too creepy), the cold ones (why?), and the self-cleaning ones.

  "Are you gonna give Bram the magic cleaning nails?" Brynn asks hopefully. "Maybe they'll clean his roof!" "Tempting," I admit, "but probably not what he paid for."

  I need coin, not more confusion. I pick out the least offensive of the weird ones – maybe a dozen of the self-cleaning ones? They look normal enough at first glance.

  I mix them in with the 'Probably Okay' pile, dump the whole lot into a rusty bucket I found. "Alright, Brynn, wish me luck." "Good luck, smith!" she calls out as I head towards the inn, bucket in hand, trying to look confident.

  The sky outside is looking increasingly angry, the first fat drops of rain beginning to fall. Bram is waiting anxiously. He eyes the bucket suspiciously.

  "Nails?" "'Best nails in the village,' I say, attempting a confident grin. "Strong.

  Pointy. Very… nail-like." He grunts, taking the bucket, peering inside, picking one up.

  It looks normal. He seems satisfied enough, or maybe just desperate with the rain starting. He counts out a few silver coins into my hand.

  They feel heavy, real. My first actual coin in this world. "Roof leaks after this, I find you," Bram says, his standard threat, before disappearing inside with the bucket just as the heavens open up.

  "Wouldn't dream of it," I mutter, backing away into the downpour. I return to the smithy, the coins cool and solid in my palm. A small victory.

  But the small pile of humming, cold, and fly-attracting nails I left behind is a stark reminder: This 'gift' is utterly unpredictable. And Brynn's innocent fascination only highlights how weird and potentially dangerous this all is. I need to get a grip on this hammer, fast.