The morning carried a different weight.
Not heavy — but full.
Arin moved through the streets with a quiet ease, the faint trace of a smile resting at the corner of his lips. The coins he carried were not simply wealth. They were proof — that he could move, act, shape things in this world entirely on his own terms.
By the time he reached Ironheart Anvil, the familiar rhythm had already filled the air.
Clang.
Clang.
This time, it didn't feel distant.
It felt welcoming.
Bardin noticed him first.
"Well," he called out, "look who finally decided to show up." There was no real bite in the words — only something lighter beneath them. Something that might have been approval.
Arin inclined his head.
Before he could speak, Brokk appeared from the side, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"Come," he said, grinning. "The old man's been waiting."
That alone was enough to tell him something had changed.
They led him toward the center of the forge — to the large wooden table where meals were usually taken.
Durnak stood there.
Waiting.
No hammer. No tools. Nothing in his hands at all.
That, more than anything, made the moment settle into its own weight.
"You're here," Durnak said.
Arin nodded once.
Durnak didn't waste time. He reached for a cloth laid across the table and drew it back in one smooth motion.
"Your weapon," he said, voice steady.
"…is finished."
For a moment, Arin didn't move.
The pistol rested at the center of the table — polished, refined, complete. The metal gleamed beneath the forge light, its surface smooth and deliberate, every edge cleaned, every line sharpened into something purposeful. The wooden grip had been shaped and treated, its deep brown finish carrying a quiet sheen, the grain flowing naturally beneath the polish.
It looked… right.
Not like something assembled.
Like something that had always been meant to exist.
Arin stepped forward and picked it up.
It settled into his hand with a weight that felt both unfamiliar and instinctively correct—as though his grip had been waiting for it. His thumb shifted slightly along the side, brushing against a small, deliberate mechanism.
The safety lock.
Exactly where he had designed it.
A subtle press confirmed it—the trigger held firm, restrained, obedient.
Only when he eased it back did the tension release.
A quiet detail.
But a necessary one.
His fingers traced slowly along the barrel.
Then stopped.
A word had been carved into the metal.
Valcrest.
Clean. Precise. Deliberate.
Arin's gaze shifted.
Durnak met it without hesitation.
"I remember the name you gave," he said. "Valcrest." A brief pause. "I figured… it would signify the weapon as the property of a Valcrest."
Not sentimental. Not overly explained.
Just said — and left where it landed.
Arin looked back at the pistol. His grip tightened slightly.
Even in my previous life, I always wanted to own a licensed pistol.
A quiet breath left him.
Not regret. Not longing.
Just a strange, still fulfillment — like something long carried had finally been set down gently.
"Don't get too attached yet."
Vingolf's voice cut in, calm and unhurried.
Arin glanced up. The old dwarf stepped forward slightly, adjusting his glasses.
"Bardin and Brokk have something for you."
Brokk's grin widened immediately. Bardin scratched the back of his head, looking mildly — and uncharacteristically — shy.
"…It's nothing much," he muttered.
They placed it on the table.
A leather belt. Thick, durable, well-crafted. Attached to it was a fitted holster shaped specifically for the pistol, and along the side, a row of smaller compartments — each one sized precisely to hold a mana stone.
Arin studied it for a moment.
Then he looked at them.
"…You made this?"
Brokk puffed his chest. "Obviously."
Bardin looked away. "We had some spare leather."
It was a lie. A very obvious one.
Something in Arin's chest tightened — unexpected, and not entirely familiar.
"…Thank you," he said quietly. "Both of you."
Brokk waved it off at once. "Just don't die using it."
Durnak folded his arms. "Use it well," he said, "and it'll serve you faithfully." A pause. His eyes narrowed just slightly. "If you break it… you know where to find us."
The moment lingered — warm in the way forge light is warm, steady and without ceremony.
"Now," Durnak said, his tone shifting toward the practical, "about the cost."
Arin nodded.
"Materials, the mana stones, time, the meals you ate here, and the effort spent teaching you." A brief pause. "One gold and twelve silver."
Fair. More than fair.
Arin didn't argue. He reached into his cloak and placed two gold coins onto the table. They rang softly against the wood.
Durnak glanced at them, then at Brokk. "Get the change."
Before Brokk could move —
"No need."
Arin's voice was calm. His hand returned to his cloak — but what he drew out this time was not a coin.
It was a folded sheet of paper. Carefully kept.
He placed it on the table and pushed it forward.
"…Instead," he said, "I have something else."
Durnak unfolded it.
Silence followed — but not the ordinary kind. This one had weight.
His eyes moved across the page. Once. Then again, slower.
Vingolf stepped closer.
The design was deceptively simple.
A compact, spherical casing—smooth in structure, balanced in form. The interior was hollow, its space carefully reserved, not for complexity, but for purpose. Along the inner walls, rune diagrams were etched in precise, interlocking patterns, each line placed with intent rather than excess.
At the center—
An empty chamber.
Not for fragments. Not for mechanisms.
For a mana stone.
A single source.
Once activated by an external injection of mana by the user, the rune circle would draw mana through that core from mana stone, forcing the mana into rapid instability before releasing it outward in a controlled detonation.
Clean.
Direct.
And devastating within its range.
Durnak's grip on the paper tightened.
"…What in the hell is this?"
"A mana stone bomb," Arin said plainly.
"…Are you planning to start a war, boy?" A bead of sweat traced the side of Durnak's temple.
Vingolf said nothing. But his eyes had sharpened considerably.
"This…" he muttered, "…is not simply dangerous."
"It's efficient," Arin said.
He remained calm. "For the remaining balance, I want as many of these as it can cover." He tapped the paper lightly. "Compact. Throwable. Fast detonation." A brief pause. "Enough to clear a group of goblins."
Then — "…You're serious."
Durnak exhaled slowly.
Arin gave a small, almost casual shrug. "I simply prefer being prepared."
Vingolf studied him carefully. "Prepared," he repeated. "For what, exactly?"
Arin's lips curved — just slightly.
"The Primordial Dungeon."
That landed hard.
Durnak let out a low, measured breath. "…I see."
Then — a rough chuckle, quiet and genuine.
"With the kind of preparation you're making…" He shook his head slowly. "…you'll be hard to kill."
—————
Arin stepped out of Ironheart Anvil with something new resting at his side — and the quiet knowledge that it belonged there.
The leather belt fit snugly around his waist, the holster receiving the pistol as though it had always been made for it. When he slid the weapon into place, it disappeared beneath the fall of his crimson cloak — hidden, but not absent.
Present.
Ready.
He adjusted it once, more out of instinct than necessity. Then he turned, and headed back.
The tavern was quieter than usual.
It was that strange, suspended hour between breakfast and midday — when most adventurers had already gone off to their work, leaving behind only the faint echo of earlier noise and the distant clatter of utensils drifting from the kitchen. The air carried a lingering warmth, soft and unhurried.
Arin stepped inside.
And there she was.
Helgarth sat at her usual place, one arm resting casually against the table, a cup of coffee held loosely in her hand. Steam curled upward in thin, lazy spirals, catching the light before dissolving into nothing.
She glanced up the moment he entered.
There was no surprise in her expression. Only the quiet steadiness of someone who had been expecting him.
"I heard," she said, taking a slow sip before setting the cup down. "Today was the day." A brief pause. "Did you get your weapon?"
Arin didn't answer immediately.
Instead, a faint smile formed at the corner of his lips — and he stepped closer, drawing the pistol from his side in one smooth motion and placing it lightly on the table between them.
Helgarth's gaze shifted.
For a moment, she simply looked at it.
Then — a small, genuine smile touched her lips.
"…It's exquisite," she said quietly.
Her eyes lifted toward him. "What kind of weapon is this?"
There was curiosity in her voice. Not suspicion — only the clean, open interest of someone truly wanting to know.
Arin leaned forward just slightly, and for a brief moment, the careful restraint he usually carried seemed to ease — like a held breath, finally released.
"This," he said, a quiet thread of excitement slipping into his voice, "is a projectile weapon." He turned it slowly in his hand, letting the forge-light catch along the barrel. "It fires compressed mana at high speed — using mana stones as fuel."
He explained without hesitation. The structure, the flow, the idea behind it.
Not everything.
But enough. More than he usually would.
And somewhere along the way — he didn't notice it — but his guard had lowered. Just a little. The kind of lowering that happens not through carelessness, but through the rare comfort of being genuinely listened to.
From the kitchen, a soft aroma drifted into the room.
Warm. Rich. Something simmering slowly with spices, patient and unhurried. It settled into the air the way certain things do — not demanding attention, only quietly insisting on being felt.
Arin paused, catching the scent.
Then looked back at Helgarth.
"…Miss Helgarth."
His tone had shifted — softer now, and more deliberate.
"I wanted to thank you."
She raised an eyebrow. "For?"
"For taking me in," he said simply. "For looking after things — and for introducing me to Durnak." A faint pause. "I'm more than satisfied with the result."
He reached into his cloak and placed a gold coin gently on the table between them. It rang softly against the wood and went still.
Helgarth's eyes dropped to it. Then back up.
"…What's this?"
"For my stay," Arin said. "For the next month."
That alone was already excessive.
But he wasn't done.
"And—" a faint trace of humor entered his voice — "consider it a request."
Helgarth leaned back slightly, studying him with the careful attention of someone accustomed to reading people. "…What request?"
Arin met her gaze evenly.
"Treat me well." A brief pause. "The best food you have. The best experience you can offer."
The corner of his mouth curved — just a little.
"Consider it both payment… and gratitude."
A moment passed.
Then a quiet, almost amused breath escaped her. "…You're an unusual one," she said. Not mocking. Just certain — the way people speak when they've recognized something they weren't expecting.
Arin gave a small shrug. "With that," he replied calmly, "I can't disagree."
Inwardly, his thoughts were clear and unhurried.
This amount of money… means nothing.
Not against what it could build.
Connections. Trust. A place worth returning to.
This isn't spending, he thought. It's investment. The kind that paid back in things gold couldn't measure — and couldn't replace.
The scent reached him again.
Stronger this time. Warm milk, coffee, something deeply comforting — the kind of smell that didn't just fill a room but settled into it, the way memory does when it arrives without warning.
Arin's gaze drifted to the cup in Helgarth's hand. Then toward the kitchen. Then back.
"…Miss Helgarth."
She looked at him.
"I have a request.", Arin asked.
"…Another one?" Helgarth had a trace of amusement, quiet but present.
Arin nodded. "Would you allow me to use the kitchen?" A slight pause. "I want to cook something."
Helgarth blinked once. Then leaned back, folding her arms loosely, studying him with the particular expression of someone recalibrating their understanding of a person.
"…You cook?"
"Yes.", Arin replied.
She held his gaze a moment longer.
Then — a faint smile returned to her lips.
"Do as you wish."
No hesitation. No conditions.
Just permission, offered simply — as though it had never been a question worth making complicated.
And with that, something new was about to begin.