Clang. Clang. Clang.
Lexel woke up to the rhythmic, heavy sound of metal striking metal.
His eyes snapped open, and his face immediately grimaced. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from his right buttock, pulsing in time with the hammer strikes. It felt like he had been kicked by a mule wearing a red-hot horseshoe.
"Ugh."
He groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looked around, his vision clearing. He wasn't in a dungeon or a palace. He was in a room filled with tools, scrap metal, and the smell of coal dust.
A workshop. To be precise, a blacksmith's forge.
He looked ahead. He saw the back of the blacksmith. She stood by the anvil, her arm raising and falling with practiced, hypnotic precision. Each strike of her hammer sparked a spray of blue particles—not fire, but something that looked like "System" magic infusing the steel.
I'm in a blacksmith, Lexel thought, his mind groggy. And my ass hurts.
"Hm?"
The rhythm stopped. The smither paused her strike, sensing movement. She laid down her heavy hammer by the side of the anvil and turned around, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.
"So," she said, her voice husky from the heat and smoke. "Who are you?"
"Who am I?" Lexel repeated, blinking. He sat up straighter, wincing as his injury protested. For a second, he almost launched into his usual introduction—Prince of Empyrean, Son of the Zodiac Emperor—but he stopped himself.
He wasn't famous here. This was a new world. He was a nobody.
"I am Lexel," he said, deciding on the simple truth. "Lexel Torga."
"Lexel Torga," the blacksmith repeated, testing the name. She shook her head. "That doesn't ring a bell. My name is Anthier. Anthierin Yil."
"Nice to meet y..."
Lexel's breath cut off. His pupils shrank in disbelief.
As Anthier turned fully toward him, the light from the furnace illuminated her front. She was wearing a tight, sweat-soaked black tank top. And because of the heat... and the cold air coming from the window...
He saw them. Two distinct points, poking proudly through the fabric.
How... magnificent?! Lexel's internal voice shouted. This is how the Fourth World welcomes me? Damn! Maybe this world isn't so bad after all!
"What?" Anthier frowned, noticing his intense, unblinking stare. She looked down at her chest. "Oh."
She didn't blush. She simply raised her arm, covering her poking nipples with a casual, annoyed movement.
Lexel snapped back to his senses. Thank you for the view, he whispered silently to the gods of perversion. He cleared his throat. "Are you not afraid of having a strange man inside your workshop?"
"Why would I be?" Anthier shrugged, her green eyes scanning him up and down with a look of mild pity. "It's not like a [Lv 1], like you could do anything to me. I could break you with my tongs."
A blue window popped up in Lexel's vision.
[Quest started] [Objective: Prove her wrong!] [Reward: ???]
What the... Lexel stared at the screen. Fighting a girl? That's the quest? This Anti-System is petty.
"Are you alright?" Anthier asked, misinterpreting his silence for pain. She walked over, looking at the dumbfounded young man. "I know your butt's gotta hurt. That was a fresh edge. But that's the best I could do."
"Wait, what?" Lexel furrowed his brows.
"I covered the wound in your butt with bandages," Anthier explained, pointing to a table where a bloody rag and an empty glass vial sat. "And I gave you a vial of [Health Potion]. It stopped the bleeding."
Lexel froze. He processed the information. She bandaged his wound. The wound was on his...
"So you..." Lexel started, his face heating up.
"Yes," Anthier smirked, crossing her arms. "I saw your butt. And yes, while I was cleaning the blood off, I saw the other side too. It's cute."
Lexel opened his mouth, scandalized.
"So," she continued, dropping her arm from her chest, "you are permitted to see my poking nipples. We are even."
"That's not equal!" Lexel shouted, scrambling off the cot. A sting of pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it. "My dignity is worth more than a peek!"
"You'd best go home and forget this ordeal," Anthier laughed, turning back to her anvil. "And try not to fall out of the sky onto sharp objects next time."
"Well... I can't," Lexel said, his voice dropping.
"Why not?" Anthier asked, picking up a rag to clean her hammer. "Aren't you here because of a misplaced transportation magic? You must be from a wealthy family. Only rich kids have skin that smooth."
"Well, you're not wrong," Lexel shrugged. I mean, my dad is the strongest being in existence. That counts as wealthy.
"Though, I never heard of the 'Torga' estate," Anthier mused. She looked at him sharply. "Oh, don't tell me. Are you exiled? A runaway?"
"What? Of course not!"
"Then why can't you go home? How many Gs did you bring with you?"
"What?" Lexel looked confused. "Gs?"
"G," Anthier repeated slowly, as if talking to a toddler. "Money. Gold. Currency? Are you kidding me?"
She looked at him with genuine confusion. I've heard that most highborns are spoilt brats, but not knowing what 'G' is? That is beyond stupid. It's not even funny.
"O-Of course I know that," Lexel lied, his eyes looking away toward the wall. So the money here is called 'G'..
Anthier sighed, rubbing her temples. "Alright, alright. Look, I can't keep you here forever. A customer is about to come take his sword, and this isn't a nursery."
"Well, where should I go?" asked Lexel.
"How am I supposed to know?" Anthier threw her hands up. "The Guild? The Inn? The street? Your belongings are over there, by the way."
She pointed to a small pile on a workbench. His torn robe, his sash, and his gauntlets.
"I have to ask," she added, eyeing the black onyx gauntlets. "Are you trying to enter the [Monk] job class? It's pretty rare to see a pair of well-worked gauntlets like that. Usually, people use swords or staffs."
"Monk?" Lexel furrowed his brows as he walked over to his gear.
Monks... He remembered stories his father told him about Earth. Monks were bald men who prayed and... didn't touch women. Aren't they like... virgins their whole lives?
"Of course not!" Lexel shook his head vigorously. "I definitely do not want to be a Monk."
Anthier shrugged. "Suit yourself then. Who am I to judge? Oh, by the way, if you need refining on that thing, I'm your gal. Of course, you will need to pay me."
"Sure, sure," Lexel mumbled. He picked up the gauntlets. They felt cold and heavy in his hands, but comforting. They were the only piece of home he had left.
"OI! ANTHIERIN! WHERE'S MY SWORD!"
A voice bellowed through the workshop, loud enough to rattle the tools on the walls. It came from the front room—the shop proper.
"Shit," Anthier uttered. Her relaxed demeanor vanished instantly.
"Stay here," she hissed at Lexel. She grabbed a thick leather coat from a hanger and threw it on, covering her tank top (and the view). She then picked up a longsword in a scabbard from the table. "Don't make a sound."
She hurried out the door, closing it behind her.
Lexel sighed in the sudden silence. He slid his hands into the gauntlets. They tightened automatically, fitting his hands like a second skin. He flexed his fingers. They were flexible enough to not hinder any movement, yet hard enough to crush rock.
He jabbed the air a few times. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Good. At least I can punch.
His mind drifted. Seleron. Myda. I hope you're alright.
The image of them being sucked into different portals flashed in his mind.
I need to search for them both. Reunite as fast as possible. We are the Spear. We have a mission.
"THIS IS NOT WHAT I ORDERED!"
The voice bellowed again, louder this time. It was angry.
Lexel furrowed his brows, his ears slightly ringing. How rude.
He stealthily approached the door connecting the workshop to the shop. He pressed his back up against the wall, then slightly pulled the door open just enough to peek through the crack.
Anthier was standing behind the counter, looking small. In front of her was a man. He was taller than her, more muscular, and wore a leather vest that was clearly meant for "adventuring." He wore black pants and heavy boots. The typical "User" set.
I guess robes aren't as popular in this world, Lexel thought. Of course, they're not; they never cultivate. They rely on armor stats. Goddamnit, why am I arguing with myself? Stupid!
"This is what you ordered, Viscoff," Anthier said, her voice firm but tight. "I refined it to [+2]. It's sharper and more durable."
"No, this is not," Viscoff spat. He held the sword, weighing it clumsily. "The blade feels heavier in my hand. It throws off my balance."
"It's heavier because it's denser steel!" Anthier argued. "That's how refining works!"
"I don't care," Viscoff sneered. "It's defective. I will pay half the price."
"Are you kidding me?!" Anthier slammed her hand on the counter. "The materials alone cost half! I worked for three days on that!"
"What's that?"
Viscoff moved. He drew the blade—the very blade Anthier had made—and placed the edge against her neck.
Anthier froze. Her goosebumps rose. She tightened her upper lip, trying not to tremble.
"Half the price, Level 5.... Agree?" Viscoff hissed, leaning in, his eyes full of contempt.
He was telling her she was too weak to refuse.
He flicked a coin onto the table. Clink. Then another. Clink. Then another. Summing up to five coins. [5Gs].
It was an insult. It was robbery.
Lexel watched from the crack. His eyes narrowed.
He's bullying her. Just because she's weak.
Lexel looked at his gauntlet. He looked at the Quest notification still lingering in the corner of his eye. [Prove her wrong!]
He grinned. Well. Two birds, one stone.
CREAAAAK!
Lexel kicked the door open with a wild, dramatic slam.
"HOAM!"
He stepped out into the shop, courting their attention like moths to a flame. He was shirtless, wearing only his torn trousers and his onyx gauntlets. He stretched his arms high above his head, cracking his back loudly.
"Ahhh," Lexel sighed, a satisfied, sleepy smile on his face. "That was great sex, darling."
The shop went dead silent.
Viscoff froze, the sword still at Anthier's neck. His eyes bulged. Anthier froze, her face turning a bright, violent shade of red.
They were both petrified by his words.
Lexel lowered his arms. His "sleepy" expression vanished, replaced by the cold, arrogant gaze of a Prince who had watched his mother command armies.
"Now then," Lexel said, his voice dropping an octave. He raised his gauntleted hand, pointing a single, black claw directly at Viscoff's face.
"I don't recall allowing someone to put a blade over my wife's neck."
Viscoff stepped back, confused by the sheer audacity of the [Level 1] standing before him.
"Kowtow," Lexel said, his eyes sharpening into a deadly glare, "and I might forgive you. Fight me... and I'll kill you."