The next morning, Alph’s boots thudded against the wooden stairs as he entered the kitchen. Varrick hunched over the table, shoveling porridge into his mouth, his bowl half-empty. Across from him, Alph’s breakfast sat untouched, tendrils of steam curling into the air.
"Morning, lad," Varrick grunted, pushing the bowl across the table. "Not much on the books today. My old man has his own projects, and no big commissions."
"A slow day?" Alph asked, taking a seat.
"And hopefully it'll stay this way," Varrick said with a hearty laugh, "unlike last time!"
Alph nodded, spooning porridge into his mouth. “Good. Means we can focus on something else, then.”
Varrick raised a brow, a speck of porridge clinging to his beard. “Oh? And what might that be, apprentice? Got a sudden urge to polish the anvils?” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
Alph swallowed the porridge. “Weapon sharpening, Master,” he said. “I need to learn how to keep a proper edge.”
"A practical choice," Varrick decided, his smile gone. "A sharp blade is a safe blade, and a dull one, a liability. Finish the breakfast. We begin then."
They moved to a corner of the smithy, away from the roaring forge. Varrick pulled out a worn whetstone and a practice axe, its edge blunted from training.
"First, you feel the edge," Varrick said. He ran a calloused thumb along the metal. "You learn what a good edge feels like, then you learn to replicate it."
Alph watched.
"Most think sharpening is about grinding metal away. It's not. It's about coaxing the metal, aligning the molecules, making it sing."
Alph took the axe, running his fingers along the dull edge. He activated Insightful Gaze. The steel's structure sharpened into focus—microscopic flaws, uneven wear, subtle grain distortions. He pinpointed folded edges, chipped sections, and smooth patches of wear.
“See this?” Varrick pointed to a minuscule burr. “That’s what you’re fighting. You want to remove that without taking off too much good metal. Angle is everything. Too steep, you get a weak edge. Too shallow, it won’t bite. Find the sweet spot, and hold it.”
Varrick moved with fluid precision. The whetstone hissed against steel, forming a fine slurry of metal and stone. He worked with deliberate focus, eyes locked on the contact point. "Consistency, lad. Same pressure, same angle every stroke. You have the skills, but you shouldn't blindly rely on them to do the work."
Alph gripped the stone, mimicking Varrick’s posture. As he engaged Patient Refinement, his focus sharpened, not just on the physical motion, but on the metal’s subtle resistance, the shifting vibration in his hands. The burr yielded, then vanished, a finer, uniform edge emerging. The process, a meditation, danced between force and finesse.
Varrick turned the axe in his hands, testing the edge with a calloused thumb. "Not bad, for a first go. You’ve got a steady hand—some lads never get it. They hack at the steel like it’s an enemy, not a partner."
Alph wiped his hands on his apron. "What happens when they don’t?"
“I saw a man lose an arm,” Varrick said. “His sword slipped. He blamed a dull blade. Maybe the sharpening failed, maybe the man did.” Varrick exhaled hard. “We hunted a griffin in the Grak Mor. It killed half a caravan of miners seeking Adamantite ore. The guild wanted its head.”
“My axe never failed me,” he continued. “I kept it sharp enough to shave with, even after a week in the wilds. Out there, a good edge means you walk away whole.”
Alph listened, absorbing the story. “It sounds like a dangerous life, Master.”
Varrick's massive shoulders moved with a slow exhale, the memory weighing him down. "It was," he admitted, his voice rough. "But simple. Out there, dangers had teeth you could see; fangs, claws, the kind of wind that flays flesh. You knew what you fought." His thumb traced the axe's edge, a reflexive motion. "No riddles, no whispered lies in the dark. Just the raw truth: fight, think, or die."
"You miss it," Alph said. "Why leave? Why choose hammering metal in this dungy hall all day? Family business can't be the only reason."
Varrick shook his head. "Not entirely. Our group, me, Throfin, Rugnir, Erda and Morna, we were quite a force."
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"What happened?" Alph asked.
"Had to split after Erda got married. Couldn't go on without a healer, and we couldn't accept someone new." Varrick's voice carried melancholy. "At the same time my old man began his senile quest of researching artificial core." He spat. "Impossible task if you ask me."
Alph's heart pounded faster, Artificial core? Mana core? But he kept his mouth shut. Stop, I can't ask—it would be suspicious.
"Master Varrick," Alph said, keeping his voice steady. "I need to ask for a few days off. This coming weekend, perhaps three days."
Varrick looked up from his work. "Personal matters?"
"Yes. I have some things to attend to."
"Three days? That's a long stretch, lad. We're not exactly swimming in apprentices here."
Varrick rubbed his beard. "And with the old man... well, he needs his components, and I need help forging them."
"You are reliable," Varrick finally said; his eyes narrowed, considering the request. "You learn quickly. If we finish the damn drill these next few days, then yes—” He settled the matter. "Three days. Come back ready to work, not slacking off."
"Thank you, Master Varrick," Alph said. "I won't disappoint you."
Varrick nodded, turning back to the sharpening stone. “Alright, enough with idle chatter, let's get back to work.”
Alph returned to his sharpening, the rhythmic scrape of stone against steel filling the silence. But his mind was a mess.
If it is what I think it is, then Haldrix… is he the Tier 5 Artisan I have been looking for? No. That doesn't seem right. Based on Corbin's intel the legendary artisan moved into Val Karok, while Haldrix had been in the city for a long time.
The timing doesn't match. Maybe he is just one of those who is researching it? Alph discarded the unproven theory, his focus narrowing to his next move. He had secured his window. Three days. Enough time to reach Gloomwater, execute the target, and return.
The scent of coal smoke clung to Alph's clothes as he entered his small room. He closed the door, plunging the space into near darkness. He sat on the edge of his cot. His mind, still buzzing from Varrick's words, sought the familiar quiet of the Mind Garden.
He closed his eyes. The transition was immediate, seamless. The chaotic storm of his thoughts dissipated, replaced by the tranquil expanse of his inner sanctuary. The familiar constellations glittered above.
"Shaper," Alph's voice echoed in the vastness. "Have you observed any shifts in the Fighter node?"
"Indeed, Little One. The pull towards Tier 1 Fighter has strengthened."
The Shaper's voice filled the space. "Your consistent engagement with training accelerates the nodal attraction. The practice grounds your intent, solidifies the pathway."
Alph exhaled, the tension in his mind easing as the Shaper confirmed what his bones already suspected.
"There's something else," Alph said. "Varrick mentioned his father is studying artificial cores. Said Haldrix has been researching them."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Is it even possible for someone to create an artificial mana core? If so, could it replace my broken core and reignite Frost Rune Scribe?"
The Shaper paused, a longer silence than usual. "Possible?" The voice resonated with a hint of ancient amusement. "With magic, Little One, 'impossible' is a word mortals use for what they do not yet comprehend. The world holds countless wonders, and many horrors, born from what was once deemed impossible."
"But to create an artificial mana core," the Shaper continued, its tone shifting to one of profound contemplation, "that would require a confluence of extraordinary talent and rare circumstance. It is not a matter of simple craft or brute force."
"Such a feat would demand a truly exceptional Tier 5 Professional to conceptualize and design the intricate solution. One who understands the very fabric of mana, its flow, its inherent properties, and how to merge it with the flesh."
"And then," the Shaper added, a new constellation flaring briefly in the distance, "it would require an equally exceptional Artisan to craft it. Not merely a master of materials, but one capable of imbuing inert matter with the very essence of magical life, of weaving mana pathways where none naturally exist. This Artisan would possess a profound understanding of creation itself, pushing the boundaries of what is known."
"Will it reignite the Frost Rune Scribe node?" the Shaper asked. "The answer is obvious, Little One. That node feeds off mana. Supply it, and it will reignite."
Alph absorbed the Shaper's words. A Tier 5 professional, likely a mage to design it, and a Tier 5 Artisan to craft it. The bar was high, yet the Shaper affirmed its theoretical possibility.
He considered the implications. Haldrix's obsession, Varrick's frustration, the veiled secrets of the Grimforge Smithy. The pieces shifted in Alph's mind, forming a new, complex puzzle.
Is Haldrix a Tier 5 Artisan? This was the question he needed the answer to.
Alph had days to investigate this. Haldrix wasn't going anywhere. He would delve deeper into this mystery. But not tonight. Tonight, he needed rest.
"Thank you, Shaper," Alph said. "I have much to consider."
He exited the Mind Garden, the stars fading as he opened his eyes to the dim light of his room. The cot felt harder now, the air colder. He lay back, his thoughts swirling with images of ancient artisans, impossible crafts, and the faint, unsettling whisper of a hidden purpose. He had found a significant lead, but it could also be a red herring.
Past hopes and future dreams weighed heavily on him. He shut his eyes, sleep feeling like a far-off land.
Who is your favorite side character so far?
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