After celebrating his first birthday in this world with both of his families, Lock was now fourteen.
The date of the conscription meeting drew closer, but he felt no urgency. His name was already on the shortlist. Connections matter, he thought. With Hannes quietly arranging things on his behalf, the result was never in doubt.
Instead, Lock poured his focus into training his double-sword style.
His growing strength in arms, wrists, and grip meant that each swing of the bamboo pole cracked the air like a whip. Passersby stopped to stare, stunned by the power behind even his practice strokes.
At first, many had mocked him for "playing around." Now, the sound alone was enough to make them step back. Even knowing it was only bamboo, no one doubted it could knock a man senseless.
Fortunately, Lock never pushed too far. After half an hour of relentless drills, he let the pole fall still.
"This is enough. Any more and I'll just waste strength," he muttered, tossing the bamboo aside beneath a tree.
Without pause, he sprinted through the streets toward the blacksmith's quarter. By the time he reached Harry's forge, his lungs burned and his legs ached, but he didn't slow.
The clang of hammer on iron greeted him before the heat did. Inside, Uncle Harry stood bare-chested at the anvil, sweat running down his muscular frame as he struck a glowing billet again and again. Each blow sent sparks flying, each impact echoing through the shop.
Compared to Lock's rough hammering, Harry's movements had a rhythm, a practiced precision born of decades. The difference wasn't in brute force, but in mastery.
With a final ringing strike, Harry quenched the iron and set it back into the furnace. Only then did he notice Lock standing nearby.
"You little brat," he said with a laugh, wiping his brow. "Sneaking in without a word. The scissors at home broke, and your Aunt Martha's been complaining for weeks. Thought I'd forge her a new pair. The base work's done—I'll let you handle the rest."
And before Lock could answer, Harry was already striding out, leaving the shop in his hands.
Lock sighed, shaking his head. But as he looked at the refined billet on the anvil, he couldn't help but smile.
"Old fox," he murmured. "Even with my strength, I still can't match him in this stage of work."
The memory of an old system task stirred in his mind. He had nearly forgotten about it.
"Maybe this will count," he thought. "If not, then fine—I'll let it go."
It wasn't a lack of perseverance. He had tried dozens of times already. No matter how perfect the finished work looked, the system never recognized it. Craftsmanship wasn't brute strength. It was patience, technique, and a thousand repetitions.
And with conscription so close, Lock knew he wouldn't have much time for blacksmithing soon.
Still, with the billet glowing red before him, he couldn't resist. He set to work.
The forging of scissors was simple in theory, but slow in practice. Without proper grinders, every step had to be done by hand—hammering, shaping, and eventually polishing. But Lock's body was more than capable. His strikes fell steady, controlled.
Soon, two blades took form. Their shape and thickness matched, the drilled holes aligned. For the first time, he felt a flicker of certainty.
"This might be it."
The grinding process was long and monotonous, but his stamina carried him through. When he finally raised the finished blades to the light, their black edges gleamed faintly.
Lock nodded in quiet satisfaction. "The best I've made yet."
As if answering him, the familiar chime rang in his head.
Ding.
Achievement unlocked: [Apprentice Craftsman].
Strength +3. Coordination +3. Weapon Mastery +3.
Power surged through his body, washing away exhaustion, sharpening his focus. He felt stronger, lighter—renewed.
And, grinning to himself, he ran a hand through his still-thick hair. "And not bald. Perfect."
What Lock didn't notice was the window across the street. Inside the house opposite the forge, Harry and Martha sat together, quietly discussing the boy who had come into their lives.