“Master Arenev!” A young, upbeat voice cut through the early morning chaos of the main street as dungeoneers bustled about their supply runs in preparation for a new delve.

A man with rugged brown hair responded to the call, casually glancing over his shoulder with some intrigue.

“Dorn,” Tom acknowledged after a pause, his expression easing back into a mask of nonchalance as he continued walking forward, albeit at a slower pace.

Although Tom had expected Arenev’s acquaintances to reach out to him while he maintained this guise, it was still a little disconcerting to be called upon in public like that.

Doing his best to maintain a carefree expression, Tom kept his gaze pointed forward as the sandy-brown haired man he placed in Arenev’s memories as a young, boisterous dungeoneer that was talented enough to survive multiple delves quickened his pace to catch up with him.

Ironically, Dorn’s budding talent was matched only by his recklessness and it was also the reason why he frequently required Arenev’s services.

“I’m surprised to see you around this early,” Dorn cheerfully greeted, an energetic smile resting on his features as he walked in lockstep with him.

“I have some personal affairs to deal with,” Tom succinctly explained. He didn’t like the way Dorn was eyeing him, as if encountering him here was a serendipitous encounter for the young dungeoneer.

“Master Arenev,” Dorn began, his tone almost excessively polite as he used the prefix attributed to craftsmen in the Nameless District. “Could you take a look at my sword? I ran into some particularly tough Crypt Demons on my last delve.”

“What’s the damage like? Is the sword chipped or dented?” Tom asked, his thoughtful expression an emulation of Arenev’s own when the latter lost himself in his craft.

“Only dented, though it’s quite banged up,” Dorn sheepishly replied, clearly a little embarrassed.

“I’d like to help you, but,” Tom gestured to his belt, “as you can see, I don’t have my tools with me.”

“I can borrow some,” Dorn immediately offered, the enthusiasm in his gaze almost infectious.

An exasperated sigh was the response Tom settled on, after thinking back on some of Arenev’s interactions with the young dungeoneer.

“Fine. Fine, but you’re going to have to wait until I’m done with my shopping,” Tom assented, though he did so without masking the grumpiness in his tone. Arenev had a bit of a soft spot for the dungeoneer, though he would never admit it, not in a thousand years.

“Thank you!” Dorn offered him a quick bow and then hurriedly departed in search of replacement tools.

Tom had debated outright refusing Dorn’s request, but not only would that have been out of character, part of him still wanted to test out his [Basic Weapon Repair Proficiency]. If the weapon had been chipped, the damage would have been impossible to repair without a reforge. But a few dents? That comfortably fell under the umbrella of his newly acquired skills.

And his acting had been convincing enough to completely deceive an acquaintance of Arenev, which had been his primary goal while adopting this disguise.

“Three Smoke Mixes,” Tom told the likely self-taught alchemist as his gaze swept through the dozen or so concoctions that had been arrayed on a simple wooden table for the second time.

The Alchemist gave Tom an odd look, before turning his gaze to the three glass vials that were stoppered to hold back a condensed gray fog.

“What does a blacksmith like you want with smoke bombs?” He asked, clearly a little confused by the order.

For a moment, Tom’s heart dropped.

Then, he regained composure and pressed on with his act,

“What I want,” Tom began, doing his best to sound as holier-than-thou as he could manage, “is none of your business.”

“Alright, alright, just making some small talk,” The alchemist grumbled under his breath as he began to pack the order,

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The next hour or so proceeded in this manner. Tom didn’t hesitate as he purchased items that could aid his mission in the Noble District. He was nice enough not to put it on Arenev’s tab— the blacksmith hadn’t done anything to warrant such treatment. That didn’t change the fact that Arenev’s stature helped the trades go through without much friction. Tom doubted that a man cloaked in robes furtively trying to make the same purchases would have gone nearly as well.

Tom was almost done by the time a panting Dorn found his way back to him.

Amused, he took the hammer the Dungeoneer had gone to such lengths to procure, starting to see why Arenev was fond of the young lad.

Resonant clangs echoed out as Tom’s carefully timed hammer strikes impacted against the distorted metal. The insight from [Basic Weapon Repair Proficiency] guided him to precisely target the unevenness in the blade’s linear plane while deftly avoiding the edges so as to avoid dulling the blade.

It was more a function of his high Physical and Proprioception stats that allowed him to conduct such a precise repair without requiring a re-temper. But… Dorn didn’t need to know that.

Leaving behind a satisfied customer, Tom slipped away from the main street not long after.

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“Aleph,” An unfamiliar man dressed in a blacksmith’s attire called out her name with a vexing familiarity that sent chills down her spine. “It’s me,” he said with an accent and inflection completely unlike the odd, almost broken dialect the man she knew as Synrak Veralis employed. If anything, it was too native, too effortless to be something that could be emulated.

Her first instinct was to retreat first— it didn’t matter if Tom had been captured by the Nobles or if he’d sold her secret out—- that deliberation could come later. Except, that didn’t explain why only a single blacksmith had showed up looking for her.

And even if Tom had been defeated by a Noble hunting squad, someone as powerful as him wouldn’t have gone down without a fight— one that would have been loud enough for her to hear from miles away.

After one final sweep of her surroundings, Aleph confirmed that there were no signs or traces of a group from her vantage point.

Then, she decided to fire off three crystal shards at the unknown man, blunting the edge sufficiently so as to avoid lethal damage.

“Whoa, whoa what’s the big idea here!” The blacksmith protested in a thick North-Syrelorian accent as he rapidly evaded the projectiles.

“Synrak?” Aleph asked, seconds after she deftly landed behind him.

Already having sensed her presence, the blacksmith pivoted to face her.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying,” The blacksmith replied, a little annoyance seeping into his tone. “Remember, I told you that I’d be back in a day.”

“You told me that you,” Aleph paused for emphasis, “would be back in a day. Not another person entirely!” Aleph didn’t raise her voice, but the shock in her tone was all but evident. She had heard of Cards that could change the inflection of one’s voice. Alter one’s appearance marginally. Change their skin tone. And indeed, if all those deck cards were used in tandem, one could theoretically become another person.

Except those cards had severe limitations and if one looked closely enough, the disguise would fall apart. Not to mention that there were multiple ways of guarding against appearance altering cards.

But if the person before him was truly Synrak, then it meant that he had found a way to alter his height, weight, skin tone, hair color and accent, among other things. Could so many Deck Cards even be activated at once?

Or was it….

Aleph’s eyes widened at the implication as she thought of an even more intimidating realization.

…. a single card.

“Look, I-,” Tom began to explain, only to trail off as Aleph materialized a crystal sword into her right hand.

Not liking the turn the situation had taken, Tom reached into his inventory and pulled out a large glass jug full of viscous red blood and then simply let it fall to the ground.

The cacophony of shattering glass seemed to serve as the catalyst for Aleph’s furious charge. Moments later, the spilled blood that had been mixed with small, almost imperceptible motes of glass dust rose to the air.

Before Aleph had even covered half the distance separating them, the pool of blood had reshaped itself into a thick, two-handed spear; an almost exact replica of the spear Jayce wielded.

[Titan’s Sequitur- Bulwark]

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One moment, Aleph was staring down a defensive spear stance that was unlike anything she had seen Tom use before, her sword drawn back in preparation for a testing slash meant to disarm.

The next, she found her sword slash intercepted mid-swing, as Tom shifted from a defensive stance to an offensive one with surprising, almost practiced ease.

Strength.

Overwhelming strength crashed against her sword arm, almost instantly blowing her backwards. Her boots skidded against the ground, but the friction generated was far from enough to contain the sheer momentum that had been transferred to her upon impact.

Only after she materialized her crystal armor did her weight counterbalance the momentum behind Tom’s odd, unconventional defensive spear slash.

“You,” Aleph pointed at Tom with her index finger as her crystal armor began to dissolve into nothingness, “have a lot of explaining to do.”