Clang... Cluck... Clang.
For a solid month, the rhythmic heart of the forge had been replaced by the dull, uneven dissonance of metal striking metal. Two figures stood before the roaring furnace. One was a small boy who didn't so much wear his safety gear as inhabit it; Nellie's permission had come with a heavy price. She had encased Felix in a suit of thick, overlapping leather—the same heat-resistant hide used for blacksmith's gloves—until he looked less like a child and more like a small, tan fortress with only a narrow slit for his eyes. Beside him, Bastro stood with his jaw clenched, visibly suppressing the urge to wince at every clumsy, "tartaric" strike of the hammer.
"I just showed you the proper arc, the way the weight of the tool should do the work, not your shoulder," Bastro said, finally stepping in to take the hammer from Felix's grip. He let out a long, weary sigh. "It's been a month since we started, and you haven't produced a single piece with a satisfactory result. The rhythm is off, and the temper is uneven."
Bastro picked up the mangled, glowing scrap of metal Felix had been struggling with and tossed it back into the heart of the forge to be melted down. "Go inside. I'll talk to you later."
Felix didn't argue. He trudged out of the workshop, his shoulders slumped in a mask of quiet sorrow.
"Ah, back already?" Nellie asked, looking up from her cleaning. "Is the training finished for the day?"
"No, Mom," Felix muttered, staring at his boots. "I just don't think blacksmithing is for me. Dad said—ack!"
He cut himself off the moment he saw his mother's expression. Her eyes narrowed into a fierce, predatory glint. "Did that old man say something to discourage you, Fel?"
"No, no!" Felix stammered, backing away. "It's just... I can't seem to get it right. He told me to head back for now."
With a heavy heart, Felix retreated into his room, the heat of the forge still clinging to his skin but the fire in his spirit flickering low.
Nellie stepped into the heat of the workshop, her brow furrowed as she found Bastro leaning against the anvil. "Darling, what happened with Felix? He came inside looking miserable, muttering that he isn't cut out for the forge," she asked, her voice laced with motherly concern.
Bastro took a heavy breath, wiping a smudge of soot from his forehead. "It's nothing to fret over, Nellie. The boy just hasn't found the rhythm yet. His strikes are uneven, and the metal won't obey him. I suspect he's simply too young; his arms haven't caught up to his ambition."
Nellie sighed, though she didn't look entirely convinced. She handed him a cool glass of water, the condensation glistening against his grime-streaked skin. "I suppose you're right. He's always been in such a hurry to grow up. Anyway, when are you finishing up for the day?"
Bastro drained the glass in a single, grateful gulp and looked out at the deepening amber of the sky. "Well, the sun's already dipped below the horizon. I was planning on locking up now regardless. Let's go see if we can cheer him up."
The amber light of the dying sun bled through the window, painting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. To anyone else, the sunset might have been beautiful, but to Felix, it was merely a reminder of another day lost to failure. He buried his face into the cool fabric of his pillow, his breath hitching in heavy, jagged gasps.
With a frustrated click of his tongue, he jolted off the bed. He crossed the room in a blurred rush, yanking the curtains shut until the mocking sunlight was choked out. He collapsed back into the mattress, squinting into the darkness to let his stinging eyes cool.
His desperation to master the forge wasn't born of passion alone; it was fueled by a cold, parasitic insecurity. The five years of kindness he had received from Bastro and Nellie outweighed the entirety of his previous life, yet the warmth terrified him. Every time he felt a spark of genuine happiness, the old ghosts of Satoshi Kobayashi would whisper in his ear: What happens when they realize you're a disappointment? How long until they discard you as trash?
He believed that if he could master the steel, he could make himself indispensable. But the past month had been a slow-motion disaster. Bastro hadn't asked him to forge a legendary blade; the task was elementary—to beat small scraps of glowing metal into basic, geometric shapes. It was a lesson in control, simple enough for anyone with a shred of natural talent.
But for Felix, the hammer felt like a foreign object. His strikes were frantic and uneven, the pressure alternating between too timid and too violent. No matter how he adjusted his stance, the metal refused to obey. He wasn't just fighting the iron; he was fighting the trembling of his own soul.
"Dammit!"
The word echoed in the hollow silence of the room. Felix lay sprawled on his bed, the darkness pressing in on him, thick and suffocating. It felt disturbingly familiar—a mirror of his past life's tomb, stripped only of its modern glowing screens and plastic clutter.
I was a waste of space then, and I'm a failure now, he thought, his chest tightening. The one thing this family excels at, the one legacy I should be able to carry... and I can't even dent the iron.
A cold, parasitic dread began to crawl up his spine. The old ghosts of Satoshi Kobayashi whispered from the shadows: How long until Bastro and Nellie realize you're broken? How long until they look at you with the same disgust my father did? He had promised himself he would be useful this time, a son they could be proud of, but the dream was slipping through his small, shaking fingers.
Knock—knock.
"Fel? Come out, sweetheart. Your father wants to talk to you," Nellie's voice drifted through the wood, soft and laced with a kindness that felt like a serrated blade to his guilty heart.
Here it comes, Felix thought, bracing himself. I just hope they don't yell too loud.
He dragged himself into the dining room, his gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards. Bastro sat at the head of the table, his face an unreadable mask of stoicism. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the hearth.
"Felix," Bastro began, his voice low and steady. "I don't know where this sudden hunger for the forge came from, but even if you can't master the hammer today, do not let your fire go out."
It was as if he were reading the frantic, dark script written across Felix's face. He leaned forward, his expression softening. "There are a thousand paths in this world, and you will find the one where you excel. It is far too early to judge your hands. A young body often lacks the raw leverage to command the metal; don't let a few ruined scraps of iron rot your spirit."
Bastro had kept his eyes closed while speaking, as if reflecting on his own scarred journey. But when he opened them, he saw a boy whose shoulders were trembling violently, head bowed low, eyes brimming with unshed tears. He could sense the boy was drowning in a sea of invisible worries, but he chose not to pry. Bastro knew better than anyone that some hurdles can only be cleared alone—the kind of struggles you look back on years later and finally find the strength to laugh at.
Nellie knelt beside Felix, wrapping him in a cocoon of soft, courageous whispers, trying to mend the cracks in his spirit. Across the room, Bastro remained anchored to his chair, his gaze distant as he waded through the ghosts of his own youth.
As Bastro finally stood to retire for the night, a sharp tug at his sleeve halted him. He turned to find Felix's small hand gripping the fabric with white-knuckled desperation. Bastro didn't pull away; he simply waited. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.
"Felix...?" Nellie murmured, her brow furrowing. She couldn't fathom the sudden, electric stillness between father and son. But Bastro understood—he saw the war raging behind Felix's eyes, the struggle to drag buried thoughts into the light. He resolved to stand there for an eternity if that's what it took to hear his son's thought.
Finally, Felix's lips parted, though his voice was barely a thinned rasp. "I... I want to learn swordsmanship. And magic."
The request hung in the air, a startling shift from the soot and iron of the forge. It was a plea born of a soul still grappling with its place in a dangerous world.
Bastro didn't scoff. He didn't demand to know why a five-year-old was suddenly obsessed with the tools of war. He simply accepted his role as a guardian. "I cannot teach you the dance of the blade as I once did," Bastro said, glancing down at his prosthetic limb and walking staff. "A man needs two steady feet for that. But... I can guide you through the basics. I can teach you how to wake the Sword Aura dormant in your blood."
He paused, a thoughtful glint entering his eyes. "As for magic... yes, that old drunkard would be perfect for the job."
Nellie, finally sensing the gravity of the shift, leaned in with rising curiosity. "Who? Who could possibly teach him here?"
A mischievous, nostalgic grin split Bastro's face. "Our old party member, Danir. He's a retired mage of no small skill, though he carries some... unique habits. He's the one who first taught me how to handle a flagon of ale, hahaha!"
Bastro's booming laughter echoed off the timber walls as he began to mutter half-remembered stories of his days with the wizard, leaving Felix and Nellie standing in a daze of bewilderment.
"We just bought this house, Bastro. Our coffers are nearly dry," Nellie's hushed voice drifted through the thin wooden door of their bedroom, laced with a mother's practical worry. "How are we supposed to afford a tutor of that calibre? High-level magic doesn't come cheap."
Bastro's reply was a low, steady rumble. "We'll find a way, Nellie. One way or another, we'll manage. But first, I have to see if the old fox is even still alive. I'll start by drafting the letter tonight."
Felix, standing frozen in the hallway, caught every whispered word. He retreated into his own room, the air suddenly feeling heavy with the weight of his own selfishness. A cold knot of guilt tightened in his chest as he paced the small floor—a space so cramped he could cross it in barely ten hurried steps.
'Was it a mistake to ask for a mage?' his mind raced, the adult part of him calculating the family's dwindling coins. 'We're barely settled, the forge isn't even fully operational, and here I am demanding an elite education. Should I go back in there? Tell them I've changed my mind?'
He paced back and forth, his shadow flickering against the timber walls in the dim candlelight. The internal debate was a storm; he was desperate to learn magic, yet terrified of becoming a financial anchor around his parents' necks. But if I go in now and take it back, it'll look even more suspicious. A five-year-old shouldn't be worrying about the family budget.
After several minutes of agonizing deliberation, he stopped and let out a long, silent sigh. There's only one thing a kid my age would do, he decided, forcing his racing thoughts to go still. I need to stop overthinking like a man in his thirties. I'll climb into bed and just pretend to be fast asleep.
The following twelve days were a blur of restless deliberation for Felix. He spent his hours mentally auditing the family's finances and obsessing over the minor domestic hurdles they faced, his adult mind unable to simply "be a child."
The break in the tension finally arrived in the form of a wax-sealed parchment. Bastro scanned the letter, his brow furrowing as he summarized the contents for Nellie and Felix. "It's from Danir. He says that due to the escalating friction between the Human and Dwarf kingdoms, he's been conscripted to the border. He estimates a wait of at least two years before he can even think about retirement again."
"There's a war between the Humans and the Dwarves?" Felix blurted out, his eyes wide.
"Huh? You didn't know?" Bastro started to reply. "Anyway, yes, both kingdoms have been at each other's throats for the last two months—"
"But what's the catalyst? What's the reason for the war?" Felix interrupted, his modern-world curiosity overriding his common sense.
Bastro let out an annoyed huff and reached out, playfully but firmly tweaking Felix's ear. "Rule one: don't cut my words. Rule two: have some patience. And lastly, I was getting to that anyway."
The atmosphere in the dining room shifted instantly, turning heavy and sombre as Bastro leaned forward. "Have either of you heard of Mithril?"
Before he could launch into a lecture, Nellie interrupted with a deadpan expression. "Please, Bastro. Do not start with your metallurgical ideologies and your 'love letters' to rare ores."
"But it's Mithril, Nellie! It's the rarest vein in the world!" Bastro cried out, his passion igniting. "Those stubborn dwarves already hoard nearly every mine on the continent! If our kingdom secures even one vein, the transportation tariffs vanish, and we could forge Mithril-grade armaments right here!"
Bastro proceeded to talk for over an hour, his voice rising and falling as he detailed the history of the ore and its legendary conductivity. By the time he finished, both Felix and Nellie sat like stone statues in their chairs, their faces vacant from the sheer volume of information.
"So, in summary," Felix said, blinking back to reality, "we are at war because the dwarves are claiming a Mithril mine that sits right on our border."
"Exactly! You've got the gist of it," Bastro beamed, clearly proud of his lecture. "Since your magic tutor is sidelined for two years, I think it's best if you just go outside and play with the kids your age. Be a normal boy for a while."
Felix didn't hesitate. "Then can't you teach me the sword during this wait?"
Bastro fell silent, considering the request for a long minute before shaking his head. "No. Your frame is still too small to handle the weight of practice blade. More importantly, if you learn the basics incorrectly now, you'll build bad habits that are impossible to break later. It would be a tragedy to ruin your potential. Just wait until you're seven or eight; then, we'll see about a blade."
After Bastro's refusal and the news of the delayed tutor, Felix took matters into his own hands. He began a quiet, systematic search of the house, scouring everything from his parents' bedroom to the cluttered corners of the storage room. He was hunting for a manual, a journal—anything that smelled of ink and secrets.
His search turned up a few old story novels he had already memorized, but beneath a stack of moth-eaten blankets, he found something different: several brittle, yellowed scrolls. They were covered in faint, circular diagrams and intricate geometric markings that seemed to pull at his eyes. Lines intersected with strange symbols in a way that looked almost mathematical, yet completely alien.
Finding the silence of the dusty room unhelpful, he brought the scrolls to Nellie.
"Those are magic scrolls from your father's adventuring days," she explained, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "They're withered because once the spell is triggered, the mana burns through the ink. They're one-time tools, Felix. Once they're used, the power is gone."
This only deepened the itch of his curiosity. In a place like Buskon Village, magic was a ghost. Aside from the occasional novice healer dispatched by the kingdom for a short rotation, there were no mages to study. Felix's only real memory of magic was a feverish blur from his infancy—a cool, emerald light that had washed away his pain.
With his plan to unearth magical secrets from old books thwarted, Felix finally yielded to his parents' persistent request: it was time to socialize. Bastro and Nellie had moved into the village specifically for this reason. Growing up on the outskirts meant Felix's only human contact had been with grizzled mercenaries and stern knights buying blades—not exactly a recipe for a normal childhood. While his parents fretted over his isolation, Felix himself hadn't given it a second thought until now.
Finishing his breakfast, he pulled on his boots for his first official "playdate" with the village. He took a slow, aimless stroll around the neighbourhood, quickly realizing he had no idea where the local children actually gathered. He retreated back inside to find Nellie, hoping for a lead.
"Mom—?" He stopped short. The kitchen was empty, the basin dry. He checked the bedrooms and the washroom, but she was nowhere to be found.
His last resort was the forge. He stepped into the heat to find only Bastro, who was hammering a glowing bar of iron with uncharacteristic violence. "Dad, have you seen Mom?"
Bastro stripped off his heavy leather gloves and turned. "No," he grunted, his voice low and jagged. His eyes were narrowed, his face a mask of simmering irritation. He tossed the gloves aside and, in a fit of stubborn bravado, began hammering the red-hot metal with his bare, calloused hands.
They definitely had a fight, Felix guessed, backing away from the radiating tension.
He decided to head out on his own, but as he swung the front door open, he nearly collided with Nellie. She stood on the threshold, her hand frozen mid-reach for the knob. Her expression was stony, a sharp glare barely hidden behind her usual features.
"Mom? Where were you?" Felix asked, his voice tinged with genuine worry.
"Shopping," she clipped out, her tone every bit as icy as Bastro's had been hot. she hoisted a small grocery bag as proof and brushed past him without another word.
The atmosphere remained suffocatingly thick into the evening. At the dining table, the usual lively chatter was replaced by a heavy, clattering silence.
"Felix, pass the salt," Bastro said suddenly. His eyes weren't on the food, but locked in a silent, searing battle with Nellie across the table. They both snorted simultaneously and whipped their heads away in a synchronized huff.
Felix looked down. The salt cellar was sitting less than two inches from Bastro's plate. "It's right next to your hand, Dad," Felix said nonchalantly.
"Felix," Bastro repeated, his voice dropping an octave as he continued to glare at Nellie, "I said, pass the salt."
A vein throbbed in Felix's forehead. He was an adult in a child's body, and he had zero patience for this marital melodrama. "I said it's on your right!" he snapped, raising his voice.
His parents didn't even blink. They remained locked in their staring match like two territorial stray cats, using their five-year-old as a proxy for their petty war.
Two days had crawled by in a relentless cycle of sharp glares and synchronized huffing. The moment Bastro and Nellie occupied the same room, the air grew heavy, their simmering agitation turning the house into a minefield. It was a miserable atmosphere; their distracted, anger-fueled movements only caused Felix more inconvenience. He considered playing the mediator, but one look at his mother's icy expression told him she was far too dangerous to approach.
Felix retreated to the forge instead. He found Bastro hammering a strip of iron with such mindless, brute force that the metal was becoming too thin to ever hold an edge. Without a word, his father tossed the ruined scrap back into the coals and yanked out another glowing bar, his jaw set in a hard line.
What a disaster, Felix thought.
"Dad," he called out.
The hammer didn't stop. The rhythm didn't break. Felix waited, but Bastro remained hunched over the anvil, lost in a trance of irritation. Finally, losing his patience, Felix marched forward and slammed his palm against his father's broad back.
Bastro jolted, spinning around with a startled, furious snarl—his face a mask of raw heat and soot. He relaxed only when he realized it was just his son.
"Huh? What's wrong?" Bastro asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.
"That's exactly what I'm asking you!" Felix shouted, his eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. "Why have you and Mom been treating each other like enemies for the past few days?"
Bastro didn't answer immediately. Instead, his anger dissolved into a look of genuine, utter bewilderment. His brow furrowed, his head tilted, and he looked at Felix as if the boy had started speaking in tongues.
"What?" Bastro asked, his eyes blank with confusion. "Who's glaring at who?"
Huh? Felix blinked, momentarily derailed by Bastro's clueless response. Ah, I see. He's playing the protective father, trying to shield his son from the ugly side of marriage. Noble, but I stopped being a "child" several lifetimes ago.
A knowing smirk played on Felix's lips, though he quickly smoothed it into a mask of innocent concern. "Please, Dad, just tell me. Why have you and Mom been acting like you're invisible to each other for the past two days?"
Bastro looked at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. "Have you gone completely nuts? Why on earth would I be glaring at your mother?" His voice rang with such genuine, baffled sincerity that for a moment, Felix actually doubted his own observations.
Then, after a few more pointed questions and Felix's skeptical stares, Bastro finally got what his son was saying and his bravado finally cracked. He glanced toward the kitchen door, his booming voice dropping into a frantic, sandpaper whisper. "Oh... it's just... ahem." He leaned in close, his eyes darting around the forge. "It's just... Well, the anniversary is coming."
Felix furrowed his brows, leaning in with a mock-serious expression. "What? Which anniversary?" he asked, deliberately raising his voice just to see his father squirm.
"Shh! Quiet, you brat!" Bastro hissed, lunging forward to clap a soot-stained hand over Felix's mouth. "Lower your voice! Our wedding anniversary is coming up."
Felix pulled back, imitating Bastro's conspiratorial tone. "Then why the hell are you both acting so weird?"
"It's a bet," Bastro confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "A contest to see whose gift makes the other the happiest. I'm forging a necklace for her, but I'm flying blind here. Do you have any idea what she's preparing? Any intel at all?"
Felix's mind flashed back to the last forty-eight hours, and a cold shudder ran down his spine. He remembered Nellie locked in the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of scorched flour and unidentifiable spices. He remembered the "tasting sessions"—the jars of experimental pastes he'd been forced to sample that had tasted like wet ash, bitter herbs, and several things that shouldn't be legal to consume.
"N-no," Felix stammered, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his temple as his stomach churned at the memory. "I have no idea what she's making."
"I see. Well, keep your ears open," Bastro sighed, turning back to the anvil. "And don't you dare breathe a word about this necklace."
As Felix watched his father struggle with the delicate, intricate links of the jewelry, it became clear: the greatest blacksmith in the village—a man who could forge a broadsword in his sleep—was completely out of his league.
The next two days passed in the same heavy, tense atmosphere. Nellie grew increasingly frustrated as she struggled to perfect the dish she was preparing. After several failed attempts, Felix had been forced to act as her taste-tester, but the results were so bad he eventually got scared for his health. He backed out by making an excuse that his stomach was upset—a claim that would have likely become true if he had eaten any more of her cooking.
Meanwhile, Bastro was having his own difficulties in the forge. Used to crafting heavy weapons and shields, he found himself struggling with the delicate work of the necklace. The small components were proving much harder to manage than he had anticipated, leaving both parents exhausted and irritable as the anniversary approached.
The anniversary evening finally arrived, settling over the dining table like a heavy curtain. Felix sat between them, pointedly refusing to pry into whether their chaotic projects had actually succeeded. He broke the ice with a formal congratulations, but the silence followed again.
Is this really going to last all night? Felix wondered, losing patience. He reached under the table and delivered a sharp kick to Bastro's shin.
Bastro jolted, his eyes snapping to Felix in surprise. Following his son's pointed gaze, the blacksmith looked toward Nellie. She was lost in her own world, her eyes tracing patterns on the floorboards, her fingers twitching nervously. Clearing his throat, Bastro reached into his pocket for a small wooden box. "…I—"
Before he could finish, Nellie bolted from her seat. She vanished into the kitchen, leaving Bastro and Felix stunned in the sudden vacuum of her exit. Seconds later, she emerged carrying a massive plate shielded by a silver dome. She set it on the table with trembling hands, her usual warrior's gaze replaced by a shy, red-cheeked avoidance.
Felix couldn't help but giggle. Seeing these two—usually the confident, most imposing people he knew—reduced to blushing, stuttering messes was pure comedy.
Bastro slowly slid the wooden box across the table toward Nellie. For a long moment, neither of them moved. They simply stared at the gift wrap as if it might bite. The inaction began to grate on Felix's nerves.
"Just open them already," he said, trying for a charming tone but failing to hide the sharp edge of annoyance.
Nellie lifted the lid first. Inside was a small cake, frosted in white cream and topped with bright red strawberries. A faint, sugary aroma drifted through the room. It was a simple thing—something that could be bought at any street-side bakery—but the sheer effort it had cost her, made it priceless. Bastro's face broke into a radiant, genuine smile. He picked up a spoon and took a slow, deliberate bite.
At the same time, Nellie opened the wooden box. Nestled inside was a delicate silver chain, featuring three small, shimmering sapphires that caught the candlelight. It was imperfect, a testament to the blacksmith's struggle with the unfamiliar scale, but to Nellie, it was a masterpiece.
No words were exchanged; they didn't need them. Their eyes met, glowing with a soft, satisfying warmth that spoke volumes. The tension that had plagued the house for days evaporated in an instant.
Felix leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, silent sigh of relief. He felt more exhausted than the both of them combined. Finally, he breathes a relaxed sigh.