"[Test Your Skills]… huh?"
The crisp chime of the system echoed in Lock's mind, followed by the familiar glowing text:
Mission Objective: Forge 100 repair tools
Reward: Strength +3, Coordination +3, Weapon Mastery +3
Penalty: None
Time Limit: Two months
Lock stared at it, lips twitching.
"One hundred tools? In two months? …What, am I supposed to walk the blacksmith's path until I die?"
The reward was exactly what he needed right now, but that number felt cruel.
Shiganshina was not a big district. Tucked against the southern edge of Wall Maria, it had a modest population. Work for a blacksmith wasn't scarce, but it wasn't booming either. In the month and a half since he'd joined Harry's forge, the shop had barely taken fifty orders—mostly small stuff: kitchen knives, hoes, scissors. Even counting everything, they'd only made a little over seventy items.
At that pace, reaching one hundred in two months felt… unlikely.
Not that there was any penalty for failing. Still, Lock wasn't the type to ignore a challenge.
"Well… might as well try. Worst case, I'm stronger than before."
Unfortunately, Harry didn't hear that inner resolve. What he did see was Lock staring into space with a blank look.
"This kid's in a daze again… don't tell me he's thick in the head," Harry muttered under his breath. Martha's earlier threat about making him sleep on the floor flashed in his mind, and he straightened up nervously. In their house, muscles meant nothing—Martha was the boss.
She, too, had noticed Lock's absent-minded look and was already frowning. Harry coughed loudly, trying to shift the attention.
Lock finally blinked back to reality, stepped forward, and handed Harry the polished kitchen knife he'd finished earlier.
Harry turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the edge. His face stayed neutral as he said, "Barely passable. Still needs work."
"I understand, Uncle Harry," Lock replied.
He knew the system wouldn't have marked the mission complete if it weren't up to standard. Harry was just hiding his satisfaction, keeping his pride intact.
The rest of the morning was spent with Harry explaining small techniques—how to read the color of heated metal, how to control the hammer's rebound, and the importance of cooling speed. There was no holding back.
Lock absorbed every word. He knew that inside the Walls, jobs were fiercely competitive. The Shiganshina District, especially its cramped inner streets, had long passed the point of having enough work for everyone. Many masters never took apprentices, afraid they'd train someone who would steal what little business they had.
For Harry to teach him this freely, without reservation, was… rare. And Lock wasn't going to waste it.
Even if blacksmithing wasn't his future, it was sharpening his body, his mind, and his skills. And maybe, just maybe, it would help with the system's next trick.
The days blurred. Winter crept in, the air growing sharp with cold. The new year drew near, and so did the conscription date. Lock's physique now outstripped that of any boy his age—he was certain of that. Unless the selection was corrupt, his place in the training corps was all but guaranteed.
One frosty morning, Lock jogged to the forge as usual. His breath puffed in white clouds, boots thudding on the packed dirt streets. The run was quicker than ever, yet his stats hadn't budged.
Too strong already, he thought grimly. Gains were harder now.
He was just about to turn and run a few extra laps when the sound of the shop door creaking open caught his attention.
Harry stepped out, a heavy toolbox in hand—unusual for this early in the day. Business had been slow in the cold months, and Harry rarely showed up before nine.
"Ah, you're here! Come on, follow me—big job today," Harry called, a rare grin tugging at his face.
"Big job?" Lock repeated, curious. He'd been wondering how to tell Harry he'd be leaving next year for military service, but the excitement in the man's voice made him shelve that conversation for later.
They walked quickly toward the wall. Along the way, Harry explained:
The garrison in Shiganshina was doing a full-scale equipment maintenance and overhaul. Every registered blacksmith in the district had been called up to help.
It was an event that only happened once every three years. Piles of weapons, armor pieces, and field tools waited for repair. As Harry put it, this was indeed a big job.
Lock's lips curved faintly. "When you're sleepy, someone sends you a pillow…"
For once, fate was on his side. This might just be the chance to hit that hundred-tool target after all.
And with that thought, he followed Harry into the looming shadow of the Garrison Corps' equipment depot.