The heat hits me again as I push through the door. The blacksmith is still at his anvil, hammering away at something that glows orange-red in the forge light.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
He doesn't look up.
"I told you to get out," he growls between strikes.
"I'm not here for a job this time," I say, trying to sound confident. Maybe a little cocky.
CLANG. CLANG.
"Then what do you want?" he asks, still not looking at me.
"I want to buy a sword."
The hammering stops.
Slowly, the blacksmith sets down his hammer and turns to look at me. His eyes narrow as he sizes me up—my weird clothes, my average build, my complete lack of anything that screams "serious adventurer."
"You want to buy a sword," he repeats, his tone flat.
"Yes," I say.
"From me."
"Yes."
He crosses his massive arms over his chest. "And what's your budget, boy?"
I pull out the coin and hold it up, letting the light catch the "10" engraved on its surface.
"Ten gold," I say.
For a moment, he just stares at the coin. Then his eyes widen slightly.
It's the first expression other than anger or dismissal I've seen on his face, and I can't tell if it's surprise or something else.
"Ten gold," he says slowly.
"That's right," I say. "So what can you sell me for ten gold?"
The blacksmith doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he turns and walks deeper into the forge, toward the back where I can see racks of weapons—swords, axes, spears, all neatly organized and maintained.
This is it. I'm actually going to get a weapon. Finally, something is going right.
He stops in front of a shelf in the far corner and pulls down something. Not from the weapon racks. From a shelf. A wooden crate, old and dusty.
He carries it back to the anvil and sets it down with a heavy thud. T
hen he opens it and starts rummaging through the contents.
I hear the sound of metal scraping against metal. Clinking. Rattling.
And then he pulls something out.
A sword.
Except...
It's the worst sword I've ever seen.
The blade is rusted, covered in reddish-brown corrosion.
The edge is dull, nicked in several places. The handle is wrapped in old, frayed leather that's coming apart.
The crossguard is bent slightly out of shape.
It looks like someone pulled it out of a lake after fifty years and then forgot about it for another fifty.
The blacksmith holds it up, the rusted blade catching the light from the forge.
"Here," he says. "Ten gold. This is what you can afford."
I stare at it.
"That's... that's a rusted sword," I say.
"Very observant," he replies.
"I can't fight with that. It'll probably break if I hit anything."
"Then don't hit anything," he says with a completely straight face.
I look at him. He's not joking. Or maybe he is. I can't tell.
"Is this some kind of joke?" I ask.
"You want to know if it's special?" the blacksmith says, his tone shifting to something that almost sounds amused. "You want to know if this is a magical sword or something?"
"I... I mean, for ten gold, I was hoping—"
"Oh, it's magical alright," he interrupts, his lips twitching into something that might be a smile. "The blade will vanish on the first swing. Poof. Gone. Like magic."
I blink. "What?"
"It'll break," he clarifies, the smile becoming more obvious now. "The rust is so bad that if you swing it at anything harder than air, the blade will snap off. That's the magic. Instant disappearing sword."
He's fucking with me.
"You're joking," I say.
"I'm not," he says, though the amusement in his eyes says otherwise. "This is what ten gold gets you. A piece of garbage that belongs in a scrap heap."
"Then what's the cheapest actual sword you have?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level.
"Twenty gold," he says immediately. "And that's for a basic training sword. Nothing fancy. Just working. If you want something that won't break the first time you use it, that's the minimum."
Twenty gold.
I have ten.
I need double what I have.
"Can you... can you give me a discount?" I try. "Or let me pay the rest later?"
The blacksmith's expression hardens instantly. The amusement vanishes, replaced by cold anger.
"Get out," he says.
"Wait, I just—"
"Get. Out." His voice drops to something dangerous. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, boy. Coming in here asking for work when you have money. Then trying to buy a sword with coins you probably stole. Acting like a fool, wasting my time."
"I didn't steal anything!" I protest.
"I don't care." He picks up a knife from his workbench—a large, wicked-looking blade—and points it at me. "You show your face in my forge again, and I'll kill you myself. Understand?"
The knife glints in the firelight, and I remember that this is a world where shopkeepers stab thieves without hesitation. Where little girls murder travelers for fun. Where death is casual and brutal.
The blacksmith takes a step toward me, the knife still pointed at my chest.
"I said, do you understand?"
"Yes!" I say quickly, backing toward the door. "Yes, I understand!"
"Good." He lunges forward suddenly, thrusting the knife toward me.
I don't think. I just move.
I throw myself backward, slamming through the door and stumbling out into the street. The knife slashes through the air where my chest was a second ago.
The blacksmith stands in the doorway, glaring at me.
"Don't come back," he says coldly.
And then he slams the door shut.
I stand there in the street, my heart hammering, adrenaline flooding my system.
I look down at my hands. They're shaking.
This world. This fucking world.
Everyone here is insane.
I take a few steps away from the forge, putting distance between myself and that door. My mind is racing.
Okay. Okay.
So I can't buy a sword. Twenty gold minimum, and I only have ten. Which means I need to work for Renna. Haul ore. Earn the other ten gold. Then come back and—
No.
I'm not coming back to this forge. The blacksmith made that very clear.
Which means I need to find another blacksmith. Or another weapon shop. Or figure out some other way to get a weapon.
One thing at a time.
First, I need to calm down.
My hands are still shaking, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my throat.
I find a quiet corner near a building and lean against the wall, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
I'm alive. I didn't get stabbed. That's good. That's progress.
I can still complete the mission. I just need to adjust the plan.
Work for Renna. Earn money. Buy a weapon from someone who won't try to murder me. Kill the rabbit. Get the sword.
Simple.
Not easy, but simple.
I open my eyes and check the position of the sun. Maybe half an hour has passed since Renna told me to come back in an hour.
I still have time to kill.
And I'm still hungry.
Maybe I can find a tavern. Get something to eat. Build up my strength for whatever ore-hauling adventure Renna has planned.
Yeah. That's the new plan.
Food first. Then work. Then weapon. Then sword.
One step at a time.
I pocket the coin and start walking, looking for anywhere that might sell food.
And trying very hard not to think about how close I came to getting stabbed for the second time today.