Kieran was halfway back to the forge when he passed the recruiting station.
It was a new addition to Millhaven—barely two months old—established by the Valorian Empire to conscript Awakeners for their ongoing border conflicts. A large banner hung above the doorway: "SERVE YOUR NATION. HONOR THROUGH STRENGTH." Inside, he could see a recruitment officer in imperial colors talking to a young man who couldn't have been more than eighteen, all eager eyes and dreams of glory.
Kieran's stomach twisted. He looked away and walked faster.
But the damage was done. The memories were already surfacing, no matter how hard he tried to push them down.
Greyhaven. Two years ago.
His hometown. The place he'd sworn never to return to.
Kieran's hand unconsciously went to his chest, where beneath his soot-stained shirt, a thin scar ran along his collarbone. Most days he could ignore it. Most days he could pretend it didn't exist, that the past was buried deep enough to stay dead.
Today wasn't most days.
The morning crowds seemed to press in around him as he walked. His breathing got shallower. The rational part of his mind knew this was the beginning of a panic spiral, knew he should stop somewhere quiet and wait it out. But his feet kept moving, carrying him toward the forge on autopilot while his mind tumbled backward through time.
Greyhaven had been smaller than Millhaven—a manufacturing town in the heartland of the Valorian Empire, known for its steelworks and munitions factories. Before the System, Kieran's father had run a small blacksmith shop there, nothing fancy, just honest work for honest pay. After the System arrived and his father received the common Blacksmith class, not much had changed. They'd continued doing what they'd always done: making tools, horseshoes, the occasional decorative piece.
Kieran had been twenty-three when his father died. Heart attack, sudden and brutal. One moment the old man was hammering out a plow blade, the next he was on the floor, and no amount of desperate CPR or healing potions could bring him back.
The System didn't care about heart attacks. It only cared about combat.
Kieran had inherited the shop, the tools, and the Blacksmith class that had automatically transferred to him as the nearest blood relative. He'd buried his father, paid off the debts, and tried to keep the business running alone.
That had been the worst year of his life. Or so he'd thought at the time.
He'd been so lost in grief that he'd barely noticed the System notification that appeared six months later, right in the middle of crafting a memorial blade for his father's grave. The blue window had materialized in his vision, and Kieran had stared at it in numb incomprehension.
[Class Evolution Available]
[Blacksmith → Artifact Smith]
[Accept? Y/N]
He should have thought about it. Should have researched, considered the implications, understood what he was accepting. But he'd been alone, grieving, desperate for any sign that he could be more than just adequate at his father's trade.
He'd selected Yes.
The transformation had been instantaneous and overwhelming. Knowledge had flooded his mind—not instructions exactly, but intuitions. Ways of seeing metal that went beyond the physical. An understanding of how intention and skill could merge to create something greater than the sum of its parts.
His first artifact had been the memorial blade for his father's grave. A simple longsword, but he'd poured everything into it—his grief, his love, his desperate wish that he could have done more. When he'd finished, the blade had hummed with power. System-identified as Common-tier artifact: "Mourner's Edge."
He'd been so proud. So stupid.
Kieran turned down a side street, taking the long way back to avoid the market crowds. His hands were shaking slightly. He clenched them into fists, focusing on the physical sensation to anchor himself in the present.
Stay here. Don't go back there. You're safe now.
But the memories had momentum, and once started, they were hard to stop.
He'd kept the class change secret at first, some instinct warning him that legendary classes were dangerous things to advertise. For three months, he'd continued taking normal commissions, but his work had improved dramatically. Word had spread through Greyhaven—the young Ashford boy was doing exceptional work, better than his father ever had, better than seemed possible for a common Blacksmith.
People had started asking questions.
And Kieran, lonely and grieving and desperate for validation, had been careless.
The turning point had come on a rainy afternoon in autumn. A local knight named Sir Garrett had commissioned a sword—nothing fancy, just a replacement for one he'd damaged in a dungeon run. Kieran had crafted it carefully, trying to walk the line between quality and restraint.
He'd failed.
The sword had come out as an Uncommon-tier artifact: "Steadfast." Nothing spectacular by legendary standards—just a blade that was slightly more durable, slightly sharper, with a minor passive skill that improved the wielder's balance. But to Sir Garrett, who'd expected a mundane weapon from a common-class craftsman, it had been revelation.
"How did you do this?" Garrett had demanded, his inspection skill clearly showing him the artifact designation. "This is artifact-level work. You're not an enchanter. What's your real class?"
Kieran should have lied. Should have claimed it was a fluke, blamed it on lucky materials, anything. But he'd been so tired of hiding, so desperate to share his success with someone, that he'd told the truth.
"Artifact Smith," he'd admitted. "I evolved six months ago. Please don't—"
He hadn't even finished the sentence before Garrett's expression had changed from curious to calculating.
The knight had left without another word, and Kieran had felt the cold certainty that he'd made a terrible mistake.
Two days later, Baron Marcus Thaddeus had arrived at his shop.
Kieran stopped walking, leaning against a wall in the narrow alley he'd wandered into. His breath was coming too fast. The scar on his collarbone burned with phantom pain.
Breathe. Just breathe. You're not there anymore.
Baron Thaddeus had been everything Kieran hated about the new world order. A C-rank Knight who'd leveraged his System class into political power, married into minor nobility, and spent his time consolidating control over Greyhaven's strategic resources. At forty-five, he'd been soft around the middle but hard around the eyes—the kind of man who saw people as assets or obstacles, nothing in between.
He'd walked into Kieran's shop flanked by four guards, all of them higher level than Kieran could ever hope to be.
"Mr. Ashford," the Baron had said, his voice carrying the kind of false warmth that made Kieran's skin crawl. "I've heard remarkable things about your recent work. Sir Garrett tells me you have a rather... exceptional class."
Kieran had tried to play it off, to minimize, to escape. "It's nothing, really. I just do my best with—"
"Artifact Smith." The Baron had said it like he was savoring a fine wine. "Legendary rarity. One of the seven most valuable crafting classes in the entire world, according to System documentation. And it's been hiding in my barony for six months."
The way he'd said "my barony" had made it clear exactly how the Baron viewed ownership.
"I've been keeping busy," Kieran had managed. "Just taking local commissions, nothing—"
"Nothing befitting your station," Thaddeus had interrupted. "Nothing worthy of your potential. But that's about to change." He'd smiled, and it hadn't reached his eyes. "The Empire is at war, Mr. Ashford. The eastern front needs equipment. And you're going to provide it."
"I'm not a soldier."
"No, you're better than a soldier. You're a force multiplier." The Baron had gestured to his guards. "These fine men will escort you to the manufacturing district. You'll be provided workshop space, materials, housing. Everything you need to focus entirely on production."
"And if I refuse?" Kieran had asked, already knowing the answer.
The Baron's smile had vanished. "Then I invoke the Emergency Production Act of 2024. Any Awakener with strategic value can be conscripted for national service during wartime. You can work voluntarily as a valued contractor, or you can work as a convict in a labor camp. Your choice."
It hadn't been a choice at all.
Kieran pushed off from the wall and forced himself to keep walking. He was close to the forge now. Mira would be wondering where he was. But the memory had him in its grip, and he couldn't shake it.
They'd moved him to a facility on the outskirts of Greyhaven—a converted warehouse surrounded by guards. Not officially a prison, but functionally identical. Kieran had been given a workshop three times the size of his father's shop, access to premium materials, and a production quota that made his stomach hurt.
Ten weapons per week. Minimum Common-tier artifacts. Preferably Uncommon or higher.
For the Empire. For the war. For Baron Thaddeus's political advancement and profit margins.
Kieran had complied at first. What choice did he have? The guards were always there, watching. The Baron visited weekly to inspect the output, to pressure Kieran to work faster, to make better items, to push his class to its limits.
Three months. For three months, Kieran had crafted weapons for a war he didn't believe in, watching his creations get shipped off to kill people he'd never met in conflicts he didn't understand. Each blade felt like cutting away a piece of his soul.
The worst part was that he'd been good at it. Too good. The more he worked, the better his skills became. Common-tier became easy. Uncommon became routine. He'd even produced two Rare-tier artifacts—weapons that the Baron had immediately confiscated for his own use, claiming they were "too valuable to waste on common soldiers."
That's when Kieran had started planning his escape.
He'd realized that he couldn't refuse to work—the guards would just throw him in an actual prison. But he could malfunction. He could have accidents. He could make mistakes.
So he'd started sabotaging his own work in subtle ways. Creating weapons that looked impressive but had structural weaknesses that would show up after a few weeks of use. Armor with minor flaws in the protective enchantments. Nothing that would be obvious immediately, nothing that would get him executed for sabotage, but enough to make the Baron question whether Kieran was worth the trouble.
It had been the most stressful period of his life—deliberately making imperfect items went against every instinct he had. But it had worked. Sort of.
The Baron had grown frustrated with the declining quality. The visits had become more frequent, more threatening. And then one night, during a particularly volatile inspection, Thaddeus had done something unforgivable.
He'd threatened to "find leverage" to ensure Kieran's cooperation. Family members to hold hostage. Friends to pressure. Whatever it took.
Kieran hadn't had much family left, but he'd had a few people he cared about. A cousin. His father's old friends. The apprentice he'd been training before all this started.
That night, Kieran had made his decision.
He'd waited until the guard rotation changed—he'd memorized the patterns over months of observation. He'd taken nothing but his father's old hammer and the clothes on his back. And he'd run.
The guards had caught him at the facility's perimeter. There had been a fight—brief and brutal. Kieran wasn't a combat class; he'd never stood a chance. But in the chaos, one of the guards had gotten careless with a blade.
That's where the scar came from. The cut had been deep, nearly fatal. Kieran had collapsed, bleeding out on the cold ground, certain he was going to die.
But the guard who'd cut him had panicked. Killing a legendary-class Awakener, even by accident, was a serious crime. The guards had rushed Kieran to a healer, and in the confusion of the medical emergency, in the middle of the night with reduced security...
Kieran had escaped a second time.
He'd fled Greyhaven half-dead, with nothing to his name, and hadn't stopped running until he'd reached Millhaven three weeks later. The neutral frontier town, far from Valorian control, where he could disappear into anonymity.
Where he could hide what he was.
Where he could pretend to be normal.
Kieran finally reached the forge, his hands still trembling slightly. He stood outside for a moment, collecting himself, forcing the memories back down into the dark place where he usually kept them.
Through the window, he could see Mira organizing the front desk, probably preparing for the mysterious wealthy client. She looked up, caught his eye, and her expression immediately shifted to concern.
She mouthed: You okay?
Kieran nodded, not trusting his voice yet. He wasn't okay—he probably wouldn't be okay for the rest of the day. But he could function. He could paste on a smile, hide the tremors, bury the fear.
He'd gotten very good at hiding things.
The scar on his collarbone ached. A phantom pain, nothing more. But it served as a reminder of what happened when he wasn't careful. When he trusted the wrong person. When he let pride or loneliness override caution.
Baron Thaddeus was far away. Greyhaven was behind him. He was safe in Millhaven, anonymous and unimportant, just another struggling blacksmith in a frontier town.
As long as nobody discovered what he really was.
As long as he kept his class hidden.
As long as he stayed small, stayed quiet, stayed invisible.
Kieran took a deep breath, pushed open the forge door, and stepped inside. Mira immediately rushed over, but he waved her off with a smile that probably didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm fine," he lied. "Just took the long way back. Did I miss anything?"
"The fancy client isn't here yet," Mira said, clearly not buying his explanation but willing to let it go for now. "You've got about an hour. Maybe sit down? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just memories," Kieran said quietly.
He didn't elaborate, and Mira didn't push. That was one of the things he appreciated about her—she knew when to leave things alone.
Kieran moved to his workbench, running his fingers over the scarred wood surface. This was his space now. His forge. His choice.
Nobody was going to take that from him again.
Nobody was going to put him in a cage and force him to create weapons for their wars.
He'd die first.
Or he'd run again.
Whichever it took to stay free.
The morning sun streamed through the window, catching dust motes in the air. Outside, Millhaven continued its daily rhythm—merchants haggling, children playing, adventurers preparing for dungeon runs. Normal life in an abnormal world.
And in one hour, a wealthy client would arrive with a "significant commission" that Kieran already knew, with the certainty of hard experience, was going to complicate everything.
He just hoped he was paranoid enough to handle it.
History suggested he probably wasn't.