As I am heading towards the eatery she recommended—I could go for something novel—I redirect my attention to the observer.

Khirfin pulls out the piece she was working on and tosses it aside with disinterest. She snaps her fingers again, and the forge roars back to life. The maw of flames reaches its previous intensity in seconds, skyrocketing past it in a few more. Current temperature—twelve thousand Celsius. Toasty...

She grabs another square bar from a stack of many. Appears to be some steel alloy, fairly basic high-carbon. The smith regards it with singular focus, even the flickering flames appear to freeze as if holding their breath. After almost two minutes, she tears off a piece with her bare hands. I guess the metal passed the test.

The dwarf places the bar inside the forge with reverence, the stellar levels of heat not even singeing her skin. The piece of steel does not immediately start to boil. Who would have thought... It takes the metal five whole minutes to come to temperature, signaled by Khirfin pulling it out. She is using tongs this time, but I am guessing that is only for ease of handling.

I order a sandwich with some giant tiger equivalent meat, sourced from a nearby dungeon. The dripping monstrosity has three times as much meat as bread. Thankfully, it includes the compulsory vegetables, sliced in a see-through fashion. Perfect food for a good show.

It appears that her previous blows could be classified as dainty. Each shattering crash shakes the smithy to its very foundations. The radiant bar is still hardly deforming under the immense force. The shiny black anvil—elemental analysis returns a shrug—distributes the pressure on the forming blank almost perfectly, showing no signs of deformation itself.

Slowly but surely, a sword starts to take shape. Thin blade, slightly more suited for stabbing than slashing. She also draws out a full tang. Makes sense, I am going to be swinging this thing pretty hard.

As the final shape is formed, she stops. Khirfin takes out a faceted mana crystal the size of a fist. It reflects the white light from the forge, showcasing impossible luminance. That’s from a C-grade boss. She presses the crystal into the head of her hammer, and it sinks in without even disturbing the surface of the metal. Interesting was an understatement.

The, now empowered, hammer adopts the same reflective property. She heaves the tool with great effort, like its weight has multiplied. A titanic blow transfers the anomaly to the unfinished blade. After a moment, the blade returns to its previously still glowing appearance. The smith smiles lightly and wipes some non-existent sweat. Any water evaporates instantly inside the torrid workshop.

She lets the blade cool to a cherry red and starts grinding it on a fairly modern looking belt sander. The abrasive substance is, unfortunately, one of those shrugs again. With some more material removed, the piece of steel now looks like a sword without a handle. Khirfin goes back to the forge and places the almost finished weapon inside again. The temperature is much lower this time. After the sword has heated through, she pulls it out and dunks it whole inside a tank of thick brown sludge. The shrug-classified liquid does not explode, merely a few bubbles rise up and lethargically pop. The smith waits for a bit and then starts to vigorously shake the sword inside the quenching vessel, accelerating the cooling. A peculiar process.

She lifts the blade—the brown sludge sliding off, leaving no residue—and inspects for any deformations. Pleased with the uniformity of the steel, she changes out the belt and puts an edge on the piece. Another belt change, and the sword reflects her dark eyes as she scrutinizes its finish. No tempering, curious. Is her temperature control perfect? Or does enchanting take care of any brittleness? Current data suggests both.

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Repeating the process, she makes a relatively short cross-guard and a small pommel. A small block of jet-black wood is whittled into the two halves of a handle. The pieces are carefully assembled and fitted, repeating the action until they slide into place. After a final disassembly, drilling, and polishing, the parts are riveted, and the sword comes together.

Khirfin regards the blade once again. Checking the final balance, its looks, anything she might have missed. Seemingly content, she closes her eyes and glides the razor-sharp edge against her palm. The blade easily slices her skin. It’s dyed in a crimson red. She lifts up the sword, the wound on her palm closes shut. The blood on the blade is drawn inside the metal. The mirror surface is back to its pristine appearance. Her eyes open, and she smiles at her newest creation.

In comparison, the armor making is downright boring. Khirfin pulls out some inconspicuous brown leather pieces from a spatial storage. Each one is identical and appears to be extremely light. The rolled-up material hardly makes a sound from being placed on an empty workbench. She cuts up the leather into the required parts, without using a template, the design and my measurements appear to be burned into her mind. Each part is then deftly sewn together with a sparkling thread. The moment each fragment of the armor is finished, the sparkling disappears. In no time at all, a pair of bracers, a pair of greaves, a vest, and a simple sheath for the sword are stacked on the bench.

At a nearby cafe, I finish up my fifth cup of tea and start making my way to the smithy. Two hours exactly. I guess we all have our priorities sometimes.

I rap on the door once and enter the workshop.

“Took ya long enough! Put this on.” The leather armor is thrust at my chest.

I swiftly don the pieces and fasten them tight.

“Jump around for me or somethin’. Let’s see how it fits.”

While I am doing some jumping jacks with a resigned face, Khirfin is nodding to my tempo with satisfaction.

“How is it?”

“It’s amazing! I can hardly feel the weight.”

“Aye, but don’t ya worry, sonny. It’ll keep ya safe. Just don’t get pocked too hard in the exposed bits.” Hmm.

I nod my head distractedly, eyeing the sheathed sword.

She smirks and hands me the weapon, handle first. I pull it out and make a slow slash, testing its size and weight. This will be fun to experiment with, a truly deadly weapon. I am pretty sure some of my weaker superalloys would actually get scratched. Impressive. Though, if I were to use global data, some of the weapons you can find are terrifying. But this is still a respectable piece, especially for someone at my level.

“Wow...”

She laughs at my—not that faked—amazement. “Glad ya approve.”

I return to reality, take the offered sheath, and slide the shortsword in. “Thank you, ma’am.” I count out the payment and hand it to her.

“Oi, think ya can pull one on me?” She grabs my hand and slaps back the extra coins I tried to sneak in. How did she even know... I deliberately avoided mentioning any numbers. “Just for this, yer gettin’ a gift.” She goes to the storage room.

For someone that can predict a near infinite number of scenarios, sometimes I am really bad at reading people, aren’t I. I already feel like I am taking advantage of her, but this is too much.

She comes back and hands me a small pouch. “What is it?”

“Spatial storage.”

Never mind. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She smirks again. “Once the buggers get harder to chop, I’ll make ya somethin’ better.”

“Yes, ma’am!” I wave her goodbye and exit the smithy. This was a productive day.

I am still trying to maintain security by not doing anything too suspicious as this character. With what I have been seeing from my surveillance network, my paranoia has turned outright healthy. Magic is... versatile. Gaining access to a spatial storage this early—without having to ste— ...borrow one—is a best-case scenario. Another interesting item to experiment with. Marvelous.

I head to the dorms and find an invitation securely tucked inside my mailbox.

Greetings dearest friend Lucius,

I hope this letter finds you well. I trust you have already taken your solo exam. No matter the results—though we do not have any doubt that you have succeeded—we would like to invite you for a meal.

If this is agreeable with you, please direct any replies to ‘Brinn’s’. Or you are welcome to arrive tomorrow for lunch, twelve o’clock.

Yours truly,

Erysis and Nexen