When I dig into my past—back to the days when I was still Harv Navarus—most of my memories of wonder seem to converge in a single place: the clan’s smithy.

  It was my refuge, the one place I’d slip away to during rare breaks between endless lessons. While other children of the clan spent their free time interacting, honing their swordsmanship, practicing structured magic, or scheming their way up the hierarchy, I found myself drawn to the dimly lit workshop, where the air was thick with the scent of burning coal and molten metal.

  I never understood why it fascinated me so much.

  Maybe it was the transformation—the way a cold, lifeless lump of metal could be reborn into something entirely new under the hands of a smith.

  Or maybe it was the colors.

  I could never grow tired of seeing a piece of iron gradually change, shifting from dull gray to a deep, simmering red, then to a fierce, molten orange. The glow would intensify, turning bright yellow, and then—if left long enough in the heart of the forge—it would shine with an almost blinding white light, radiating extreme heat.

  I was mesmerized by the way something that was cold and lifeless, could suddenly burn with so much raw power.

  Even when it was glowing at near-melting temperatures, it still took the raw strength of men with arms like tree trunks—to shape it into something useful. Each strike of the hammer sent sparks flying, forcing the material to bend, to yield, to become what they willed it to be.

  But shaping was just one step.

  There were countless others—quenching, tempering, refining—all of them holding their own secrets, their own importance.

  I always wanted to approach closer, to watch the entire process from start to finish at an arm's length. But the heat from the distance I stood was already unbearable, sweat drenching my clothes, my body screaming for fresh cold air.

  I never understood how the smiths endured it.

  How they stood so close to the roaring forge, day after day, pushing their bodies to the limit with nothing but sheer determination and muscle.

  Compared to being able to wield magic and throw around spells, working with metal may seem mundane, and many in the capital also believed that

  Smithing wasn’t exactly looked down upon, but it was seen as a relic of the past, a necessity rather than a craft people pursued out of passion.

  Our ancestors had forged weapons and armor long before structured magic was ever developed. Back when magic was wild, unstructured—difficult to control and unreliable at best. Back then, a well-crafted blade could be the deciding factor between life and death.

  But structured magic changed everything.

  It became the foundation of civilization, the key to progress.

  It was structured magic that built the great cities. That advanced alchemy, transportation, communication. That revolutionized warfare. The enchanting—which accounted for nearly half of all those innovations—continued growing, splintering into new areas and subjects.

  Every day, new breakthroughs appear.

  And smithing, for all its history and importance, is now seen as something lesser. Something military. A craft necessary for producing weapons and armor, but not for true innovation.

  Most smiths ended up in the Army.

  Not because they were forced to, but because there was little room for them elsewhere. The tools used in modern projects are forged by their hands, but the ideas behind those projects come from scholars, engineers, and enchanters.

  Smithing is fundamental—but no longer revolutionary.

  And yet, even with all that said, it is still something I find fascinating.

  "Mentor Sivero, are you sure about it?" I say as the hammer in my hand hits a bright red piece of steel lying on the anvil before me.

  The large muscular man with a shaved head and short dark beard sighs and shakes his massive head which causes the small bench to creak under him.

  "We’ve gone over this several times already, Harv. I will not become the representative of our branch of the Midas Consortium. I’ve already sent a letter with the recommendation to my teacher, the Head Smith Parzon. All of us here believe that this opportunity belongs to you."

  Not really, but I don’t try to argue about the last point and lengthen an already long argument.

  "But I wasn't the one who created that Dragon Slayer for the Sword Saint of the West. It was you and I’m just a Colorless-"

  "Harv." He stops me sharply. "You need to understand me too. We’ve spoken about it again and again. Neither my age nor position allows me to travel and take part in this crafting championship."

  After a short pause he continues.

  "There’s something more important, something I deem more significant in life. Being a father, taking care of my children, my flesh and blood. Their smiles, their hugs, their very existence are worth far more to me than fame or status." smiling lightly he continues. "When you have your own, you will understand what happiness children can bring, Harv." My mentor finishes with the same deep western accent he always had.

  Picking up the sword blade that had already begun cooling down, I walk to a big barrel and plunge it deep into the mana oil. I count to ten before taking it out, after which I carry it back to the bench and sit next to Mentor Sivero on the same small creaking bench he’s currently sitting on. My mana starts drilling into the blade’s core, creating mana pathways. These pathways will later be filled with mana, making the sword as rigid or as flexible as the future wielder would want. The more experienced ones will be able to even create a sharp mana edge or apply an elemental attribute to the blade.

  "This is an official Empire championship. Smiths twice my age with an official Rank would be taking part in it. And I still haven’t passed the evaluation. How could I compete or even win against them?"

  "Harv. It’s not about winning, losing or even competing against them. It’s about experiencing it. It’s about seeing the world and allowing it to see you."

  And what if I don’t want the world to see me?

  Mentor misinterpreted my silence as hesitation.

  "Lad. Five years ago a boy arrived in this village, barely over fifteen years of age, who knew absolutely nothing about metals or smithing. But times change and so do people. Look at the boy now." he says pointing at me with his huge open palm. "A well-built young man who knows nearly everything a decent Smith needs to know. One burning with a desire to learn and improve."

  Sighing deeply he continues.

  "I don’t know why you don’t want any attention, but at one point or another you will have to take your rightful place in this world."

  Mentor’s eyes sweep across the empty smithy after which he drops his voice to a whisper and continues,

  "I know that you’ve been tinkering with mithril for the past several weeks, but I haven’t told anyone about that, not even my teacher."

  Shit.

  So there are ears listening even during the darkest hours of the night.

  "Harv, though you might not recognize it now, your dedication, skills, and passion will propel you to accomplish numerous great things—I have no doubt about it. And you will achieve this DESPITE being Colorless."

  Mentor puts his huge hand on my shoulder and continues.

  "I know that it greatly troubles you that your strength doesn't match up to others with a Smith Class. However, a true smith doesn't rely solely on strength; instead, they require steady hands, keen eyes, and ample experience."

  A genuine smile breaks upon his face.

  "I’m very proud to have been your teacher and mentor these past years."

  He pats my back, stands up and starts walking in the direction of the exit. When he’s about to step outside he turns around and says solemnly.

  "Harv Livar, your education has come to an end. We received a letter yesterday. The Smith Guild Council has summoned you."

  Life never goes the way you want it to.

  ...

  "Come on Harv. What did you expect us to do?" says with a smirk a guy, who’s at least a head taller than me and is known around as just ‘Tim’.

  Sweat drips down his red face and makes his long, dirty blond hair stick to his cheeks even more. He tries to swat the hair away with his forearm but fails a few times until he grunts discontentedly and releases his hold on both the blade and the huge hammer. He removes the hair from his face and gathers it into a knot, but in the process smears dark oil across his face.

  A small grin breaks upon my face when a ridiculously thick, black unibrow appears on Tim’s forehead.

  He picks up the blade from the anvil in front of him and with a tired gait passes me, approaching the barrel full of mana oil, into which he plunges the long and slightly curved blade. Bubbling and hissing resounds in the smithy. After waiting the required amount of time he takes the blade out and with a smile walks to the same bench I sat on with our mentor in the morning. He drops down on the barely alive wooden bench and starts the last stage required to finish the sword.

  "You’re lucky that nothing is broken!" comes the tired voice of another person in the smithy. "We ran after you with all we had!" the voice continues with a smile.

  Hank is a bit shorter than Tim, but still much taller than me and at least thrice as wide as Tim, and twice as me. He’s just a huge mass of muscles who can barely pass through a door frame in any normal house, he’s even wider than our teacher himself. You can barely see his auburn hair, as he tends to shave his head quite often, the same way our mentor does, and the only way people know that he's ginger is from his bushy orange eyebrows. His round face covered in freckles radiates peace and happiness despite how out of breath he is.

  And the reason why Hank is in such a state is because our bellows have quite a simple design. It’s just two flat rigid boards connected by flexible material which has an outlet tube in front that produces a pressurized air stream when the boards are squeezed together. The thing is that our bellows are at least three times bigger than Hank, made out of thick metal plates, and the effort required to squeeze the whole contraption is tremendous.

  Hank continues the process of heating the forge for several long minutes, and with each minute it takes a greater toll on him until finally, the forge reaches the required temperature, and the steel ingots within the forge start melting.

  "Damnation!" Tim curses loudly. "Accursed piece of crap!" he continues the stream of curses, after which he throws the blade into a corner.

  "Another one cracked?" I inquire with a grin.

  A scowl emerges as he looks at me darkly.

  "Hey Tim, buddy! Why not ask Harv for a hand? He's always happy to lend a helping hand!" resounds Hank’s tired but still loud and friendly voice throughout the smithy as he walks up to the forge and uses a pair of long tongs to take out the firepot with liquid metal.

  Tim glares back with bloodshot eyes.

  "I am Timothy D’aarin of house D’aarin, student of the High-Smith Sivero Lampros! I need no help!" turning to me he continues. "Especially not from him."

  "Aw, don’t be a meanie Tim." Hank says after pouring the metal into the mold for the cast iron sword guards, he then approaches me and pats me on the shoulder.

  "He's just a bit grumpy because he hasn't quite nailed that 'Tree-style' pathway with the curved blades. It’s his fifth one today. It's been a bit of a rough one, you know? But hey, we all have those days, right?"

  "FOUR! I only failed four times! One of them was defective!" injects Tim.

  "You’ll succeed Tim, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, but you will. Trust me. Just continue working and don’t sulk about it." replies Hank with the same soft and warm smile.

  The scowl slowly disappears from Tim’s face, his shoulders dipping, and finally, his head tilts down.

  "I’ve already wasted nearly a whole week on this, and I've barely made any progress." Tim whispers while scowling at the ground

  "What exactly is the issue? Maybe we can help." encourages Hank.

  A long minute passes until Tim’s quiet voice breaks the silence.

  "Everything goes okay in the beginning, I set up the central pillar pathway as always and the whole thing is perfectly stable, but as soon as I start adding the branches, both the center of mass and the mana focus point start bouncing back and forth, all over the place. It’s nothing like the standard ‘Pillar-Style’ or even Mentors’ unique ‘Spiral-Style’ pathways."

  Tim pauses and continues a few moments later.

  "No matter what I do to stabilize it—whether I add or shift the branch pathways—it just spirals further out of sync. I've tried every possible approach: creating branches one after another, simultaneously, with symmetrical and asymmetrical structures, with pathways big and small... you name it. But guess what? THE BLOODY BLADE ALWAYS ENDS UP CRACKING DURING THE STRESS TEST NO MATTER WHAT I DO!" Tim finishes with an exasperated wave of his hand, clearly fed up with the situation.

  "It cracks ‘cause the mana focus point and the center of mass are too far apart, and pathways do make the sword fragile." replies Hank.

  "I KNOW THAT! I even tried to make a central pillar and a single branch on each side, like a trident" he gestures with three fingers "Even if I make the pathways perfectly scaled relative to the body profile curvature, and increase and decrease the volume and size of the branches based on the curvature angle, the math ends up wrong! A single factor derived from a two-dimensional angle can NOT be used directly to calculate the displacement and volumetric three-dimensional scale of the branches and I’m not even taking into account its own yaw rotation. And whatever I do, as soon as I start injecting mana it flows asymmetrically, bends it, and finally cracks..."

  "That’s the whole point." I start while he turns to me. "It’s not about math. ‘Tree-Style’ is a finicky technique used only on extremely asymmetrical or curved blades and it’s about feeling and sense. That’s why it must be done iteratively and adjusted on the way while constantly checking for the balance, and adjusting very tenderly and slowly. Like a growing tree, slowly, one millimeter after another ." I clarified.

  "And what do you think I’m doing?!" Tim snaps with enraged eyes, shouting at me. "You think I’m a bull in a porcelain shop?! A fool who doesn’t already know that?!"

  "You’re doing it too fast!" I snap back at him.

  "No, I’m not! I spent more than twice the time it usually takes you!"

  "That’s still too fast! Learn how to do it right first, then learn how to do it fast!" I countered.

  "But you didn’t learn it that way! You did it on your first try and it only took you a few minutes!"

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "I was lucky and did a sloppy job! Now I spend at least ten minutes on each blade!"

  "It doesn’t need to be perfect! Success is still a success! I just need to succeed at least fucking once!"

  "And that’s why you won’t! Everything must be done correctly! One mistake and-"

  "Who do you think you are?! Telling me what I can and should do?! You think you’re better than the son of the D’aarin family, you, a ‘Colorless’?!" he screams at me in disgust.

  "TIM!" explodes Hank, all friendliness disappearing from his face.

  Tim flinches back as if slapped, but after a short glare, he walks out of the smithy with a scowl.

  Half a minute passes until Hank breaks the silence.

  "Don’t be angry at him, Harv. He’s scared. Scared and proud... too proud... you know his sassy ass..." Hank says with a smirk after which he sits next to me softly, causing the bench to creak underneath our combined weight.

  "Our education is coming to an end, and soon all three of us will have to return to our home provinces and take the smith’s Rank evaluation."

  Hank’s eyes drill into the stone floor in absolute silence for at least a minute, until he shuts his eyes and drops his head down, burying his face in his palms.

  "I’m scared too." his muffled voice continues. "For years I’ve been here, in this quiet little corner, doing my own thing, learning, enjoying life and just living... and it’s coming to an end any day now... a-and... and I’m scared, no, terrified of what happens next, of what the future holds... I don’t know what’s in it, what awaits me there."

  The silence returns once again, which lasts maybe a dozen seconds until he raises his head and looks at me with the same smile he always has, but it feels somehow different this time.

  "All young smiths dream of becoming the next Nicolas Ehre, the prodigy Smith from the Great Hero Clan, don't we? Becoming a B-Rank smith at a mere 13 years old... It's the stuff legends are made of. But then, life comes knocking, and we're forced to look at things with a clear-eyed perspective."

  After a moment of quiet reflection, he continued.

  "The truth is, Harv, we’re not as talented as you... and studying alongside you, and seeing your progress by leaps and bounds despite you lacking a Smith Class... it makes us feel inferior and jealous, so please, don’t hold it against Tim."

  I slowly incline my head as this is the only thing I can do right now as I process the revelation that this duo with Smith Class felt in some way inferior to me, while I was struggling with imposter syndrome these whole past 5 years... They were the ones who were supposed to end up here while I was... just squeezed in.

  "Well, at least the chances that one of us ends up as an E-Rank smith on the frontline is quite low, everyone has heard those stories." Hank adds with a chuckle and a weak smile. "Okay. Enough moping. Let's get back to work." he finishes, standing back up.

  Yes, we all heard those stories.

  But a person with an actual smith Class is unlikely to end up there, while the ones without...

  ...

  A beam of sunlight breaks through a tiny window and shines down upon the near-empty smithy, basking everything in the warm orange of the setting sun. Everyone had already finished their tasks and went outside to get a good rest and restore their mana reserves. A decent smith needs not just a good amount of stamina but also a large mana pool, as, contrary to common belief, quite a few things require mana. Thankfully my mana pool is somewhat big, relative to an average person’s of course, while stamina can be built up over time.

  Sitting on the same creaking bench which should've been fixed weeks ago, a tired sigh escapes me as I’m about to finish the last sword for today. I take a chisel and engrave an ‘HL’ symbol on the base of the sword's pommel. After that I place the finished sword on my lap and inspect the sword in search of any possible defects. This step was already performed a few minutes ago, but I just feel a strange itch if I don’t perform a second sweep at the end. I could’ve simply missed something...

  The edge of the sword is razor-sharp and polished, so much so that I can see a reflection of a person with light brown hair and eyes of the same color in it, the same person I see in the mirror every day.

  Each of my swords is made with great effort and care, their quality far exceeding what’s required from a simple smith by the Army. Pretty sure if one of them would appear on the open market it would fetch at least a few gold coins.

  Sadly I wouldn’t get a penny out of it.

  Fucking war.

  As soon as Harv Navarus was discharged he became the plain old Harv Livar, a citizen with an above-average mana pool and automatically a soldier of the Imperial Army. Colorless soldiers don’t have long-lasting careers, and most of them end up serving as cannon fodder against the demon army. The fate of those luckless youths is quite predictable. A fate not many would want, me included.

  The whole discharge thing hit me hard, much harder than I expected, but it’s nothing compared to how it affected my mother. She couldn’t believe that the clan would discard a ‘family’ member. Even though mom didn’t have a great relationship with the clan itself, she still believed us all to be ‘of the same blood’, part of a big and tight ‘family’.

  I remember that day as if it was yesterday, how the look in her eyes changed, how her eyes filled with trust and warmth for the clan became hard and cold, a mix of disgust and hatred which she didn’t try to hide from the other clan members. Most of the clan members weren’t responsible for my discharge to my knowledge, but that didn’t save them from my mother’s ire.

  While the events were happening, my father had somehow gotten me a smith apprenticeship far away from the capital and the frontline. I have absolutely no idea which connection he used, or how much it cost, though I can imagine. Most of the gifts from ‘relatives’ and ‘friends’, which were given when I was still a very promising ‘Hero candidate’ disappeared overnight.

  He did everything in his power to make sure that his son wouldn’t end up as another dead boy in this endless war. And the way he accomplished it is just plain unbelievable... I didn’t think that he would remember my offhand mention that smithing looked interesting...

  What I ended up with is a contract with the army to provide them with ten swords a month, and if I fail, there will be strict penalties. It doesn’t seem like a large number but making even a single decent sword may take days if not weeks. Though the agreement didn’t specify the quality of the swords that should be provided, there are two reasons why nowadays I take such great effort to make these swords the highest possible quality given the current circumstances. First of all, it’s because I don’t want to give the army a reason to annul their agreement with me, especially taking into account that first year, I truly made junk, which could barely be even called a weapon, with warped profiles and no pathways to speak of.

  And the second reason is that I somehow feel guilty that other people are risking their lives on the frontline, and I’m here far away in safety. Like I’m a cheater or a thief even though I didn’t steal or take anything from anyone.

  Though, most of the ones using my swords likely are either simple soldiers, who can barely utilize mana, or nameless cannon fodder, which I could’ve been too. If my swords with the well-made mana pathways increase the chances of their survival even by a bit, then I’ve accomplished my goal.

  It may seem that this is my way of paying them back, but deep down I know that this action is more for myself than for them, to keep my conscience from eating me alive at night.

  I evaded their fate. But what did I do to deserve it? Why should I have what they don’t and never will?

  Sighing deeply I put the last sword of this batch into a special wooden crate and sealed the whole thing, and engraved ‘HL’ into it with a chisel. It’s a requirement for each smith to mark their products so that if they break or if the item is of low quality, people can trace it back to the one who made the bad product, and ‘return the favor’ so to say.

  Walking outside I find the sun slowly setting behind the horizon.

  I’ve spent so much time in this tiny village named after the watchtower, that life far away in the outside world seems so distant and nearly forgotten. How do the people live there? What do they do every day? Do they have the same problems? There are moments when I just want to walk to the other side of the continent on foot, meet new people, learn about this huge world, or more specifically what new things there are to see and learn in this world.

  But those moments only last for a few short minutes until I return to the most important task, the only one I’ve known ever since the mana test was performed. My mantra is whispered quietly under my breath.

  ‘Become better’. ‘Focus on work’. ‘Continue learning’. ‘Don't stop’. ‘Go beyond’.

  I repeat it a few more times.

  A sigh escapes me.

  But there are days when things just don’t work out.

  Like every single day for the past few weeks.

  I sigh once again.

  Taking out a letter from my back pocket I read over its content again, and my mood darkens even more.

  Every week I send a letter, and receive one back from my family, specifically from mom. Usually, it’s simple stuff, about the progress of my sweet little twin sisters, how they’re trying their best, learning new spells, how life is quiet and calm at home. Sometimes my father or my sisters write the letters themselves, telling things from their perspective.

  Reading those letters usually brightens my mood, as I imagine my family, gathered together in one small and warm house.

  Life moves on, and before you know it, things change so much that you can no longer recognize the world around you. Next year it’s my little sisters’ turn to take their awakening ritual, and some from the clan have high hopes for them, because of their large mana pools and incredible talent in mana manipulation. Others don’t, they believe that nothing good will come of them for a very specific reason, their older brother, who failed that same test and ended up as a Colorless.

  "Harv!" a small boy calls out breaking me away from my thoughts.

  I turn to the side and find my mentor's youngest child running toward me while waving his tiny hands. We recently celebrated his eighth birthday, which brings back memories of when I was eight. A smile creeps onto my face as the boy is nothing like the carefree old me. He isn’t very big for his age, but he’s already very active in the family business, helping both his father in the smithy and his mother, the village herbalist.

  "Hey, Pete." I say ruffling the child’s dark hair.

  "Stop it!" he demands but doesn’t try to remove my hand, visibly enjoying the close contact.

  "What’s up?"

  "Pa said you’re leaving soon. Why? Can’t you stay here?"

  "...Sorry Pete. But it’s not my decision." I answer with yet another sigh.

  "Oh." he says sadly "But you’ll come back soon, right?" his bright eyes look into mine hopefully.

  A lump forms in my throat and I barely squeeze out an uncertain "I hope so."

  A lie. Why am I lying? What did he do to me to deserve a lie?

  I’m not sure myself if given the opportunity I would return here. There isn’t much left for me to learn from my mentor, and the stuff left mostly comes down to ‘experience’ as he explained. I understand that I need to move further, to learn and experience more, but I don’t know where I should go, which direction to take or what exactly I should do. Stepping into the unknown feels as if jumping into an endless abyss, which isn't a very bright idea. And there’s no one to guide me.

  Hank said something like that too.

  Pete stays silent for several seconds looking at the ground, but then his eyes open wide as if he remembered something important.

  "Did you hear the news? A new hero has appeared in the East. They say she’s very young. I hope she visits us someday to buy one of Pa’s swords."

  "Really?" I say with a smile. "That’s already the second new hero this year, and the summer just started." Ruffling his hair once again I add. "The new hero will be making a very big mistake if she doesn’t come here and ask the best smith in the Empire to make a weapon for her."

  That's a genuine truth, not that anyone in the village would know or understand what it means to be a High-Smith, and how famous Mentor is throughout the Empire.

  Another smile breaks on the boy's face as I know he loves it when people praise his dad. A few seconds later silence falls again with his smile disappearing.

  "What's wrong Pete? You’re very quiet today." I asked.

  "Will they help?" he whispered.

  "What?"

  "Will they really help?" he pauses, "Uncles at the market talked about demons. They said that their numbers increased. They said that Heroes aren’t helping, that none of them went south to the Light border, to kill demons, to protect everyone."

  I softly pat his head to calm the silly child.

  "Come on Pete. They’re Heroes, of course, they will protect us. And you have nothing to fear, you’re safe here in the village. No one has ever seen a demon so deep into the continent. And even if something does happen, your Pa could crack any demon’s skull with his bare hands."

  After a short pause, he nods his head and smiles again.

  "Let’s go, Pete. We have tasty chicken soup for dinner." I say with a smirk.

  "Aaaah! It was you! You killed another one!" he exclaims pointing his finger at me accusingly.

  "No, I did not. The death of a rooster named Sir Richard the 5th was a tragedy and a pure accident."

  Dick is a fitting name for that asshole of a bird.

  Pete squints his eyes and adds "Ma was very angry."

  Uh. Yeah. I still need to survive that...

  "That’s okay. Let’s go, a very tasty dinner is awaiting us."

  Sometimes vengeance is a dish best served as a hot soup...

  ...

  I roll over in bed for the dozenth time, but sleep refuses to take me.

  Usually, curling up under a blanket, closing my eyes for a few minutes, and shifting around a few times is enough. But not tonight.

  Tonight, something is keeping me awake.

  And now, I’m so bothered by the fact that I can’t fall asleep that I’ve started questioning the entire process itself. How do people even fall asleep? What do they think about before they slip into unconsciousness? Is it something they actively do, or does it just... happen?

  Alright. Let’s go over things one by one.

  First of all, my body is exhausted—I can feel it. My muscles ache, my limbs feel like lead. I need rest, probably even more than usual after the past few days of relentless work.

  Nature isn’t calling. My bladder isn’t full. My stomach isn’t rumbling. Not a bodily need, then.

  So it’s not a physical issue.

  Which leaves only one possibility—the worst case.

  Something is on my mind.

  Something unresolved, gnawing at me from the inside.

  The cure is simple enough: resolve it.

  But what, exactly, is eating at me?

  There are so many things on my mind that narrowing it down won’t be easy. So I start reviewing the day’s events, combing through each task, each action, looking for the root of the problem.

  I’ve already made enough swords to last the next two months, even exceeding the usual quota. That’s the reason I’m so tired in the first place.

  I had to overproduce because, during the upcoming trip, I won’t be able to forge anything new. But even though the logic is sound, I doubt the sleazy army officials will care.

  They’re a bunch of pricks and shitheads, always looking for an excuse to line their pockets or secure a promotion. A minor delay in shipments? To them, that’s just another opportunity to create a problem and demand restitution.

  But it’s only about two weeks’ travel east to reach a city with a Smith Guild Council. Even if something happens and the trip takes longer than expected, it won’t be long enough to impact my quota. Or at least, that’s what I hope.

  So no, that’s not the issue.

  What about the evaluation itself?

  I have no idea what to expect. My mentor has been tight-lipped about the process, and I suspect there’s some unspoken agreement between those who have passed. Would’ve been nice to get a hint or two, but no—gotta keep the mystery alive, I suppose.

  Either way, once I receive my Smith Rank, I’ll finally be able to sell my swords officially. Not that it’ll be easy—bureaucracy will always find a way to sink its teeth into things.

  Still, that’s not what’s keeping me awake.

  Mentor’s wife scolded me today, but honestly, that wasn’t nearly bad enough to haunt me at night.

  Besides, the chicken soup she made was delicious—worth any amount of nagging. Especially considering I have a few days of peace before the new alarm clock arrives to ruin my mornings again.

  A small smile creeps onto my face.

  Really? Was that all?

  Of course not.

  I sigh, staring at the ceiling.

  It’s been five whole years.

  Five years since I arrived here.

  When I first came, Pete was just a tiny three-year-old, wandering the village in search of something to play with. Now, he’s grown—not by much, still small compared to the hairy apes that roam around—but enough to start asking questions. Strange questions. Questions a child shouldn’t even be thinking about.

  That’s not right.

  His only concerns should be toys, friends, and the simple joys of childhood. Not heroes. Not demons. Not the uncertain future ahead.

  Heroes...

  I could have been one.

  Is that it?

  Guilt?

  Guilt that I’m safe while others are on the frontlines?

  Or is it regret? That I could have been a hero, but chose not to be?

  I don’t know.

  There’s a heaviness in my chest when I think about it.

  But again—there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  I made my choice.

  And this life... this quiet, peaceful life, far from the capital and the clan... is the result of that choice.

  Do I regret it?

  Hell no.

  I like it here. The slow days. The work. The projects I pour myself into. The thrill of learning something new, pushing past challenges, improving, creating—

  Ah.

  There it is.

  The reason.

  The thing I’ve been avoiding.

  It was never really hiding. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  It hasn’t been several weeks like my mentor thinks, it’s been six whole months. And I still can’t shape mithril. My body simply lacks the raw strength required to work with such a rare metal.

  Some believe that only high dwarves can work with mithril, but that isn’t true. I’ve seen Mentor Sivero working on it, twisting it as easily as a piece of paper, though this can be attributed to his Smith Class or his somewhat ridiculous physique. I researched the whole process for years and observed how Mentor worked with it, what exact steps were taken and how they were performed. Everything that could have been required to perform the task has been given to me. I have every piece of the puzzle, practically spoon-fed to me by my lucky situation.

  And yet I fail again and again. My body is simply lacking the pure mechanical force required to shape the accursed metal.

  The regular rules and behavioral patterns of materials do become all finicky whenever you start working with a metal that has a high mana-conductivity, but this one just takes the prize. And the usual trick of heating the material higher than required to soften it up, which I’ve been employing with other materials, just plain won’t work here. Every single book has been adamant about not doing that. But I’m very close to taking the risk.

  I have no right to criticize Tim. I’m just better at faking it than him.

  I’m a hypocrite.

  My jaw muscles contract and my teeth start grinding followed by a grimace appearing on my face.

  Officially, Harv Livar is Colorless, so no one really questions my lack of strength, they even attribute all of my mistakes and flaws to that. ‘Oh, you couldn’t do that? Well, that’s because you don’t have a Class, and not because your skills are lacking. It’s definitely not your fault!’

  But the truth is that I’m not Colorless, I actually have a Class! And I experienced a true Bound Awakening! I have some kind of Warrior Class judging by the fact that I saw a sword during my awakening.

  To my knowledge, a Warrior’s Class strength is second only to smiths and yet here I am...

  My strength is only slightly higher than an average unawakened citizen, and less than that of an average person with a Farmer Class, like those bulky men gathering wheat from the fields.

  The only reason that I can be a smith is that I’m cheating, using skills I learned back in the clan. A method of increasing one’s physical strength and endurance by simply pouring mana into my muscles, a thing anyone with even an average mana pool can do. And I have to constantly employ that skill to do any work in the smithy. Without mana, I wouldn’t even last a quarter of day...

  GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!

  This is the real reason that Colorless are looked down upon. At some point you hit a wall, a wall called Class-specific skills and abilities. Teachers in the Navarus clan explained that class effects can be vastly different from color to color, from raw physical ones such as strength, speed, or how sharp senses are, ending with mental ones like how much a person can remember and process at the same time.

  A quite common description of the problem is called the ‘bucket and cup limit’ which originally came from a famous Wizard Scholars. Many Colorless would describe the task of casting a complicated structured magic spell as "trying to get water out of a well with a very heavy bucket", a long and exhausting task requiring both patience and attention. While the same task done by a person with the Wizard Class would be described as "lifting a cup from a table and taking a sip", a basic action a person does without even thinking about it, with only a simple mental command required. The ‘bucket and cup limit’ is also appropriate to use as it also describes the difference in mana pool sizes.

  Even if you have the Class it still requires a lot of work and effort to become competent, but your starting point and the limit of your abilities are vastly different.

  But I’m not Colorless.

  Then why? What am I missing?

  Is this a curse, or maybe punishment for not becoming a ‘hero’ as I was supposed to?

  Some books in the clan library have described Classes that require very specific actions to grow the effects of their abilities, but nothing I’ve attempted has helped at all. I haven’t felt much stronger or smarter since I awakened, which means that my abilities haven’t been growing much for the past five years.

  And I tried everything I could think of. All kinds of exercises, all kinds of actions. Friendly sparring with the local guards without using any mana, morning exercises, and practicing the sword forms which my body still remembers even after so many years, not to mention the constant use of mana my job requires. Even experimenting with structured and unstructured magic didn’t help. Hell, I even hunted wild animals and monsters in as many ways as I could think of, using swords, magic, traps, and even my bare fucking hands, but nothing helps.

  Why?

  Why am I not growing?

  If this continues, even my smith's life may come to an end at some point.

  What will I do then?

  What can I do?