The last memory George had of his parents was their desperation as they were attacked by bandits. He didn’t even remember their faces anymore. Their caravan was targeted in the middle of the night, ambushed on the curve of a hillside while going full speed. Most of the carriages were able to escape, but George’s dad, a driver, was one of the first to fall, with an arrow lodged in his head before anyone realized something was wrong. Their horses ran wild until veering off the road, tilting the carriage on its side and leaving them surrounded as the other caravan members got away. No one would come to save them.

The bandits wielded swords and crossbows because guns weren’t as widespread at the time, but that was more than enough to be a threat. George’s mother carried him away, hiding him behind two crates, but a bandit pulled her by the hair as soon as she finished, stabbing her through the chest.

George shrieked at the sight of her blood.

The bearded human chuckled, instantly noticing him. He lifted George by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of the carriage, for the rest of the bandit crew to see.

“Let’s sell ‘im!” shouted an orcish woman.

“No,” ordered the elvish leader, atop a pale white horse with red eyes. “Just kill him. We don’t want to worry about survivors.”

The bearded man nodded with glee and raised his sword before a loud bang made him fall on his face. George turned around.

Smoke poured out of the titled carriage as Mister Terk emerged from it, aiming a revolver. He was heading for Kolt and had paid George’s parents to travel with them, but mostly kept to himself, never learning their names. George was on the verge of tears. Before he could process everything, Mister Terk unloaded on the bandits a thunderous barrage, killing four of them until having to reload.

The elvish leader immediately ran away, urging the rest to follow. One, however, stayed behind and carried George by the waist, holding him hostage with a dagger.

Mister Terk slowly approached him, glaring while keeping a steady aim.

The bandit used George as a shield, covering his vitals with the boy’s body. Mister Terk couldn’t get a clear shot.

“Drop that thing!” warned the bandit.

“Please,” said Mister Terk, “he’s just a boy.”

The bandit angled his dagger against George’s throat. “Then do as I say!”

Mister Terk hesitated, visibly torn up, then placed the gun on the floor. The bandit then released George and ordered Mister Terk to stay still, inching his way to the gun. He kept his eyes completely fixed on the old man.

In that brief window, George ran towards the weapon and shot the bandit himself. He performed it all without even realizing it. The decision had been mechanical. It wasn’t even an act of vengeance. The grief, sorrow and despair would only rule his mind a little later.

George stood frozen for a few seconds before Mister Terk gently took the gun away out of his hands. His senses were sharp enough to tell that the other bandits were long gone, finally allowing himself to break down and cry. George learned a valuable lesson that night he would carry for the rest of his life:

The person with the better weapon always won.

Even an old man and a child could fend off an entire bandit crew with the right advantage. If that was possible, a human could easily match an elf or a dragon. No one had to run scared of them anymore, and inserting magic into the equation would only ensure it stayed that way.

George, however, couldn’t lie to himself about the underlying fear at the root of this passion. Creating the best gun possible was just a way of making sure he never lost the people he loved again. From then on, since his parents were caravan traders, George didn’t really have anyone to look after him, but Mister Terk gave him shelter when he didn’t have to, living together in Kolt for over ten years.

The old blacksmith wasn’t used to dealing with a child, or making enough money to feed two people, which led to several hurdles along the way. That said, if his budget ran dry, he always sacrificed his portions of food so George didn’t go hungry. It was obvious he cared in his own flawed way. The young man simply felt compelled to work hard for him, even after moving out, in order to repay this kindness. Despite being a curmudgeon, he was the closest thing George had to family.

Frederick and Samantha had similar stories. George knew it even though they all had an unspoken agreement to never talk about it too much. They enjoyed each other’s company precisely because it allowed them to ignore the pity of others. Almost like they could pretend to be normal children in their little bubble, regardless of how the world actually saw them.

With that in mind, it wasn’t until meeting Mister Cherry that George wondered if Frederick shared the same trauma. He never admitted weakness or backed down from a challenge, which had led George to believe his friend’s excellent gunsmithing was fueled by something else. A greatness that was innate to him, and not mere fear like in George’s case.

That assumption may have been completely wrong, though. Frederick might actually be the most scared of the three of them. Unlike George, he could only rely on himself for the longest time and it drove him to be a demanding perfectionist with a callous heart. From his perspective, failure meant a painful death by starvation. George didn’t realize how much of a double edge it turned out to have, only noticing the upside during most of their friendship. Now, it was easy to see the fear that motivated Frederick. The very thing that drove him to the top prevented him from thriving further.

Or did it?

Frederick actually had a point, even if the way he phrased it made it hard to accept. George’s desire to leave was completely at odds with the reason he cared about gunsmithing in the first place. Was the journey worth abandoning the people he loved?

This question lingered in the back of George’s head for the rest of the week. The mere thought of bringing up the topic to Mister Terk paralyzed him with fear, but the prospect of staying in the same situation filled him with even more dread.

As the days went by, and Mister Cherry’s deadline approached, George couldn’t stop thinking about the opportunity he was throwing away, waking up with a malaise that made it harder to get out of bed at the end of the week. He might never get a better chance to grow as a gunsmith, as a person, or even as a traveler like his parents.

That morning, on the day Mister Cherry said he would be departing, George walked into Terk’s workshop slightly later than usual. He hadn’t done that in years. Mister Terk didn’t comment on it, though. He just loudly hammered away at the anvil while muttering to himself, like nothing happened. George quietly reached for his apron before hearing the old man shout:

“Don’t bother!”

George paused, instantly afraid.

Did Terk know about Mister Cherry? Was he angry about the late arrival?

“I need ya’ to deliver some parts to Frederick.”

George lowered his gaze. “Oh…” He hadn’t spoken to Frederick since the night they argued. “Can’t he pick it up?”

“He’s a busy man. I’d rather not bother him.”

George rolled his eyes. The implication that Frederick’s convenience was a priority didn’t sit well with him.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Mister Terk paused his work, whipping back his head with a frown. “Something wrong?”

George thinned his lips. Mister Terk would throw the hammer at him if he gave a wimpy excuse. Still, this could be the only chance he got to ask:

“Mister Terk… do you like what you do?”

“What d'ya say?” Mister Terk squinted, cleaning out his ear with his pinky finger. “Speak louder, damn it!”

“Guns! D-do you actually like them?”

Mister Terk grew serious. “Of course not.”

George blinked. “But… you make ‘em all day.”

Mister Terk shrugged. “It’s just a job. Do you like guns?”

George swallowed. “‘Of course I do. I love ‘em.”

Mister Terk made a long sigh, waving over his apprentice to a table. After they were both seated, he went on to say:

“I suppose I was too afraid to ask you myself. I’ve suspected for a while.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mister Terk stared into his eyes. “Guns are instruments of death.”

George looked away. “Yes, but-”

“Stop. I don’t care about whatever justification you have. In fact, I can’t even understand how you aren’t disgusted by them. It’s always unnerved me how eager you’ve been to learn and make them, after the carnage you witnessed. People like us don’t get to choose whether we like what we do. Do you think I enjoyed taking you in?”

George stayed quiet, enduring the painful question.

“Exactly,” said Mister Terk, “I did it because I had to. It was my duty. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise. It’s the same reason I do my work: survival. If it were up to me, I’d never forge another gun again.”

“But you’re a gunsmith!”

“No, I’m a blacksmith!” Mister Terk's eyes watered up a little, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m not a merchant of death! You think I’m proud of myself? Our profession used to forge crowns and precious jewelry! We created as many shields as swords, and the greatest ones were made to be hung on walls! This…” he grabbed an unfinished revolver, “this could be done by anyone. No artistic expression or advanced techniques. It just has to serve its purpose; to take another life. What type of monster enjoys that? Who in their right mind finds beauty in it?” He whimpered, throwing away the revolver. “Why is it the only thing that sells?”

George softened his expression. “Mister Terk… I never-”

“Shut up! I don’t want your pity!” Mister Terk looked away, embarrassed by his own outburst. He needed a second to compose himself and think about his words. After a minute of silence, he lowered his voice to a more vulnerable tone. “In life, you either suck it up and do what needs to be done, or get swallowed up by those who can. Getting angry about it, instead of accepting reality, only makes things worse for everyone, especially yourself.” He stood up and rested his calloused hand on George’s shoulder, gripping him with firm, but tender affection. “You’ve been moping all week, and it’s getting annoying. Just deliver the parts and get it over with.”

George lowered his head, nodding. There wasn’t anything to debate. Mister Terk had already returned to the anvil when George raised his gaze. The old man carried on his work with a wistful smile, acting like the wisdom he just imparted had magically solved the problem. George simply grabbed the parts and left the workshop in silence.

Was something truly wrong with him? The road to Frederick’s shop blurred into a messy haze as George contemplated his passion. He hadn’t really questioned the fact that achieving his goal could result in more grief than progress.

Then again, it shouldn’t matter. A world where nobody tried to kill each other sounded pleasant, but only a sheltered fool would see it as an actual possibility. Humans needed weapons, if only to protect themselves from monsters or magic users, and someone had to make them. Why should the least scrupulous be the most rewarded for this task?

George couldn’t find a satisfying answer by the time he reached his destination. Frederick’s place stood on the second floor of a tailor’s shop, near the city square. It could only be accessed through a back alley that was hard to spot from the main street, so new customers usually had a hard time finding its entrance.

Frederick didn’t mind that, though. He always justified it by saying it filtered out the idiots who would inevitably waste his time. As George went up the rusty iron staircase, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was qualified to criticize that logic. Frederick, despite his bad spending habits, was the most successful gunsmith in their generation. He wouldn’t have survived on his own if he didn’t know what he was doing.

Good customer service might seem like a crutch to him. From his perspective, a talented craftsman had no need for shallow pleasantries. The quality of their work spoke for them. This was only further reinforced when, upon hearing George enter the shop, Frederick shouted:

“I’m not taking new orders!”

George paused. Frederick hadn’t bothered turning around, too busy working on the lathe to face him. The whole place was a disorganized mess of unfinished guns, with metal shavings littering the floor and a half-eaten sandwich emanating a peculiar stench from across the room. George placed the mythril parts on the counter and said:

“I’m not a customer.”

“Oh…” Frederick turned off the lathe. “It’s you.”

“Terk made me bring the parts you ordered.”

Frederick nodded and took off his goggles, approaching the counter. An awkward silence took over as he inspected the parts. George didn’t want to be the first to speak. Addressing the tension would just make it worse. Frederick then placed the parts aside and said:

“Thanks. Let me get the money.”

George waited a second, thinking there might be more, but Federick didn’t seem interested in saying anything else, ready to resume his work. Typical. If George wanted to clear the air, it was on him to do the heavy lifting. “Hey… before I go, are we… cool?”

Frederick raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You haven’t been to the bar this week.”

Frederick shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Frederick started rummaging through his cluttered desk, searching for his coin pouch. “It’s different now. Like I said, I can’t even take more commissions.”

George glanced at several empty bottles of whiskey. “Well, as long as you’re fine.”

Frederick stayed quiet.

“If you need a hand,” mentioned George, “just let me know.”

“I’ll find the pouch soon; just give me a second.”

“I meant with your workload,” said George. “I can always swing by in the evening, you know.”

Frederick stopped searching for a second, tensing his back, then kept looking through a drawer.

George grimaced. That said it all. Frederick would probably starve to death before asking for help. Was offering it that much of an insult?

No, it was something more annoying. When Frederick returned with the coin pouch, he did so with a haughty smirk. The self-assured smile of someone certain about their superiority. Frederick must have noticed George’s change in mood since, as he handed him the money, he went on to say:

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s no shame in admitting you couldn’t survive out there.”

George narrowed his eyes, taking the pouch. “That’s not why I stayed.”

“Oh really?” asked Frederick, mockingly skeptical.

“Yeah. I decided it wasn’t worth abandoning you guys.”

Frederick chuckled. “Sure.”

“Do you really have to be a dick about this?”

Frederick raised his hands, pleading innocence. “It’s all right. Not even I could do it.”

“And if you can’t, then I can’t?”

Frederick hesitated a second. “Well, be honest with yourself… Am I wrong?”

George clenched the money pouch tight, feeling his heart pound harder. Why did he put up with this? Frederick simply didn’t see him as an equal. He probably hadn’t in a few years. For the longest time, George wanted to believe this was just his insecurities talking, that Frederick was better than that and his success hadn’t changed him, but it became clear now that wasn’t the case.

“If we’re done here,” said Frederick, taking the silence as an answer, “I have shit to do.” He smirked. “But I’ll see you at the bar. Eventually.”

Mister Terk was right. More right than he realized during his rant. George didn’t want to leave Kolt, but he had to suck it up and do it anyway. The alternative was enduring this treatment for the rest of his life.

“No,” said George, winding up his arm, “you won’t.”

Frederick turned around. “Why?”

George hurled the money pouch with all his strength, aiming at Frederick's face.

Frederick reeled back from the impact, stunned as the coins rattled across the floor. The corner of his mouth then trickled with a small bead of blood. As the drop ran down his chin, he dabbed his lip to confirm the wound, snarling with a glare.

“Pay Terk yourself,” George walked away, stopping by the door, “And tell him I quit.”

Frederick shouted at him a storm of curses, but George ignored them all as he went down the stairs, swearing to himself that the next time they met, he would be the best gunsmith in the world!