In the southeastern part of Shiganshina District, inside Harry's Blacksmith Shop—
Ding... ding... ding...
Inside the dim and narrow forge, waves of heat rolled through the air. The steady hammering of iron echoed again and again—at first a chaotic clanging, but upon closer listening, it carried a rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Alive. Relentless.
"Ronan! Time to eat!"
A deep, rough voice shouted from outside, breaking the melody.
Ronan exhaled and let the hammer rest beside the glowing piece of metal. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat. Muscles trembling slightly from the strain, he reached up to wipe his forehead. Tired, yes—but also satisfied.
In his ear, a system notification rang softly:
[Strength +1. Coordination +1.]
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Working iron wasn't just about force. The upper body bore the hammer's weight, but the legs balanced and pumped the bellows. Timing, strength, and precision were needed to beat out impurities, to coax the iron into shape. Even the simplest task demanded full-body effort.
Ronan liked it.
His body was improving, his stats were rising, and more importantly—he got food. For a boy with a growing appetite and no steady home, it was the best deal imaginable.
What he didn't notice was the man standing at the door.
Harry, arms crossed and expression unreadable, watched the boy closely. It wasn't the strength or endurance that impressed him—it was the look in Ronan's eyes. Focused. Hungry. Not for food, but for the craft.
This kid… really loves blacksmithing.
The thought crept deeper into his mind. Maybe… maybe he could pass on the trade after all.
"Uncle Harry? Why are you staring at me like that?"
Ronan had just turned around, his shirt now slung over one shoulder. Though exhausted, his eyes were still bright.
Harry blinked, then scowled. "I came to call you for dinner. Everyone's waiting on you, brat! No sense of time at all!"
"Sorry! I didn't notice… the time passed fast." Ronan scratched his head awkwardly, offering a small smile.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You like blacksmithing that much?"
"I do," Ronan answered without hesitation.
Right now, there was nothing better. It made him stronger. Gave him purpose. Gave him food. Gave him peace.
Harry's expression softened for a second before his massive hand landed hard on Ronan's shoulder.
"Let's go. You'll starve to death at this rate."
"Guh—!"
The weight of the blow nearly made Ronan buckle. His knees trembled.
[The host has endured a heavy blow beyond his current threshold. Blunt-force resistance +1.]
"..."
Ronan straightened immediately, cleared his throat, and gave a deep bow. "Uncle! Please continue to guide me well!"
"BAHAHAHA!" Harry let out a loud laugh. "I won't be holding back, then!"
He was already picturing it: a young blacksmith who loved the craft and didn't complain about pain. A good seedling. A rare one.
But it didn't take long for Harry's optimism to take a hit.
That evening, they sat at the dinner table—Harry, Aunt Martha, and Ronan.
And Ronan ate.
And ate.
And kept eating.
Despite being only thirteen, his appetite was monstrous. He devoured bread, soup, and meat in portions that would shame an adult.
Harry stared at his plate, then at Ronan's still-flat stomach, utterly confused. "Where the hell is all of it going?"
"I'm still growing," Ronan said, cheeks stuffed, reaching for more stew.
Harry grumbled under his breath and kept complaining, but never once moved the food out of reach.
Beside them, Aunt Martha chuckled softly. Her eyes lingered on Ronan with warmth. She had no children of her own—years of poor health had stolen that chance.
But now, with Ronan at their table, her heart softened. To her, he wasn't a tenant or apprentice. He was family.
Ronan felt it, too.
This world had always felt cold and dangerous. But in these little moments—eating at a warm table, laughing with a loud-mouthed blacksmith, catching Martha's gentle gaze—something stirred in his chest.
A warmth he hadn't known he'd missed.
A family.
But the moment didn't last.
As he chewed the final piece of bread, a heavy feeling settled in his stomach—and not from the food.
Next year… Shiganshina would fall.
He swallowed the last bite quickly and stood. "I'll get back to work."
Before either of them could respond, he slipped out the door.
"That brat…" Harry muttered.
Martha nudged him with her elbow. He sat up straighter.
"I just—he eats too much. It's not healthy!"
Martha shook her head, smiling. Her eyes stayed fixed on the doorway. "If we had children... they'd be his age by now."
Harry looked at her, then fell silent. "Martha…"
—In the forge—
Ronan leaned against the anvil, the air thick with the scent of steel and smoke. His heartbeat had slowed, but the ache in his arms was still there.
He smiled faintly to himself.
People aren't made of steel. But when others treat you with kindness… how can you not give something back?