Morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Copper Candle, casting warm amber streaks across the table where Seraphina and I sat, our half-eaten breakfasts in front of us. I took a sip from my mug as she softly stretched her shoulders, rotating one arm with a wince.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  Seraphina gave me a look, half-amused, half-accusing. “I’m really sore from last night.”

  I raised an eyebrow, grinning just a little. “The forge work or the part after?”

  She nudged my leg under the table with her foot. “Both. But you definitely didn’t help matters.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should,” she said, smirking and wincing again. “You owe me a bath later, though.”

  “Deal. After the guild.”

  Just then, the front door jingled open, and Mark stepped inside, his usual restless energy trailing behind him. He pulled out a chair and set a small cloth bag of pastries on the table. “Got to get my morning energy…”

  Seraphina raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t eat here at the inn?”

  “Already did,” he said, taking a bite from a honeyed twist. “Second breakfast.”

  I laughed. “You’re going to burn out by midday.”

  Mark shrugged. “That’s future me’s problem.”

  We finished our meal happily, laughter filling the air as we sipped tea and nibbled on the last pieces of sweet bread. The three of us stepped into the cool morning air, our breath curling in the chill as the city woke around us. I reached for Seraphina’s hand, and she took it without hesitation, fingers warm in mine, grounding me. We moved through the cobblestone streets side by side, Mark trailing slightly behind, still blinking sleep out of his eyes and trying not to spill crumbs from his pastry bag. The city around us stirred: carts rattling over stone, vendors setting up canopies, apprentices rushing between tasks, and sharp morning greetings echoing through lanes. It felt less unfamiliar today. More like ours.

  When the tall, arched doors of the guild appeared, Mark slowed down slightly, but we kept going. This time, we didn’t stop at the reception desk. Instead, we walked straight through the main hall, beneath the stonework crests and banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The three receptionists, one sorting mail, one hunched over a ledger, one pouring tea, looked up and waved as we passed by.

  Seraphina smiled and waved back. I gently squeezed her hand as we walked through the wide doors at the back, toward the forge building.

  Mark looked around. “We’re allowed back here?”

  Seraphina flashed a smile over her shoulder. “David is.”

  Beyond the carved arch and down the familiar corridor, the entrance to the forge complex appeared. I reached out, pushed it open, and let the others step in ahead of me.

  The heat struck first, dry and metallic. Then came the scent: coal, oil, steel. It enveloped us like a heavy cloak.

  Mark paused just inside, his eyes wide as he observed the layout: multiple forges, neatly arranged workbenches, casting pits, and tool racks set with almost military precision. The place buzzed with quiet purpose.

  We crossed the tiled stone floor toward the far wall, where two wide doors, dark wood banded in brass, stood slightly open. Beyond them were the private workshops and offices.

  As we stepped inside, I felt the familiar presence of the place settle around me. Ash. Oiled leather. A trace of old polish. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden slats across the walls and floor.

  Seraphina moved first, drawn to a modest desk near the window, smaller than mine, but clean and well-stocked. A few sheets of parchment, an inkwell, and a stack of ledgers sat waiting like soldiers at attention. She pulled out the chair and sat with practiced grace, flipping open the nearest ledger. “Looks like they expect me to keep you from losing track of the orders,” she said, amused but not surprised.

  “We’re a team,” I said, smiling as I set the katana on my desk. Its silver-orange edge caught the light as I turned toward the tray nearby: a shallow inbox stacked with fresh request slips. I began flipping through them. Most were standard tool repairs, including fittings for wagon axles, as well as bulk orders for nails and hinges. But some had weight.

  One requested ceremonial blades, another listed alloy specs with no clear use. A third was labeled only: Urgent: Weapon Repair.

  I tried sorting them into two piles, but paused when Seraphina leaned forward, studying my hands.

  “Left for routine,” she said, “right for weird?”

  I grinned. “Exactly.”

  She dipped her quill into the inkwell. “Then let’s log everything weird first.” I gave her a warm glance, half proud, half relieved, and returned to work.

  Mark entered the office, glancing around as if he weren’t sure whether he was dreaming. “This is your shop?”

  “Part of it,” I said. “Welcome to the Guild Forges.”

  I moved across the room to the bench along the far wall, where empty bookshelves used to be. He stepped aside so Mark could get a look.

  Lined up on the shelves are five assessment pieces: the horseshoe, the chisel, the ornate hinge, the paring blade, and finally, the bearded axe. All are cleaned, polished, and faintly gleaming in the morning light.

  Mark stared silently.

  “You made all of these?” His voice cracked at the edge of disbelief. He reached out but stopped just short of touching the hinge. “In one sitting?”

  I gave a slight nod. “During the assessment. It took me about four hours.”

  Mark’s jaw moved, but no words escaped. He examined each piece again, his eyes focusing on the balance, the grain of the steel, the finish work, and then finally looked back at me. “Why, why did you bring me here?”

  Before I could respond, Seraphina stepped forward. She didn’t raise her voice, but her tone carried a sense of practiced confidence. “Because David is looking for a journeyman. Someone with steady hands and a willingness to grow. Someone who wants to learn from a Master Smith.” Her gaze locked with Mark’s. “Know anyone like that?”

  Mark blinked. “You’re offering me a job?”

  “I’m offering you a chance, unless you have somewhere else to go," I said plainly.

  Mark glanced back at the workbench, then at the katana resting on David’s desk, and finally back to Seraphina. He didn’t say yes yet, but something in his posture shifted.

  He was already picturing it.

  “Let’s see, I can start you…” I glanced at Seraphina. “Let’s see, a gold a week, if you maintain at least the same quality of work as that lantern you made. Special projects can earn you more. If you’re interested, you can tell me later at dinner or breakfast at the inn.”

  Mark let out a slow breath, somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “I, yeah. I mean, yeah, I’ll think about it.”

  Seraphina gave him a warm nod. “No rush. We’ll be at the Copper Candle if you decide.”

  I gave him a light tap on the shoulder as I grabbed the katana. “Hold the shop down while we’re gone.”

  “Where are you two headed?”

  “Shopping,” Seraphina said over her shoulder. “Big day starting here tomorrow. Someone needs more clothes. And definitely undergarments.” She shot a quick sidelong glance at David, with just enough smirk to make her point.

  The busy city streets buzzed with activity, voices calling from shops, carts bouncing over uneven cobblestones, and the scent of fresh bread mingling with the smell of iron in the summer air. I held Seraphina’s hand as we moved through stalls and shops.

  “Any idea where we’re headed?" I asked.

  “Somewhere that sells more than three pairs of socks and doesn’t charge two silver for thread,” she muttered. “We’re not going to live like wandering tinkers anymore.”

  We first ducked into a textile shop. Bolts of fabric lined the walls in colors I couldn’t name, and Seraphina quickly connected with the shopkeeper, bargaining for pre-made blouses and long skirts while I sat on a bench near the changing screen. Every few minutes, she returned with a new outfit, asking for my opinion with one eyebrow raised.

  “You look beautiful in all of them,” I said, not bothering to pretend otherwise.

  She smirked. “That’s not helpful.”

  “It’s honest.”

  Next came the boots. Hers weren’t damaged, only clearly wrong for her feet, too narrow across the toes, and worn at the heel from her walking style. I hadn’t noticed how often she adjusted them or winced after a long day. The cobbler gave us a once-over as if we might be nobles slumming it, until Seraphina started rattling off leather grades and debating heel angles. She left with two new pairs made for walking and standing for long hours. I left with less gold, but no regrets.

  After that, we passed a jeweler’s window. Seraphina paused. “Someday,” she murmured, half to herself, “I want to pick out something here. Not for trade. Not for coin. Just because I can.”

  I squeezed her hand. “We’ll come back. When we’re ready.”

  Finally, we arrived at a bakery. We savored two warm, soft rolls and a small clay pot of spiced honey. Standing shoulder to shoulder under a merchant’s awning in the shade, we enjoyed our treats silently and without rush. Just a moment of quiet, of normalcy, of something that felt like a new beginning.

  We veered off the main street, walking down the narrow cobblestone lane that curved toward the Copper Candle. The city noise quieted a bit, muffled by stone walls and tall buildings. The warm smell of fresh bread still lingered between us, mixed with the leather polish from Seraphina’s new boots.

  Then came the shift. My perception sharpened as if someone had slammed a hand down on the world. I froze, my stomach tightening, and pulled Seraphina close by the arm. The street had gone still. Not a natural pause in conversation, but an unsettling silence too sudden, too complete. Even the gulls overhead had disappeared.

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  Shadows receded from the alleys. Four figures emerged from between stacked barrels and narrow doorways. Young. Sharp-eyed. Restless. Street wolves. Their leather jerkins were patched and uneven, tunics stained and stretched, the kind scavenged from market stalls or stripped from drunks in an alley. At their sides, blades caught the light, rusted, jagged, too crude to be ceremonial, yet clearly weapons meant to scare and wound.

  My analyze skill triggered before I could stop it. Four blue panes of light blinked into view, floating in the space before me, text crisp against the creeping quiet.

  [Name: Xander Garrett]

  Level: 3

  Class: Butcher

  Title: None

  [Name: Jackson Ball]

  Level: 5

  Class: Tanner

  Title: None

  [Name: Jalen Ball]

  Level: 4

  Class: Tanner

  Title: None

  The Ball brothers. They looked alike, with thin shoulders and the same cocky stance. The last one lagged behind the others. His display flickered longer, as if reluctant to reveal itself, before finally sharpening into focus.

  [Name: Jack Grant]

  Level: 8

  Class: Warrior

  Title: None

  My grip tightened on Seraphina. Novices, all of them. But desperate men with blades didn’t need skill to be dangerous. One of them, the tall brute Garrett with a shaved head and a scar running down his jaw like a low-budget villain from a pulp novel, stepped into the street and spread his arms wide, blocking our way. “Looks like you’ve had a lucky morning,” he said, eyes scanning the bags in my arms. “Why don’t we help lighten it?”

  I almost laughed. Really? This seems too clichéd.

  Another one, Jalen Ball, thinner, twitching, with a lip crusted in dried blood and a darting, predatory stare, moved in closer. His gaze slid over Seraphina like grease. “She can stay,” he said, voice low and grating. “We’ll treat her real nice.”

  Of course. The leering insult. The implied threat. The guy with the scar. The twitchy one. It wasn’t just a robbery; it was a complete trope.

  This was the scene. The “hero’s test.” The “prove yourself to the thugs” moment. I’d seen it in games, books, and movies. The setup always followed the same pattern: random goons, random threat, and a choice to show restraint or take them all down. Bonus points for clever lines.

  This time, it wasn’t on a screen, and Seraphina wasn’t just a plot device. She was real. She was mine.

  I shifted my stance, relaxing enough to let my weight settle evenly, balancing between stillness and motion. The katana at my side shifted slightly. The air grew denser. My fingers curled once as I let the skill trigger.

  Let’s see how this trope plays out when the guy they’re messing with isn’t sticking to the script. The flicker of instinctual magic crossed my vision. Four names. Low stats. Street-level brawlers. No formal training. Two had minor records with the local guard. None of them seemed like a real threat, except there was another in the back. Was there four, or five now? No name listed. No data. He looked familiar.

  Blocked. Or concealed.

  My eyes narrowed on him, still lingering near the back of the group. He hadn’t spoken or moved, but he was watching everything. Hands loose, balanced. He wasn’t really with the others.

  Noted.

  I let the skill fade and shifted my stance. My body isn’t that of a seventy-year-old anymore. I can see their moves by the changes in their stances. Dumb moves.

  Seraphina’s body tensed behind me, with no words, only the soft scrape of her boot against stone. I heard her breath catch. “Let’s back out of here.” I heard her whisper to me.

  I don’t think they would let us leave now. I didn’t hesitate. I let the bags hit the ground with a dull thud, the loaf of bread rolling freely across the cobblestones. My hand moved to the katana slowly, deliberately. Every move was muscle memory, carved from years barefoot on dojo floors, listening to the calm, measured voices of masters. Timing. Distance. Intent.

  I moved forward, positioning myself between her and the danger.

  This wasn’t the part of me Seraphina had seen. Not yet. And if I could help it, she wouldn’t have to. But sometimes the world didn’t care about what part you wanted to keep hidden.

  “No,” is all I could say to them.

  The word hung in the alley like a blade drawn in moonlight, sharp, icy, decisive.

  The leader’s smirk faded. “You really think that pretty blade’s gonna save you?”

  I pulled the katana just enough for the edge to catch the morning light. It whispered as it slid out of the sheath, steel and silence.

  “It's not the size of the blade,” I said again, eyes locked on his. “But two of you won’t get back up. Maybe three, if I don’t waste time talking.”

  That was when the stillness changed. Not just sound something deeper. The kind of pause that comes right before violence breaks out. The air grew heavy. The alley seemed to hold its breath.

  I can see the first one wanted glory before the others. His leg shifted. Then he lunged, thinking speed could beat skill.

  His eyes fixated on my chest, full of confidence, he believed this was done before it even began.

  I shifted aside, pivoting on instinct, letting his momentum overcommit. My blade came up in a sharp, controlled arc, clean, fast, and unforgiving. The steel kissed the side of his neck with a sound that wasn’t quite a slice, more like wet fabric being torn in half.

  For a heartbeat, his face went slack. Confusion flickered behind his eyes as if his mind hadn’t yet received the message that his throat was no longer whole.

  Then the blood came. It sprayed in a violent arc, hot, arterial splashing across the cobblestones and catching my shoulder and cheek in a fine red mist. His mouth gaped open, jaw working uselessly. He staggered, one hand rising to his neck, fingers pressing into the ruin I’d left behind.

  Thick, dark streams pulsed between his fingers.

  He tried to speak. Tried to scream. All that came out was a ragged gurgle and a bubbling froth of crimson that spilled over his lips.

  Then his knees buckled. He crumpled mid-step, his weapon falling from a hand that no longer remembered how to hold anything. His body hit the stones with a sick thud. One leg kicked once, weakly, reflexively.

  Then nothing. Only the pooling blood, steaming slightly in the cold air, and the silence that followed it.

  [Congratulations]

  [45 XP Sword Fighting Awarded]

  [New Skill Acquired – Sword Fighting – Level 1]

  The second thug was already closing the distance, a crude club raised high over his head. He shouted something guttural, half rage, half fear, but it didn’t matter. I stepped into his charge, pivoted low, and brought my blade across in a tight, horizontal arc.

  The steel hit flesh and bone like a cleaver through ripe fruit.

  The cut tore him open from shoulder to opposite ribs. His chest split wide, blood erupting in a hot spray that fanned across my arms and face. The sound that came from him was not a scream, it was a broken, rattling gasp, like air escaping a punctured lung.

  He stared down, lips twitching, confused. As if his mind refused to believe what his body already knew. His hands tried to clutch his chest, but there was nothing left to hold together, only open muscle and slick, exposed bone.

  He fell to his knees, swaying. Blood dripped in thick ropes from the gaping wound, soaking his tunic in seconds. Then he toppled forward, face smashing against the cobblestones with a dull crack. His body gave a final twitch.

  Then stillness. Blood was spreading beneath him like ink spilled on stone.

  [DING]

  [94 Sword Fighting XP Gained]

  [Level Up – Sword Fighting – Level 2]

  91 XP Until Next Level

  As I shifted back into position, my breath steady but my chest burning, I caught a glimpse over my shoulder—Seraphina stood frozen at the alley’s edge, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes weren’t on them anymore. They were fixed on me.

  Not afraid of what might happen. Fear of what I already was. And this was only the beginning.

  The third thug, smaller than the others, wiry, with a crooked jaw and uneven gait, hesitated. His bravado faded as he looked at the torn bodies of his companions. Panic flashed in his eyes, raw and full of fear. He spun around to run, his boots scraping loudly across the cobblestones.

  But fear made him clumsy. His heel caught on a loose stone, and he stumbled, windmilling his arms as his balance vanished. He tried to twist away, but I was already on him. Two quick strides. No hesitation. No mercy. The katana hissed through the air like a live wire.

  It bit into his side just as he turned, the edge carving a vicious diagonal line from hip to opposite shoulder. Flesh parted like silk soaked in oil. Blood sprayed high and wide, splattering the brick wall in a violent, crimson bloom.

  He hit the ground hard, spine-first, a horrible gurgle escaping his throat. His body convulsed once, legs kicking out involuntarily. Then nothing.

  I stood over him, chest heaving, the katana dripping a thick line of blood that sizzled as it hit the warm stone beneath my feet.

  [DING]

  [94 Sword Fighting XP Gained]

  [Level Up – Sword Fighting – Level 3]

  102 XP Until Next Level

  The alley had gone deathly still. No footsteps. No breath. Even the breeze held its tongue. Then came the leader.

  He didn’t bluster or charge. He moved forward like a man who had walked through blood before. His eyes scanned the bodies lying on the ground, his men, all dead or dying in crimson pools spreading across the cobbles. His gaze paused on each of them for barely a second before settling on me.

  Cold. Clinical. Calculating.

  A thick scar curved from his cheekbone down past his collarbone, faded but ugly like someone had once tried to do what I just did, and failed. His boots scraped in slow, deliberate steps. The worn leather of his coat shifted with each movement, and beneath, scale and chain glinted darkly in the alley light. Not ornamental. Not parade gear. This was armor for killing.

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. But he wasn’t calm either. His eyes moved, fast and sharp, measuring reach, checking footwork, watching for an opening.

  “You could just leave,” I said, voice low, tight with adrenaline. It wasn’t a plea. It was a mercy.

  He did not take it.

  “You just made a mistake,” he growled. His voice was a gravel scrape, bitter and sure of itself. His hand hovered over the longsword strapped at his hip, the kind you draw to end things.

  He stepped in. Bad move.

  His sword hadn’t even cleared half its length before I moved. One quick step inward, tight and fast, and I drove the katana down hard. The katana sang. The steel hissed as it cut through layers of cloth, scale, chain, and muscle. A flash of red.

  His draw stopped.

  His expression froze, eyes widening. A thin red line opened along his shoulder, arcing across his chest. For a moment, he still stood, staring at me like he was about to finish a sentence.

  Then his head slid free.

  It dropped to the stone with a heavy, wet thud, face twisted in shock, mouth still half-open. A dark spray followed, erupting from the stump in a thick pulse before the body followed, armor clattering as it collapsed beside the blade it never swung.

  Blood fanned across the stone like spilled ink. I stood there, chest heaving. Blade lowered. The alley echoed with thick, ringing silence, final.

  A soft chime inside my mind:

  [DING]

  [214 Sword Fighting XP Gained]

  [Level Up – Sword Fighting – Level 4]

  92 XP Until Next Level

  [DING]

  [Level Up – Sword Fighting – Level 5]

  102 XP Until Next Level

  I didn’t react. Couldn’t. Just stood there, blood-slick and breathing, as the last echoes of violence faded into the void behind my heartbeat.

  A gentle chime sounded in my ears, soft, measured, like a whisper between steel.

  [New Passive Skill Acquired: Blade Sense]

  You’ve learned to read an opponent’s movements before they strike. Your reflexes sharpen, your instincts become more precise. In the heat of combat, you see the attacker’s intent before the blade moves.

  I stood still for a moment, hand steady on the katana’s hilt. The blood was drying on my coat. My breathing was constant, but something inside me had shifted. I no longer just swung a sword; I felt its rhythm. I knew now when to move, where to strike. My body had caught up to what my mind already understood.

  The blood softly pooled, blending with the others.

  I slowly turned to face the last figure at the alley's edge, the one who hadn’t moved the entire time. The cloaked man from the caravan.

  No fear. No surprise. Just watching.

  [Analyze Failed – Error: Unknown Class or Cloaked Signature]

  The last of them had fallen.

  My breathing slowed and steadied now. The katana still gripped tightly in my hand, its edge notched with a faint chip near the tip. The once-flawless blade was now marked by wear from the fight.

  Across the alley, the cloaked figure hadn’t moved. He stood like a statue, arms crossed, relaxed posture, but his presence felt like a question. He didn’t approach or run away. Just watched. The same way he had on the caravan. The same way he had in the square. His hood shifted slightly as he tilted his head, as if recording the entire scene in some hidden ledger. The torchlight behind him flickered, casting his features in shifting shadows.

  [Analyze: Failed – Magical Interference Detected]

  Again. No data. No name. No threat level. Like trying to stare through smoke.

  I raised the blade slightly in a silent challenge, the universal question: Are you next?

  The cloaked man nodded slowly, not out of mockery or fear, but in acceptance. “You are an interesting fellow, blacksmith.” He turned quietly and slipped back into the shadows between the buildings. No sound. No threat. Just gone.

  I exhaled, releasing the tension from my shoulders as I smoothly drew the katana back into its sheath with a soft shhk of steel against lacquered wood. My fingers curled around the hilt one last time before I placed it at my side.

  Seraphina was still staring not at the bodies, but at me. Her lips parted slightly, and her brow furrowed.

  “You’ve fought before,” she said softly. “Not just brawls. Not village scraps. Real fighting.”

  There was no fear in her voice. No anger, just a realization. Beneath it, concern was steady and personal.

  I walked back to her in silence, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had worn off. I slid the sheathed katana back into my belt as I knelt and began gathering the scattered items. The bread was ruined. One of the small bags had torn at the seam.

  “I learned from some masters,” I said, finally looking up at my wife. “That was years ago. Almost like another life."

  She moved beside me, still watching. “That blade I’ve seen soldiers fight with swords. They don’t move like you did. You didn’t just swing. It was like the blade moved with you.”

  I looked down at the katana, fingers tightening around its hilt for a moment. I let out a breath. Not out of fear, but focus. The weight of the weapon anchored me. I wasn’t shaking, I was settling, finding my center.

  “This sword doesn’t fight like theirs. It doesn’t depend on brute force. It needs precision. Rhythm. It’s a different way. That’s all.”

  Seraphina didn’t respond right away; she reached out and placed a steady, warm hand on my arm. I looked into her eyes again and saw no judgment, no confusion. Just the weight of someone trying to understand the depth of a man she loved. And for a moment, I wished she had never had to see this part of me.

  “Let’s go,” she said softly. “Before someone else shows up. Someone owes me a bath, and you look horrible.”