Under the shade of night, Ash left the inn, his footsteps light against the cobblestone streets. His hood was drawn low, the fabric of his Shadow Cloak swallowing his features in shifting darkness.
To the world, he was little more than a phantom—just a faceless silhouette moving through the filth and despair of the city's underbelly.
No matter which world you go to, it's the same everywhere.
His gaze swept across the dimly lit alleys and rundown buildings. Cracked walls, makeshift homes, and the scent of damp wood filled the air. The people here wore exhaustion on their faces, moving about with slouched shoulders and weary eyes.
Ash paid them no mind after all he had business to take care of.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a blacksmith shop, its wooden sign half-broken, barely hanging by its last nails—Garry's Forge.
He knocked on the worn wooden door.
Knock. Knock.
Silence.
Ash waited.
But still received no response.
Clicking his tongue, he knocked again, louder this time.
Still Nothing.
"…Did he die in his sleep or what?" he muttered under his breath.
Just as he raised his fist to knock once more—
CLANK!!
Something heavy shifted inside. Then, after a long creak, the door cracked open just a sliver.
A single bloodshot eye peeked through.
"…Who the hell comes knocking this late?" The voice was deep, rough, and not the least bit friendly.
Ash, shrouded in his cloak, stood motionless.
Rude old bastard.
"A customer," he said smoothly.
The eye narrowed.
"A customer," Garry repeated, voice laced with dry amusement. "And what kind of fool shows up in the dead of night, cloaked like some grave robber?"
Ash smirked—though no one could see it.
"...A rich one."
Silence hung in the air before the blacksmith spoke.
"Listen, kid. You don't just knock on my door at this hour talking about 'requests'—That's how people get their skulls caved in."
Kid?
Ash's fingers twitched at the word.
"Yeah. Kid," Garry said dryly, voice laced with boredom. "I might be old, but I ain't deaf. Your voice—it's too smooth. Ain't got the weight of someone who's been through hell yet"
If only you knew.
Ash remained silent for a second, then sighed.
"Fine. Then, let's talk business."
Garry scoffed. "Tch. Business, huh? You sound way too cocky for some brat playing assassin in the dark."
Ash said, "I heard you're the best blacksmith on the continent."
"Then you heard wrong." The door creaked, starting to close. "Try somewhere else—"
"Soul Weapon."
The words were soft, but they hit like a hammer.
The door stopped.
Garry's fingers tightened on the frame. His one visible eye locked onto Ash, sharp, calculating. And for the first time, there was real tension in the air.
Slowly, the door opened just a little more.
"...You better start explaining yourself, kid. Fast."
Ash didn't move. "I need a Soul Weapon forged."
"No shit", Garry's tone was flat , "But I don't take jobs from people I don't know. Especially not ones wearing a damn shadow over their face."
Ash sighed and flicked open his academy watch, letting the insignia gleam under the dim moonlight.
Garry's eye flickered to it—academy watches were strictly controlled, their ownership unquestionable. The thought of it being on the wrong person never even crossed his mind.
"Tch." He opened the door fully and stepped back, grumbling. "Fine. Get in. But if you so much as breathe funny, I'm throwing you into the damn furnace."
Ash stepped inside.
***
Inside the Forge
The shop was a war zone of metal and fire.
Scrap iron and broken tools littered the ground. The scent of molten steel and burnt oil choked the air. In the back, the forge still smoldered, meaning the old man had been working late.
Ash's gaze swept across the room as he thought, Messy yet methodical, he doesn't just work—he obsesses.
Garry shut the door and turned.
Ash's gaze flicked to the man himself.
Garry looked like he'd been forged in the very fires he worked with. Broad-shouldered, arms thick as tree trunks, his tanned skin marred with burn scars.
His graying black hair was a mess, his square jaw lined with stubble. A deep scar ran down his left cheek, dangerously close to his eye.
And those amber eyes—sharp, unyielding—were locked onto Ash.
"Alright. Talk." His voice carried weight. "Who sent you?"
"No one."
He scoffed. "Bullshit. Nobody just walks in here asking for a Soul Weapon. Either you don't know what you're asking for, or someone put you up to this."
Ash reached into his bag.
The blacksmith's hand twitched toward a nearby hammer.
Paranoid old bastard.
Ash noticed but didn't react. He moved slowly, unwrapping a cloth bundle. The second the contents were revealed, the room felt heavier.
A Soul Stone pulsed with a deep violet glow, almost like a heartbeat, radiating an eerie, living energy. Beside it lay a bar of Eternium, its silver-blue surface gleaming under the forge's dim embers.
The strongest metal in existence. Rarer than diamonds, harder than adamantine, yet lighter than steel.
Garry didn't move.
Didn't speak.
His gaze lingered on the materials, but something in his expression shifted.
His fingers curled, as if resisting the urge to reach out.
"...Where the hell did you get these?" His voice was quieter now, unreadable.
Ash tilted his head. "Do you really want to know?
A muscle twitched in Garry's jaw. His eyes flicked back to the Soul Stone, his fingers flexing.
Then, suddenly—
He laughed.
A hollow, bitter sound.
"Kid, do you have any idea how many people would kill for these?"
More than I can count.
Ash smirked. "That's why I didn't walk into a regular forge."
Garry's eyes narrowed. "And you came to me because…?"
"Because I heard you're the best. And you don't work for just anyone."
Silence.
He exhaled, rubbing his face. "Damn it."
He turned away, his gaze landing on an old, unfinished blade hanging on the wall. Unlike the others, it was untouched, its edges dulled by years of neglect.
Ash remained silent.
He already knew.
Garry let out a slow breath.
"I don't forge Soul Weapons anymore."
"Why not?" Ash still asked.
His fingers clenched into a fist. "Because the last one I made killed its wielder."
The words hung in the air, heavy.
The weight in his words was different this time. This wasn't bitterness. This was guilt.
The blacksmith's amber eyes flickered to the Soul Stone. His fingers flexed again—like an addict staring at a vice he swore to give up.
Ash studied his face.
He's lying.
Not about the death. No, that part was real. But the guilt wasn't from forging the weapon.
It's because he failed the person who wielded it.
Ash exhaled softly.
"You made a mistake."
The man scoffed. "No. The weapon was perfect. The man who wielded it wasn't."
He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his face as if trying to wipe away the past.
He turned back to Ash, his amber eyes gleaming. "You know how a Soul Weapon works, kid?"
Ash nodded. "It bonds with the soul of the wielder. Grows with them."
"Not just that." The blacksmith's gaze sharpened. "A Soul Weapon reflects your emotions. If your emotions are unstable, the weapon will be, too. If you lose control—"
"It kills you."
Garry's fingers curled. "Yeah."
His gaze fell to the Soul Stone on the table. It pulsed faintly, a slow heartbeat of violet light. The blacksmith stared at it for a long moment, then as if he had thought something and looked at Ash again.
And then, for the first time, his expression shifted—not just surprise, not just recognition but confusion.
His fingers twitched.
Ash watched as the blacksmith's jaw tensed, his muscles stiffening like a man trying to lift something far heavier than expected.
"...That's odd," he muttered.
"What is?"
Garry's eyes glowed for a moment.
"I can't feel anything from you."
Ash remained silent, but inwardly he was shocked,
Wait, What?
The man's fists curled at his sides. His voice dropped lower, quieter, edged with something unreadable.
"Do you know why I could forge Soul Weapons?" he asked.
Ash didn't answer.
He didn't wait for one.
"Because I have Soul Sight." He tapped his temple. "I can see the flow of a person's emotions, the strength of their will. If their emotions are chaotic, unstable—they die. If they have control, they can wield it. It's that simple."
His gaze locked onto Ash, unblinking.
"But you…" His fingers flexed. "There's nothing."
A strange silence settled between them.
Garry's scowl deepened. "No chaos. No stability. Just… nothing."
That didn't make sense
He took a step forward, eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up an unknown threat.
"That's impossible," Garry said.
No chaos, no stability? Just… nothing? Ash thought, he was inwardly shocked,
That wasn't how it was supposed to be.
He felt things. Annoyance. Frustration. Even amusement. He wasn't some hollow shell.
So why was Garry looking at him like he was staring into a void?
The blacksmith's fists clenched. "Do you understand what that means? Without emotions, you can't forge a Soul Bond. No rage, no sorrow, no conviction—nothing to tie you to the blade."
So I can't bond with a weapon?
Ash's fingers twitched, but he quickly stilled them.
That was a problem. A Soul Weapon needed emotions. If Garry was right, the weapon would reject him. Wouldn't obey. Would feed on him instead.
…Then what the hell am I supposed to do?
He wasn't about to back down. He needed this weapon. He'd figure it out later. But this meant something deeper. His very existence was contradicting this world's rules.
Just what the hell am I? Is is because of the Shadow Cloak? Is it stopping him from reading my emotions?
Still, he said, "Isn't it a good thing, No emotion means no chance of me able lose control."
Garry's glare darkened. "It's not."
He turned away, shaking his head. "Forget it. I won't do it. I don't forge weapons for dead men walking."
Yeah, It might be possible, he thought but.
Ash didn't move.
Didn't argue.
Didn't try to persuade him.
He just… stood there.
Silent and Unyielding.
Garry could feel something shift. It wasn't in Ash's expression.
He couldn't even see his face, only an abyss of darkness beneath the hood. It wasn't in his posture either. The kid stood rigid, unmoving.
But the air itself felt different.
The room felt heavier.
Like standing at the edge of a deep abyss.
Garry gritted his teeth. His Soul Sight flared, trying to grasp something—anything—from the kid in front of him.
Still, there was nothing.
No fear. No hesitation. No flicker of hidden anger.
Just a vast, hollow silence.
Garry exhaled sharply, breaking eye contact. "...Damn it."
Still, Ash didn't speak.
The blacksmith's jaw tensed. He turned, running a hand over his face. "I don't like this."
"You don't have to."
Garry let out a bitter chuckle. "Cocky bastard."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then—slowly—Garry walked toward the old, unfinished blade on the wall. His fingers brushed against the hilt, hesitating.
The past weighed heavily on his shoulders.
He should refuse.
He should throw the kid out and pretend this never happened.
But that emptiness…
That impossible emptiness.
He had never seen anything like it.
And for some goddamn reason—it scared him, but it also excited him.
Garry's fingers curled. His teeth clenched.
Then, finally, he let out a long, slow sigh.
"Three weeks," he muttered.
Ash arched an eyebrow and said, "That long?"
Garry shot him a glare. "You're lucky I'm even considering this, brat. A Soul Weapon isn't something you rush."
He turned, his voice flat.
"But if I do this…" His gaze sharpened. "I'm doing it my way."
Ash nodded. "Fair enough."
The blacksmith clicked his tongue. "Tch. Fine." He crossed his arms. "What type of weapon do you want?"
"A good sword. One that suits me best. You're the professional—just make something good."
Garry let out a grunt. "Hmph. That's vague, but I'll figure it out." He grabbed a measuring tape. "Come here. If I'm making this damn thing, I need your measurements."
Ash stepped forward, letting the blacksmith do his work.
After a moment, Garry pulled back, studying him one last time.
"Alright," he muttered. "I can make a suitable weapon for you."
Then, he narrowed his eyes.
"But now… show me your face."
But Ash didn't move.
Garry's expression hardened. "I don't forge weapons for people I don't trust."
There was an unusual tension in the air.
Then, Ash tilted his head slightly.
"Time will reveal many things," he said, "One day, I'll use your weapon to make a name for myself. When that happens, you'll know exactly who I am."
The blacksmith let out a dry chuckle.
"Heh. Bold words, brat."
Ash turned toward the door.
"Three weeks," he said over his shoulder. "No less."
"Yeah, yeah," Garry muttered.
The door shut behind him.
The blacksmith stared at the Soul Stone.
It pulsed steadily, an eerie, living heartbeat.
Slowly, a small grin crept onto Garry's face.
"Damn kid… I don't even know if what I'm doing is right," he muttered.
His fingers curled around the stone.
"Guess I'll have to take responsibility."
***