The stew was finished, the bowls empty. The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers, casting a warm, orange light over the workshop's dining table.
Lexel leaned back in his chair, wood creaking under his weight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy leather pouch—the one he had swiped from Goro's belt.
Clink. Clatter.
He upended the bag, pouring a stream of coins onto the wooden table. They piled up in a shimmering heap. There were no royal faces stamped on them, no kingdom seals. Just the universal language of leverage in this world: pure, unadulterated Gold.
"One hundred... two hundred..." Lexel counted, his fingers deft. "Three hundred and fifty Gs. Plus whatever the Shielder had."
He grinned, stacking the coins into neat towers. "Not bad for a morning workout."
Anthierin sat across from him, wiping her hands on an oil-stained rag. She eyed the money with a frown, her green eyes troubled.
"That's stealing," she said flatly.
"Stealing?" Lexel raised an eyebrow, flipping a gold coin over his knuckles. "This man accepted a contract to kill me for 10,000 Gs. He failed. Consider this a cancellation fee. Or a refund for the assassination attempt."
"You killed him, Lexel. Taking his money feels... wrong. It's grave robbery."
"It's survival," Lexel corrected her, his tone dropping an octave. "You can't eat honor, Anthierin. But you can buy bread with Gs. Besides, he won't be needing it where he's going."
Anthierin sighed, looking away. She knew he was right logically, but her heart still felt heavy. "Fine. But don't expect me to applaud."
"I don't need applause. I need resources."
Lexel reached down and hoisted the broken remains of Goro's weapon. It was a standard Iron Greatsword, the tip snapped off cleanly where Lexel had pinched it. It wasn't legendary metal, but it was decent iron—far better than the scraps usually found in a tutorial village.
He placed the heavy blade on the table with a heavy thud.
"Anthierin," Lexel asked. "Can you melt this down?"
"Melt it?"
"Yes. Turn it back into raw ingots," Lexel tapped the cold steel. "If we preserve the material, you could forge something better. Maybe a proper sword for me, or armor for yourself."
Dad told me he used to do it all the time, Lexel thought. He said he would strip the armor off fallen gods and reforge them into toothpicks if the metal was shiny enough.
Anthierin looked at the broken weapon. She ran a calloused finger over the fracture point, inspecting the grain of the iron. Then, she shook her head.
"No. I can't."
"Why not?" Lexel asked. "I thought blacksmiths worked metal."
"We do," she explained patiently. "But to revert a finished weapon back into raw materials without losing its quality... that requires a higher understanding of the craft. You need to be a High Blacksmith or an Alchemist to do that efficiently. If I melt this down now, I'd just get slag and low-quality pig iron."
"High Blacksmith?" Lexel frowned.
"Yes," Anthierin gestured to herself. "I am just a Blacksmith. My Job Class is still low rank. I can forge from ore, but I can't deconstruct finished works yet. I'm not a wizard, Lexel."
Lexel leaned forward. Right. Dad was the Zodiac Emperor. His standards for 'easy' were definitely skewed. But this limitation...
"So you're limited by a title?" Lexel asked, feigning ignorance. "This... 'Job Class' dictates what you can and can't do?"
Anthierin stared at him. She blinked once. Twice.
"You're joking," she said.
"I look like a man who jokes about manual labor?"
"Lexel, that is... that is knowledge a child knows!" Anthierin threw her hands up in exasperation. "How can you be strong enough to crush a shield with your bare hands and not know what a Job Class is? Did you grow up in a cave?"
"Something like that," Lexel muttered.
Anthierin sighed, rubbing her temples. "Listen closely. When a person reaches a certain threshold of strength—Level 5—their soul becomes strong enough to hold a specialization. They must go to a Statue of the Goddess or a Class Shrine. There, if they are worthy, they are granted a Job Class."
She tapped the hammer hanging at her belt.
"I went to the statue in the village square when I was twelve. Once I accepted the [Blacksmith] path, the knowledge flowed into me. I understood heat. I understood metal. It unlocked my potential."
"Level 5..." Lexel rubbed his chin.
Wait.
He quickly opened his internal status window, hiding the swiping motion with a casual scratch of his nose.
[Name: Lexel] [Level: 10] [Class: None]
Lexel stared at the empty bracket hovering in his vision.
I'm Level 10. I missed the threshold by five levels.
He realized he had been so busy fighting for his life in the jail and against the Mantis that he had never visited a statue. He was walking around with raw stats and zero class bonuses.
"So," Lexel asked, keeping his eyes on her and not the floating blue screen. "If someone is strong enough... they can choose a class?"
"Yes," Anthierin nodded. "Assuming you haven't chosen one already. Which... judging by how you fight on pure instinct, you haven't."
She looked him up and down, scrutinizing him like a piece of raw ore she was about to temper.
"You really should get one," she said. "Fighting without a class is dangerous. You miss out on the stat growth modifiers and the specific techniques. You're just brute-forcing everything."
"What do you recommend?" Lexel asked, dismissing the window with a flick of his mind.
Anthierin didn't hesitate. She had watched him fight in the square. She had seen the way he moved—fluid, heavy, and completely weaponless.
"The [Monk]," she said decisively.
Lexel choked on his own spit.
"The what?"
"The Monk," Anthierin repeated, her eyes lighting up. "I thought about it when I watched you fight Goro. It's perfect for you. It focuses on hand-to-hand combat, body tempering, and inner energy. It balances Strength and Dexterity. Since you like punching steel plates, it fits your style."
"No," Lexel said instantly. He crossed his arms, shaking his head violently. "Absolutely not."
"Why?" Anthierin frowned. "It's a powerful class! If you advance, you can eventually become a High Monk. Your body becomes your weapon!"
"I don't care if it makes my body made of diamonds," Lexel said, a look of genuine horror on his face. "Do you know what Monks are, Anthierin?"
"They are fighters?"
"They are celibate!" Lexel shouted, slamming his hand on the table.
Anthierin blinked. "What?"
"Celibate! Ascetics! No women! No romance! No... nighttime activities!" Lexel stood up, gesturing wildly. "I refuse! My goal in life is to find my brothers and enjoy the company of beautiful women! I am not shaving my head and living on a mountain eating tofu while my bloodline withers away!"
Anthierin stared at him. Her face went blank.
Then, she snorted.
"You..." She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. "You think the Job Class forces you to be a priest?"
"Doesn't it?"
"No, you idiot!" Anthierin laughed, slapping the table. "It's a Combat Class! It's called 'Monk' because the fighting style originated from the temples in the East, but you don't have to take vows! There are plenty of Monks who drink, gamble, and... chase skirts."
"Oh." Lexel paused. He slowly sat back down, straightening his collar to regain his composure. "Well. That's different."
"You are unbelievable," Anthierin shook her head, wiping a tear from her eye. "You tear a man's heart out without blinking, but the thought of a dry spell terrifies you?"
"Priorities, Anthierin," Lexel grinned shamelessly. "A man without passion is just a statue. And I intend to be very... lively."
"Whatever," she rolled her eyes, though a flush crept up her neck. "The point is, the Monk class gives you bonuses to unarmed damage. It would suit you. But you have to find a Statue first."
Lexel nodded slowly.
A Monk...
It wasn't a bad idea. If he was going to pretend to be a normal adventurer while hiding his lineage, the Monk class was the perfect cover for his fighting style. And as long as he could keep his hair—and his harem prospects—it was worth a shot.