Part - 1
The path was clear now. Smoke curled faintly into the sky, and the group knew they were close.
"There," Orren said, pointing. "That's Marr's place. Before we go in, listen carefully. Don't draw your weapon. Don't speak unless spoken to. Let me and Lethan do the talking. I know him… a little. If we're lucky, it'll go smoothly. If not…" he paused, "…be ready to run."
Rahim snorted. "We're not stupid enough to draw a weapon on him."
Orren shot him a sharp look. "You are the most stupid one here—and the most likely to do it."
Rahim frowned. "Then why not draw weapons? What's the reason?"
"You'll know soon enough," Orren replied coldly. "For now, just listen. He already knows we're here."
The group nodded and fell in line behind him.
They passed through a dense wall of bamboo until the trees broke into a small clearing. At its center stood a modest hut, the air thick with the smell of smoke and metal. A steady rhythm rang out: iron striking iron.
"What's that sound?" Selvara whispered.
Orren raised a finger to his lips. Silence.
They followed the sound around the hut and stopped. Behind the house, an open forge glowed. A man stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, shaping steel with calm, steady blows.
From behind, he looked unremarkable—perhaps 176 centimeters tall, lean but wiry, his skin darkened by fire and labor. His long black hair hung in a wild, loose mane over his shoulders. His torso was bare beneath a simple blacksmith's apron, his frame burned clean of body hair, scarred by years of fire and steel.
Without turning, the man spoke. His voice was deep, coarse, and commanding.
"Why are you here?"
The hammer came down one last time. Then silence.
Orren immediately bowed his head, and seeing this, the others followed suit.
"Sir Marr," Orren said carefully, "it's me. Orren Zahad, son of Faris Zahad."
The hammer was set aside. Slowly, the man turned.
His eyes were black as night, sharp as blades. His body, though lean, radiated something beyond physical strength, an unshakable presence that pressed down on the air around them. Across his face ran a brutal scar, slicing from his forehead, through his nose, and down his cheek.
"Mmm," Marr rumbled. "Orren Zahad… Faris's son. Yes, I knew a man by that name."
He waved a hand. "Don't bow. Stand."
The group obeyed cautiously.
"Come forward," Marr ordered.
Orren stepped ahead carefully, trying to mask the tension in his body.
Marr studied him for a moment, then—without warning—his palm whipped across Orren's face.
Crack!
The blow was so hard it dropped Orren to his knees.
The rest of the group froze in shock. Rahim's eyes widened in fury, but his body refused to move. Velra's hand went instinctively to her sword hilt, not drawing, just resting there. Selvara's grip tightened on her staff. Rahim clenched his fists, teeth grinding.
Then it hit.
A sudden, suffocating wave of pressure slammed into them, like the air itself had turned to stone. Velra recognized it instantly. She had felt something similar when she crossed blades with Orren an the Drunken Boar… but this was not the same. This was leagues beyond. Unfathomable.
Their knees buckled. One by one, all of them crashed to the ground, palms pressed against the dirt.
Marr's dark gaze swept over them, finally locking on Velra. His voice cut like a blade.
"You. Did you truly think of drawing your sword?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Do you want to try again?"
Part - 2
"Do you want to try again?"
Velra's jaw tightened, fury burning in her eyes, but her body refused to obey.
Orren forced himself upright, head lowered. "Forgive me, Sir Marr. I know it was my mistake. I have prepared an appropriate compensation."
Marr's gaze was sharp, cold. "Compensation?" His voice was heavy, each word pressed with disdain. "Did you truly think that just because I remain in this forest, you were free to run from your debt?"
The others exchanged uncertain looks. Compensation? Debt? What history lay between these two that even Orren Zahad would bow and bargain?
Marr stepped forward. The oppressive pressure lifted as suddenly as it had descended. Yet none of them rose. Their knees stayed pressed to the ground, as if their own minds refused to let them rise before the man.
Only Orren stood. He turned, helped Lethan to his feet, and guided him toward Marr. "I have brought the compensation," Orren said, voice steady, "but also because he must relay information to you."
"That comes after." Marr's tone cut the air like steel. "First, the debt."
Orren inclined his head, then moved toward Nadir. "The pouch," he muttered. Reluctantly, Nadir produced the bag they had carried all this way from the Drunken Boar—borrowed from Mira—and handed it over. Orren stepped forward and placed it in Marr's waiting hand.
Marr weighed it briefly, then asked, "How much?"
"One thousand gold," Orren said, bowing deeply. "The full sum I owed you."
Gasps spread through the party. Velra's eyes widened. Selvara covered her mouth. Even Rahim muttered under his breath, "A thousand... gods above."
Only Nadir's face remained grim; he had known.
Marr's expression did not change. He let the pouch fall against his palm once, then spoke with quiet finality. "A thousand was the original amount. Now it is two thousand. For the delay."
Nadir couldn't help himself. "What...?" he blurted, disbelief spilling from his lips. Even he had not expected such mercilessness.
Marr's eyes cut toward him, sharp as a blade. "Do you even know what this debt is for…? If not, then keep silent."
The air itself seemed to hush at his words.
Marr turned back to Orren, eyes narrowing. "You should have paid me the same day you took that greatsword on your back. The one I forged with my own hands. Do not think I forget."
Orren bowed his head lower, silent, the weight of Marr's words pressing heavier than the suffocating aura had moments before.
Part - 3
They all understood now what Orren had meant when he said he "knew" the Weaponmaster — he had taken a weapon from him once. The silence at the bamboo grove felt heavier for it.
Orren looked at Marr. "But sure, sir… two thousand is still too much."
Marr's eyes went flat. "I let you off for decades, and you say it's too much. You are the same as your father; you both are ungrateful brats."
Orren dropped to one knee, hands joined. "I apologise, sir. It was an emergency then, I couldn't pay. Don't compare me to my father. He was ungrateful, I am not. He didn't respect your teachings, but I am not like him. I'm late paying, yes, but I'm still here."
Marr watched him, the hard line around his mouth softening as he read the sincerity in Orren's posture and voice. At last he sighed.
"Ok, ok. I will let it go. I will take the Thousand and you can all stand up now."
They rose, still showing Marr the respect the man demanded. No one joked or swaggered; the air around the forge kept that much of their tongues.
Marr motioned toward a low bench. "Sit. I'll get you tea. Not many drop by here." They gathered on the grass as Marr moved inside to fetch cups.
It was after Marr had gone to prepare tea that the questions poured out.
"Why the hell didn't you tell us you'd stolen a weapon from him?" Nadir demanded.
"What stole? I didn't do anything like that, I just didn't pay him," Orren replied.
Nadir, hot with irritation, cut in, "What's the difference?"
Rahim barked, "You could have at least told us." His face flashed with that mix of anger and wounded pride.
Lethan, astonished, said, "I didn't know the Weaponmaster also made weapons or that he was a blacksmith."
Orren answered, "Not just any smith." He let the words hang. "He's said to be the best."
Everyone's surprise deepened.
When Marr returned with tea, he sat and listened. He poured for them, then set the kettle down and fixed Lethan with a steady look.
"So," Marr said, "what's the news that dragged you all the way here to me?"
Lethan, trembling and stumbling over his words, forced them out. "Actually… I am from Mnemonrae, and I was sent here to tell you that your rank has changed."
Marr raised a brow. "To what?"
Lethan swallowed. "To sixth on the Crimson Ledger, from fourth."
He covered his head as if expecting a blow.
Marr stared; then he barked a laugh. "Just this? You came all this way to tell me just that?"
The party was aghast. "We thought you would kill us in anger hearing this news," someone blurted.
Marr looked at them, incredulous. "What? Why would I do that?" he replied.
Orren answered for them, cautious. "Well, with all the rumors, I thought you might have changed."
Marr's face hardened. "Those are all fake rumors. Don't believe them. By the way, I'm curious — who took my place? Caltheris, or Tharos?"
They looked at Marr and told him the truth: two new entries, both newcomers at ranks two and five, pushed him down. No one knows who they are.
Marr considered that, eyes distant. "Then the map of power will shift soon," he said softly.
After tea and a long conversation, Marr shrugged. "It's almost evening. Stay here in the grove. You won't leave this area easily after dusk anyway."
Orren thanked him. Lethan and some of the others began pitching tents.
Marr came up beside Orren and spoke more quietly, like a man checking on his own weapon. "How's the sword? Any worries?"
Orren replied, "It's brilliant. Not a scratch. I haven't even polished it since I got it from you."
Marr's face brightened at that. The work of his hands still mattered to him. "Let me see it. I'll make some adjustments if needed." Orren handed the greatsword over.
Then Orren asked, curiosity and a little edge in his voice, "What was Master Jurok doing here?"
Marr rolled his eyes. "That old man always comes to bother me. He asked me to make him a staff from a piece of Diamond Wood."
Orren's voice rose. "WHAT??"
Marr waved him down. "Quit shouting. Yes, I finished it. He was here to take it."
"So that's what it was." Orren's face softened into something like a smile. "We saw him with a staff; he was very happy, So that's why."
Velra came up behind them then, calling them to eat — dinner ready, the stew steaming. They sat, ate, and drank. As the night deepened and after a few drinks, Marr changed in front of them; the iron-faced blacksmith who'd struck Orren had become unusually talkative, almost jolly, a contrast to the hammer-and-anvil man they'd first met.
Velra, still stunned by everything, asked, "I didn't know you were a blacksmith."
Marr's grin widened. "Why do you think they call me the Weaponmaster?"
Rahim blurted blithely, "Because you've mastered every weapon in history."
"That's part of it," Marr nodded. "But that happened years after I became Weaponmaster. Want something interesting? I only had one disciple in my entire life. Guess who it was?"
All eyes swung to Orren.
"No, no, not this brat," Marr said with a humorless laugh. "It was his father."
The group froze. "Your father, Faris Zahad?" someone breathed.
Marr's expression turned strange, tight with memory. "Yes, that boy. He ran off while I was still teaching him the forge. Said he'd become a warrior." Marr's voice went thin. "Now he's dead. He didn't become what he planned. He should have stayed with me." He grew quiet, and then angry. "That wench… I wish I could kill her."
"Wench? Who killed him?" someone asked.
Before Marr could answer, Orren cut in: "It was the current 10th-ranked Dream Eater Sorceress, Ysolde Kaerrin."
Selvara's face went pale. "Her… she also killed my teahcer Daelric."
Marr looked toward Selvara. "Daelric?"
Rahim's voice, sharp, asked, "Did you know him? Daelric Dremiac?"
Selvara stood, voice steady but cold. "Yes. Did you knew him too?"
The name pulled something raw from Marr. His mood darkened. "She's killing old friends," he said. "Daelric wasn't the strongest — he was a friend. Why would she do that?"
Rahim's brow actually furrowed. "Why? You can kill her; you're the Weaponmaster."
Marr's eyes cut to Orren like a blade. "Brat, if that was easy I'd have already done it. Didn't you ever think why I never hunted your father for the debt?" He leveled a look at Orren. "Is your son stupid?" he snapped.
Orren bowed his head. "I am sorry, Master Marr."
Rahim, indignant, retorted, "What? I'm not stupid."
Marr answered, blunt and bitter. "It's because of her sorcery. If I leave this grove, wounds cover my body." He tapped the track scars that ran clean across his skin.
"Blood Sorcery," Selvara said quietly.
End of Chapter.