"Yes," Lock replied truthfully.
For a moment, he wasn't sure how to put it into words. Harry had treated him like a successor, passing on his skills and experience without holding anything back.
The air grew still.
Three seconds later, Harry broke the silence with a crooked smile.
"Go on. Young people should take their chances while they can."
"Yeah." Lock nodded firmly.
Harry took a deep breath. His broad hand—more like a fan-shaped slab of muscle—didn't smack Lock on the head like usual. Instead, he ruffled his hair gently.
"Don't die outside the Wall."
Lock's mouth twitched. "I'll live to be a hundred."
"Remember that."
With that, Harry turned toward the equipment racks and got back to work.
Lock watched him for a moment, then exhaled slowly. He adjusted his mood, set his jaw, and focused on the task at hand. The surrounding blacksmiths cast glances his way—some curious, others envious. Their apprentices' eyes, however, carried nothing but resentment.
Lock ignored them.
The workload wasn't light, but because of his skill, most weapons were in better shape than expected. The so-called "overhaul" was mostly knife sharpening.
As for rare weapons—rifles, cannons—none of the smiths here could repair them. Those had to be sent back to the Wall Maria arsenal. That left only the endless monotony of blade work.
The knives were no ordinary steel—they were forged from black gold bamboo, a material unique to Paradis Island. Tough as metal, yet flexible like bamboo, they were perfect for anti-Titan blades.
The cold metal kissed his palms as he polished the edge, and he had to fight the urge to swing it.
Not yet. First, the training corps. Then the Survey Corps. Only then will I get to wield this for real.
A flicker of impatience passed through him, but work quickly drowned it out.
The day slipped away in the rhythm of steel and stone. Lock's pace was so quick that the other apprentices pushed themselves harder just to keep up. The senior smiths, relieved of some of their workload, lounged more than usual—Harry even managed a few rounds of cards with Hannes and a mug of wine.
Lock made a mental note to tell Aunt Martha about that. Not out of spite—just to keep Harry from getting too comfortable.
When the day ended, a faint ache in his wrist was met with a satisfying reward from the strange system he carried within: [Wrist Flexibility +1].
"I could sharpen knives all day," he thought.
But the work wasn't done in a single day. The equipment stores kept him busy for several more. His wrist flexibility rose three points before plateauing—apparently, the work was no longer intense enough to push further. His arm strength, however, had quietly grown.
So had his height. From 1.55 meters to 1.6 in just over two months—remarkable for someone not yet fourteen. His once-skinny frame was filling out. Harry and Martha noticed, chalking it up to youth and good eating.
It might have stayed peaceful, if not for the five apprentices who cornered him one afternoon when Harry and the other smiths were away.
"Lock, you're getting pretty full of yourself," one of them sneered.
Lock looked at their faces and saw exactly what this was—jealousy.
He'd been finishing work equal to three or four of them combined, and at a higher quality. While a few apprentices matched his skill, most had been chewed out by their masters for falling short. Naturally, they dumped their frustration on him.
Without a word, Lock set down the blade he'd been sharpening, stood up, and drove his fist into the nearest stomach.
Some people didn't deserve an argument. Only an answer.