"The gods may be powerful, but they are not invincible. They can weave their plans, craft their schemes, and meddle with lives—but even the mightiest threads unravel when you tug at the right loose end. The trick, of course, is finding it. Or, better yet, making someone else do the tugging while you watch from a safe distance." - The Te of Slacking, Book 6, Verse 14

So, Jorgen had wandered into town just after we’d wrapped up Slaughterfest: Lazytown Edition. You know, the event of the season. Three armies, one village, and an unforgettable lineup of murder, mayhem, and mass destruction.

Sure, we’re not entirely sure if the Empire, the Rebels, or the Crusade of the Eternal Flame would be back any time soon for a repeat performance—and given how things went, I’m guessing tickets will be harder to sell. It turns out, the whole “murderous siege” vibe doesn’t leave you with much in the way of returning headliners.

At least, any with any heads. Ba dum tss.

The minute I had seen him – considering their last conversation – I thought Jorgen was going to be pretty lucky if his daughter didn’t just eviscerate him the second he appeared. She was, after all kind of in the zone,and let’s be real—who would have blamed her?

More importantly, who would have stopped her even if we wanted to? She’d just cleaved her way through half an army, and I doubted anyone was feeling brave enough to tap her on the shoulder and say:

“Um, excuse me, maybe don’t kill that guy, even though he ruined your life, sold you out for nasty missions before you were old enough to spell ‘conscription,’ got you into debt so deep it made bankruptcy look like winning the lottery and taking a first-class cruise to the Bahamas and then proceeded to care about literally no one but himself for his entire existence. Sure, he’s a walking cautionary tale of bad parenting who drove a metaphorical chainsaw through your dreams without so much as a backward glance. And yeah, he obliterated your childhood with the casual flair of a butcher hosing down yesterday’s meat grinder, leaving you knee-deep in the gore of emotional neglect. Your dad’s a one-man wrecking crew of debt, betrayal, and soul-crushing carnage, trailing smouldering ruins and the faint, sickly stench of regret wherever he went. But hey, stabbing him to death might harsh the post-battle buzz, you know?

So, yeah. I think everyone was expecting some quick stabby stabby swish action.

But no.

Lia had just sheathed her sword, given Jorgen one of her patented you’re not even worth my energy looks, and carried on with her looting spree.

Meanwhile, Jorgen had made a beeline for me, seemingly too out of it to notice he was ankle-deep in bodies.

He’d arrived sweaty, pale, and jittery, the look you get when you’ve been running on adrenaline and bad decisions for far too long.

He’d wasted no time offering up his services as a blacksmith, his voice shaking like a detoxing smack addict trying to convince his Probation Officer he was definitely on the straight and narrow now.

And I speak with some experience here.

I’ve had to share plenty of grim little waiting rooms with this exact brand of grasping nutjob while ticking off appointments with my own Probation Officer. They’re all wide-eyed desperation and sketchy schemes to explain why none of it was their fault. Listening to them ramble on about their “bad luck” while trying to sell a clearly stolen DVD player to the receptionist is always a treat. Fun times. Missed them dreadfully.

Scar, fresh from spraying the battlefield with our Steam Cannon and newly glowing from his Level-Up glow, had appeared next to me and immediately pointed out that hiring this sketchy dude was a good idea.

“After all that’s just happened, we need fresh weapons, repairs, and someone who knows what they’re doing with steel,” he’d said, giving me one of those don’t screw this up looks. “Matey boy looks like he can offer all three. If he’s any good, we can’t afford to say no,” Scar said, gesturing at the jittery mess of a man.

I may have expressed my scepticism.

“Look, I’m not making it up,” Scar said, pulling up Jorgen’s profile above his head like he was unveiling a rare collector’s item. “Strength: 25. Dexterity: 20. That’s higher than half this village combined, not including you or Lia in that math, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“And that’s just his core,” Scar went on, looking above Jorgen’s head and swiping left and right with his finger. Could I do that? Read people’s stats like a Tinder profile? “His Blacksmithing skill is maxed out, and he’s got Master-level Enchantment Crafting. Oh fuck! Look at his Weapon Repairs—this guy can probably fix a sword in his sleep.”

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Jorgen gave a weak, apologetic shrug, as if to say, Yep, I’m amazing, but also please don’t make me prove it right now.

“James,” Scar stopped swiping and focused on me, “whoever this guy is, he’s not just useful—he’s a bloody unicorn. So, unless you want to spend the next six months trying to train someone to be half as competent, we’re taking him on.”

“He’s Lia’s dad.”

“Okay?”

“They don’t get on.”

“Okay?”

I obviously wasn’t making myself clear. “Scar, mate, this guy’s to blame for everything that’s happened to her. She hates him.”

Scar looked over to where the newly Level 16 Dark Wren was collecting mountains of gear off the guys and gals she’d mowed down with sweep after sweep of her greatsword.

“I don’t know, mate,” Scar said. “Looks like she turned out pretty okay to me.”

I glanced at Jorgen, then back at Scar. “Yeah, fine. But just so we’re clear, I’m blaming you if this ends with someone’s head getting lopped off.”

Scar just grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

So, there I was, reluctantly taking on Lia’s estranged father, who’d been through several levels of hell and was still trying to claw his way out. Every movement he made was jittery, his eyes darting around the town like he expected someone—or something—to leap out and clobber him. Whether it was guilt, withdrawal, or just the standard "welcome to Lazytown" existential crisis, I couldn’t say.

Whatever demons he’d been running from, they’d chased him straight to our gates.

I’d just hoped he wasn’t planning to bring them inside.

To be fair, in the brief time he’s been with us, Jorgen’s been pretty sneaky clean. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not naive enough to think he’s turned over a new leaf and fully committed to any sort of redemption arc. But neither did I think he was actively plotting to screw us all over.

Yet.

The day is, after all, still young.

That said, I suspect Lia’s unique brand of population management had a lot to do with keeping him on the straight and narrow. Turns out, when someone tries to set up a gambling den in Lazytown—specifically Crazy Xim’s Casino & Lounge—you can rely on Lia to shut it down in the most memorable way possible.

In this very specific case, that involved strapping the would-be proprietor to a roulette wheel, depositing him outside the gates, and ensuring she left several hundred golds worth of chips uncomfortably inserted in places I didn’t want to think about.

Apparently, that kind of hands-on enforcement really puts off other entrepreneurial spirits.

“How’s it going, mate?” I asked, leaning against the doorway like I had a clue about what went on in a forge.

He paused mid-swing, his hammer frozen in the air and turned to look at me. Behind him, the forge roared with life, sparks flying from the glowing hunk of metal he’d been working on.

The tools scattered across the workbench looked menacingly specific. Was the thing with the two clamps for bending? Stretching? Some kind of medieval nutcracker?

“It’s going,” he said, setting the hammer down with enough force to make me jump slightly. “What do you want?”

Now, I don’t want to be too needy here, but a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. You know, for saving this guy’s life and interceding with his homicidal daughter when she was still riding high on her murder spree. But no, that seemed to have slipped his mind entirely.

“Just shooting the shit,” I said.

“Well, shoot it elsewhere,” he said, picking the hammer back up and resuming his relentless pounding.

So much for small talk.

Since sobering up and finding himself in a gambling-free zone, Jorgen had thrown himself into smithing with an almost alarming level of dedication.

Honestly, I didn’t get it.

Having never been cursed with anything resembling an addictive personality, I’d never understood people who could properly dedicate themselves to something. The closest I’d ever come to that sort of commitment was my unwavering commitment to a solid eight hours of sleep and religiously tuning in to Bake Off each Tuesday.

But Jorgen? Jorgen was a man possessed.

In no time at all, his Forge had become epic. Everywhere I turned, there were tools I couldn’t name but would absolutely believe were Legendary Tier: a glowing whetstone mounted on a pedestal, a rack of enchanted hammers that positively buzzed with magical energy, and an anvil that shone with a suspiciously golden hue, as though it had, I don’t know, been crafted by dwarves who moonlighted as jewellers.

A series of heavily-laden shelves in the corner held ingots of every conceivable metal—iron, steel, mithril, and even something that shimmered like liquid starlight.

Dude was doing all right.

As if to emphasise that, a notification popped up.

You have gained access granted to Forge of the Relentless (Tier IV)

- Standing within the Forge provides the following buffs:

- +15% to Crafting Speed

- +10% to Durability of All Items Created

- +20% Heat Resistance

- +5% Passive XP Gain

Even I could tell that it was absurdly powerful and wholly unnecessary.

I wasn’t even doing anything in here – neither was I ever, ever planning to – so this was unnecessarily generous, like being handed a winning lottery ticket just for stepping into a convenience store.

“Well,” I said, swiping away the notification, “you’ve certainly got this place kitted out.”

Jorgen grunted in reply. It was clear he wasn’t about to waste words on me—his focus was on the glowing blade he was working on. Fair enough. I obviously needed a better way to get his attention.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the Maker,” I said. I let the silence stretch, watching as Jorgen’s jaw tightened, then hit him with the second punch.

“In particular,” I continued, stepping closer, “why they tore your life apart—and what you know that might help me finally bring them down.”