The morning streets of Millhaven were just beginning to stir as Kieran made his way toward the northern gate.
Merchants were setting up their stalls in the market square, and the smell of fresh bread from Old Marta's bakery mixed with the less pleasant odors of a frontier town waking up—horse dung, unwashed bodies, and the ever-present tang of the sewage ditches that ran along the main roads. Five years after the System's arrival, Millhaven had grown from a sleepy trading post into a bustling hub, but its infrastructure hadn't quite caught up with its ambitions.
Kieran kept his head down as he walked, the wrapped sword tucked carefully under his arm. Even this early, he could feel eyes on him—or more accurately, he imagined eyes on him, which was almost the same thing. The familiar anxiety crept up his spine like cold fingers.
They're not looking at you. You're nobody. Just a blacksmith making a delivery.
Except that wasn't entirely true anymore, was it?
[Class: Artifact Smith]
[Rank: Legendary]
[Rarity: One of Seven Worldwide]
Legendary class. One of seven in the entire world.
Kieran had immediately dismissed the window and hadn't told a soul. Not even Mira, though keeping secrets from her made him feel guilty in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.
He passed through the market square, nodding absently to a few familiar faces. Mrs. Chen waved from her tea shop—he'd need to remember to sharpen those knives later, much as the tedious work made him want to scream. A group of young Awakeners, probably fresh from a dungeon run judging by their equipment, laughed loudly near the fountain. Their weapons gleamed with the telltale shimmer of System-enhanced gear.
Kieran looked away. Awakeners always made him nervous.
In the five years since the System had integrated Earth into whatever cosmic game it was playing, society had stratified into rigid categories. At the top were the S-rank and A-rank Awakeners—combat classes who could level up by killing monsters in the dungeons that had appeared worldwide. They were heroes, celebrities, the new warrior elite.
Below them were the B and C-rankers, still combat-capable but less glamorous. Then came the support classes—healers, enchanters, scouts. Useful, valued, but ultimately dependent on the fighters for protection and status.
And at the bottom were people like Kieran was supposed to be: mundane craftsmen with common classes. Blacksmith, Tailor, Cook. The people who kept society running but would never see the inside of a high-level dungeon, never gain real power, never matter in the grand scheme of things.
Except Kieran's class wasn't common. It was legendary.
And he was absolutely terrified of anyone finding out.
He turned onto Irongate Street, where the town's defensive wall loomed ahead. Mr. Hendricks would be starting his shift soon. Kieran picked up his pace, trying to organize his thoughts. Deliver sword. Accept payment. Don't mention the microscopic flaw in the fuller. Don't stammer. Don't make it weird.
Why is talking to people so much harder than metalwork?
Metal was honest. Metal followed rules. Heat it to the right temperature, hammer it at the correct angle, quench it at the proper moment—the metal responded predictably. People were chaos. They had expectations he couldn't predict, reactions he couldn't model, social rules that seemed arbitrary and constantly shifting.
And now, with a legendary class hidden behind a mental firewall of denial and anxiety, every interaction felt like walking through a minefield.
"Kieran! Hey, Kieran!"
He winced at the sound of his name. So much for avoiding attention. Kieran turned to see Demar Webb jogging toward him—a friendly acquaintance, C-rank Swordsman class, always cheerful in a way that Kieran found both admirable and exhausting.
"Morning, Demar," Kieran managed, forcing what he hoped was a normal smile.
"That the Hendricks commission?" Demar gestured at the wrapped sword. "Mind if I take a peek? I've been thinking about getting some work done myself."
Kieran's grip tightened on the package. The thought of unwrapping it here, in the middle of the street, where people could see and judge and find the flaw he knew was there—
"Maybe when I'm back at the forge?" he said, hating how his voice came out strained. "Running a bit late for the delivery."
"Sure, sure!" Demar clapped him on the shoulder with the casual physical contact that Kieran had never quite gotten used to. "I'll stop by later this week. You do good work, man. Better than that hack Torven over on Smith Street."
Kieran nodded mutely, waiting for Demar to leave. The compliment should have felt good. Instead, it just made the weight in his chest heavier.
Good work. Better than Torven.
If only Demar knew. If only anyone knew what Kieran could actually do.
When he was alone again, Kieran resumed walking, but his mind was far away, back in his forge three months ago, staring at that impossible blue window.
The System had provided additional information when he'd focused on the class description, and he'd read it so many times he could recite it from memory:
[Artifact Smith: A legendary crafting class capable of imbuing created items with supernatural properties. Artifacts created by this class can range from Common to Divine tier depending on skill, materials, and intent. Current skill level: Beginner. Warning: High-quality artifacts will attract attention from powerful entities. Exercise caution in revealing your capabilities.]
That last line had been enough to send Kieran into three days of paranoid anxiety.
He'd spent the following weeks researching in Millhaven's small System library, trying to understand what he'd become. The information was limited—legendary classes were rare enough that most documentation was purely theoretical—but what he'd found had been both thrilling and terrifying.
Artifact Smiths could create items that defied normal physics. Swords that never dulled. Armor that repaired itself. Accessories that granted magical abilities to non-magical users. In the old world, before the System, such things would have been called miracles or fairy tales.
Now they were just... possible.
But they were also incredibly dangerous to make. According to the scattered reports Kieran had found, high-level artifacts attracted attention like blood in water attracted sharks. Powerful guilds, governments, criminal organizations—all of them would go to war over a genuine artifact-class item.
And Kieran? Kieran just wanted to make nice swords in peace.
So he'd hidden it. Kept his class window locked away where no one could inspect it without his permission. Continued taking mundane commissions for mundane prices, creating what appeared to be mundane equipment.
Except... it wasn't mundane, was it?
Even trying to make normal items, even deliberately holding back, Kieran's work came out better. Sharper edges that seemed to find their target. Better balance that made weapons feel lighter. Armor that distributed impact more efficiently. Nothing overtly magical, nothing that would trigger System identification as an artifact, but noticeable enough that his reputation had been slowly growing.
Too slowly for survival, according to Mira's constant complaints about their finances. But fast enough that Kieran sometimes caught people looking at his work with curiosity, wondering why a supposedly common blacksmith's creations felt so much better than they should.
The northern gate came into view, and Kieran forced his spiraling thoughts back to the present. There was Mr. Hendricks, a solid man in his forties with the patient demeanor of someone who'd spent twenty years watching people come and go through Millhaven's gates. He wore the standard town guard uniform—leather armor with Millhaven's crest, a spear leaning against the guard post, and a sword belt that currently held a weapon so old and battered it was practically an antique.
"Ashford!" Hendricks smiled warmly. "Right on time. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten about old Hendricks."
"Never," Kieran said, and was surprised to find he meant it. Hendricks was one of the few clients who didn't make him anxious—the man had a calm, undemanding presence that Kieran appreciated. "I have your commission."
He unwrapped the sword carefully, trying not to look at the fuller groove, trying not to think about the microscopic imperfection that would bother him forever.
Hendricks's eyes widened as the blade caught the morning sun. He reached out reverently, and Kieran placed it in his hands.
"Kieran," Hendricks breathed, testing the weight, moving through a few basic forms. "This is... this is beautiful. This is beyond what I asked for."
No it's not, Kieran thought automatically. The fuller is wrong. I should have started over.
"It's a standard longsword," he said aloud. "Nothing special."
"Nothing special?" Hendricks laughed. "Son, I've carried a blade for twenty-three years. I know quality when I feel it." He moved through another form, and something in his expression shifted to wonder. "The balance is perfect. It feels like an extension of my arm. How did you—"
He stopped mid-sentence, and Kieran's heart lurched. Had Hendricks noticed? Had he somehow seen the flaw, or worse, sensed that there was something unusual about the blade?
But Hendricks was just shaking his head in appreciation. "You undersell yourself, Ashford. This is masterwork quality. I'm almost embarrassed I'm only paying fifty silver for it."
"Fifty is fair," Kieran said quickly. Too quickly. "Very fair. Perfectly fair."
Hendricks gave him an odd look, then smiled. "Tell you what. Here's the thirty silver balance, and..." He reached into his coin purse and pulled out an additional gold coin. "An extra ten silver for exceptional work."
Kieran stared at the gold coin like it was a live snake. "I can't—that's too much—the sword isn't worth—"
"Kieran." Hendricks placed the money in his hand and closed his fingers around it. "Accept the compliment. Accept the payment. You did good work. Stop arguing with success."
It was almost exactly what Mira had said that morning. Kieran felt his face flush, mumbled something that might have been thank you, and pocketed the coins before he could talk himself into refusing them.
"My wife is going to love this," Hendricks continued, strapping the sword to his belt with obvious satisfaction. "Twentieth wedding anniversary is coming up, and I wanted something special to commemorate it. Something that would last."
Kieran blinked. "Wait. This is an anniversary gift?"
"Well, sure. Martha and I, we met during a bandit raid twenty years back. I was a rookie guard, she was a traveling merchant's daughter. Saved her life with a rusty old blade." He patted the new sword fondly. "Figured it was time to upgrade the symbol of our love to something worthy of two decades together."
Something warm and unfamiliar expanded in Kieran's chest. The sword wasn't going to war. It wasn't going to be used for violence or conquest. It was a symbol of love, of protection, of commitment.
That was worth making. That made the sleepless nights and obsessive perfectionism feel justified.
"I hope she loves it," Kieran said, and meant it with an intensity that surprised him.
"She will." Hendricks grinned. "And if you ever get married, you come to me first for advice, yeah? I'll tell you the secret to a happy marriage."
"I... I don't think I'm the marrying type," Kieran admitted.
"That's what I said when I was your age!" Hendricks laughed. "Life surprises you, son. Just wait."
As Kieran walked back through the waking town, the extra gold coin heavy in his pocket, he felt something he didn't often experience: a sense of accomplishment that didn't immediately crumble under the weight of self-criticism.
The sword had a purpose. A good purpose. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe the fuller was microscopically off, but it would serve its function. It would make someone happy.
That had to count for something.
His thoughts drifted back to his hidden class, to the weight of the secret he carried. The System had warned him that high-quality artifacts would attract attention. So far, he'd been careful—making good work, but not too good. Walking the tightrope between quality and anonymity.
But how long could he keep that up? How long before someone with a more advanced inspection skill looked at one of his creations and saw past the mundane exterior to the potential underneath? How long before word spread, before the wrong people came asking questions?
One step at a time, he told himself. Deliver commissions. Keep your head down. Don't make waves.
It was a good plan. A sensible plan.
It was also, Kieran suspected with a sinking feeling in his gut, a plan that was about to be completely destroyed by whatever "significant commission" was waiting for him back at the forge.
He picked up his pace, simultaneously eager and dreading what awaited him at noon. The morning sun climbed higher, and Millhaven came alive around him—a frontier town balanced between the old world and the new, between mundane survival and System-enhanced power.
And somewhere in his small, struggling forge, Mira was preparing to meet a client who might change everything.
Kieran just hoped he was ready for it.
He almost certainly wasn't.