In the southeastern part of Shiganshina District — Harry's Blacksmith Shop
The air inside the cramped workshop shimmered with heat.
Ding—ding—ding—ding…
Each strike of the hammer rang out in steady rhythm, sharp and deliberate. At first it sounded chaotic, but if you listened closely, there was a cadence—almost like a melody.
"Lock, it's time to eat!"
The deep voice from outside broke the pattern.
Lock lowered the hammer, drawing in a long breath. Sweat ran down his forehead as the last traces of exertion faded into a pleasant heaviness in his limbs. The corners of his mouth lifted.
In his mind, the familiar chime of the system sounded: [Strength +1, Coordination +1].
Blacksmithing wasn't just a matter of swinging a hammer. The arms provided the power, but the legs worked constantly, bracing against the floor while one foot pressed the bellows to keep the fire alive. Even something as simple as beating impurities out of raw iron demanded technique.
Lock had no complaints. The work was hard, but it strengthened him every day. And here, meals came with the job—a blessing for someone whose appetite had only been growing.
What he didn't notice was the figure in the doorway.
Harry, the blacksmith, stood watching with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He could tell when someone loved the craft. This boy wasn't just going through the motions—he had the spirit for it. The thought crossed Harry's mind that maybe, just maybe, he'd pass down everything he knew to him.
"Uncle Harry?" Lock finally turned, his lean torso bare, chest rising and falling from the work. His eyes were still bright despite the fatigue on his face. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
Harry cleared his throat, trying to hide his expression. "I came to tell you it's time to eat. You've got no sense of time—everyone's waiting."
"Sorry," Lock said with a sheepish grin. "I didn't notice how fast it went."
"Do you like blacksmithing that much?" Harry asked.
"I do," Lock replied without hesitation.
A trade that strengthened his body, filled his stomach, and paid him a wage? There was nothing not to like.
Harry's grin returned, broad and unrestrained. He clapped Lock's shoulder with a meaty hand, nearly knocking him forward. "Then let's go eat."
Lock winced, rubbing his shoulder. "Do you have to hit that hard? I'm still a kid."
The system chimed again in his head: [Blow Resistance +1].
Lock straightened, eyes suddenly earnest. "Actually… keep encouraging me like that."
Harry burst out laughing. "Don't worry, I won't go easy on you." His gaze softened. A good seedling like this was rare—someone worth cultivating.
Later, Harry would regret that decision.
Because Lock could eat.
For a boy of thirteen, his appetite was monstrous, rivaling Harry's own.
"Where do you put it all?" Harry stared at the still-flat stomach in disbelief.
Lock smiled awkwardly. "I'm still growing." And kept eating.
Harry muttered complaints under his breath, but made no move to stop him. His wife, Martha, only chuckled. She knew Lock's circumstances—knew why he ate like this.
She and Harry had never been able to have children. Somewhere along the way, Lock had slipped into that empty place in their lives.
For Lock, a stranger in this world, their home was… warm. The occasional bickering with Harry, the gentle glances from Martha—it eased the weight in his chest. Sometimes, meeting her gaze, a sting would prick his nose and throat.
But warmth also brought a heaviness. He knew what was coming next year. The thought made his chest tighten.
Swallowing the last bite of bread, Lock rose abruptly. "I'll get back to work."
He was out the door before anyone could answer.
"That boy…" Harry shook his head, but the corners of his mouth curved upward. When his eyes met Martha's, he quickly added, "It's for his own good. Eating too much isn't healthy."
Martha only smiled and shook her head. "If we'd had a child, they'd be about his age now."
Harry hesitated. "…Martha."
Meanwhile, back in the workshop, Lock leaned against the workbench, eyes distant. The warmth from dinner still lingered, but so did the weight on his shoulders.
People aren't plants, he thought. If someone treats me with sincerity, I'll return it the same way.