Chapter 4: DaDa's Happy Store

  The hammer fell with practiced rhythm. Heat from the forge washed over my face, familiar and numbing.

  Strike. Heat. Quench. Repeat.

  The sword took shape slowly. A commission from some C-rank adventurer. Standard request—balanced blade, nothing fancy, delivered in three days.

  I worked mechanically. Muscle memory from forty years of smithing carried me through the motions while my mind stayed mercifully blank.

  Don't think. Just work.

  Strike. Heat. Quench.

  The workshop door chimed—that cheerful bell I kept meaning to remove but never did.

  "Be with you in a moment," I called without looking up.

  Footsteps approached. Stopped at a respectful distance from the forge.

  I set the blade aside to cool and finally turned.

  A young man. Maybe eighteen. Dark hair, pale skin, wearing travel clothes that had seen recent use. His eyes scanned the workshop with analytical precision—not browsing, evaluating.

  New adventurer. Probably heard about my work from the guild.

  "Looking for equipment?" My voice came out rougher than intended. I hadn't spoken to anyone in two days.

  "Yes. Madam Rinne recommended your workshop." He spoke with careful formality. "I need durable travel gear. Reliable weapons. Nothing decorative."

  Practical. I could work with that.

  "What's your rank?"

  "B-rank. Registered four days ago."

  I paused, examining him more carefully. B-rank in four days? Either remarkably talented or lying. But Rinne wouldn't send a liar.

  "What kind of combat?"

  "Mixed. Primarily unarmed, but I should have backup options."

  "Budget?"

  "Adequate for quality work."

  I gestured toward the display racks. "Browse. Everything's marked. I'll finish this commission, then we'll talk specifics."

  He nodded and moved toward the weapons with that same analytical gait. Not eager like most young adventurers. Just... methodical.

  I returned to the blade, but watched him from the corner of my eye.

  He examined each piece carefully. Tested weight distribution. Checked edge alignment. Ran his fingers along the tang to assess balance.

  Someone had trained him properly. Or he was naturally perceptive about craftsmanship.

  He selected a short sword—good choice, versatile—and a set of throwing knives. Then paused at the armor display.

  His hand hovered over a set of bracers.

  Stopped.

  Moved to the next set.

  Stopped again.

  His eyes had fixed on something behind the bracers. On the back wall.

  The practice sword.

  My chest tightened.

  "That one's not for sale," I said, voice harder than I'd intended.

  He turned, startled. "I apologize. I didn't mean to—"

  "Just looking at the bracers, I assume." I set the commissioned blade in the oil bath with more force than necessary. "The black leather set. Second from left. Those'll suit you."

  "Yes. Thank you." But his eyes drifted back to the wall. To the practice sword mounted there.

  Brilliant golden hilt. Yellow gem catching the forge light.

  So bright. Like sunshine.

  Like her smile.

  "Sir, if I may ask—" The boy's voice pulled me back. "That sword. The craftsmanship is exceptional. I've never seen a practice blade with that level of detail."

  "It's not for sale," I repeated.

  "I wasn't asking to buy it." His tone remained neutral, curious. "Just... appreciating the work. The balance looks perfect even from here. And that gem—is it enchanted? It seems to gather light."

  Something in his analytical interest—not greed, just genuine observation—made my throat close.

  "My daughter made it." The words came out before I could stop them.

  He looked at me. Really looked. Not pitying. Just listening.

  "She forged the blade herself?"

  "Under my guidance. Her first solo project." I found myself moving toward the wall, toward the sword I hadn't touched in three months. "She was fifteen. Wanted to be an adventurer. Said she'd advertise my work while she explored."

  My hand stopped inches from the hilt.

  "She made it that bright so I could find her. In crowds. In emergencies. Yellow was her favorite color. Said it was happy."

  The workshop was too quiet. Just the forge crackling.

  "She sounds skilled," the boy said quietly.

  "Was." The word tasted like ash. "She was skilled."

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry," he said. Simple. Not elaborate condolences. Just acknowledgment.

  I turned away, back to the forge. Back to work.

  Don't think. Just work.

  "The bracers. Twelve silver. The sword and knives, eight silver total. I can have them ready in an hour if you're willing to wait."

  "Of course. Thank you."

  He didn't ask what happened. Didn't pry.

  Good.

  I couldn't talk about it anyway.

  Three months ago. Evening.

  The guild staff had come himself. Young man named Gullen. Official expression. Official words.

  "Mr. Druffen, I'm very sorry, but there's been an incident during today's quest. Your daughter—"

  The world had tilted.

  "Where is she?"

  "Sir, perhaps you should sit—"

  "WHERE IS SHE?"

  They'd taken me to the guild morgue.

  I'd known before they pulled back the sheet.

  Known from Gullen's face. From the healer's hollow eyes. From the silence.

  But nothing prepared me for seeing it.

  Her body.

  What they'd done to her body.

  Tortured. Raped. Discarded.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Her face barely recognizable through the bruising and cuts. Her body broken in ways that made the healer vomit when she'd first seen it.

  They'd used her. Played with her. Thrown her away.

  My little girl.

  My sunshine.

  My world.

  The only thing still identifiable was her weapon.

  That brilliant golden-hilted practice sword, clutched in her right hand so tightly they'd had to break her fingers to remove it.

  She'd fought until the end.

  My brave, stupid, wonderful girl had fought until she couldn't anymore.

  The gem still glowed yellow. Happy yellow.

  Mocking me.

  She'd made it bright so I could find her.

  And I had.

  Too late.

  I'd demanded answers.

  Demanded investigation.

  Demanded justice.

  The guild had complied. Officially.

  Investigation opened. Witnesses questioned. Evidence collected.

  And then, three weeks later:

  "Insufficient evidence to proceed with charges. Case closed."

  "WHAT?!" I'd roared at Gullen's impassive face. "There are WITNESSES! People saw her with those three thugs! Saw them drag her into the alley!"

  "Witnesses have recanted their statements, sir."

  "Because they were THREATENED! Everyone knows those thugs work for—"

  "Without witness cooperation, we cannot proceed. I'm sorry, Mr. Druffen."

  "You're SORRY?! My daughter is DEAD!"

  "I understand your grief, sir. But the guild operates under legal—"

  I'd lunged at him. Other staff had pulled me back.

  "Those animals killed her! You KNOW they did!"

  "Knowing and proving are different things, sir. I'm truly sorry."

  Sorry.

  Everyone was sorry.

  The adventurers who'd been too scared to testify.

  The guild staff who'd closed the case.

  The city guards who'd shrugged and said "guild jurisdiction."

  Even Rinne had come. Offered her condolences. Offered money for a proper funeral.

  "I don't want money," I'd told her. "I want justice."

  "I know, Druffen. I know." Her eyes had been sad. Tired. "But the system doesn't always provide it."

  "Then what good is the system?"

  She'd had no answer.

  No one did.

  So I'd buried my daughter.

  Closed the investigation myself—filed away in a drawer marked "Failed."

  Changed nothing about the workshop because changing things meant accepting she was gone.

  The sign still read "DaDa's Happy Store"—her childhood name for it, the one I'd kept because it made her laugh.

  Her practice sword still hung on the wall where she'd mounted it proudly.

  Her workbench still held her half-finished projects.

  And I still came to work every day.

  Strike. Heat. Quench.

  Don't think. Just work.

  Because if I stopped working, I'd have to feel.

  And if I felt, I'd have to accept that my daughter was dead and her killers walked free.

  So I didn't stop.

  The boy—Yuki, he'd said his name was—waited patiently while I fitted the bracers.

  "These should accommodate growth," I explained, adjusting the straps. "The leather's treated to resist most elemental damage. Not invincible, but reliable."

  "Thank you. Your work is exceptional."

  "Forty years of practice."

  "Your daughter learned from the best, then."

  My hands stilled on the buckle.

  "She did," I said quietly. "Could've been better than me, given time."

  "What happened to her?"

  The question was direct. Clinical. No emotion.

  Most people avoided asking. Tiptoed around it.

  This boy just... asked.

  I should've been angry.

  Instead, I was tired.

  "She went on a quest. C-rank escort mission with her party. Routine job." My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "That evening, a guild staff informed me of her death."

  "How did she die?"

  "The official report said training accident during a monster encounter."

  "The official report," he repeated. "And unofficially?"

  I looked at him. Really looked.

  His eyes were analytical. Absorbing information. Not judging.

  "Unofficially, three thugs who worked the extortion rackets tortured and raped her in an alley. Left her body where the morning patrol would find it."

  He didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

  "There were witnesses," I continued, words spilling out now that the dam had cracked. "People saw them drag her off the street. Heard her screaming. But when the guild investigated..."

  "They recanted."

  "Yes."

  "Threatened or bribed?"

  "Both, probably. The thugs have protection. High-ranking adventurers. Nobles who use them for dirty work." I finished buckling the bracers with mechanical precision. "The guild closed the case. Insufficient evidence."

  "But you know who killed her."

  "Everyone knows. Everyone's too afraid to say it officially."

  He nodded slowly. Processing.

  "Where can I find them?"

  The question was so matter-of-fact that I almost didn't register it.

  "What?"

  "The three men who killed your daughter. Where do they operate?"

  "You—no. Absolutely not." I grabbed his arm. "Don't even think about it. They're connected. Protected. The guild won't help if you go after them."

  "The guild failed your daughter."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Someone should correct that."

  His voice was perfectly calm. Like he was discussing weather.

  "You can't just kill them! Even if they deserve it—"

  "Why not?"

  The simple question stopped me cold.

  "Because... because the guild, the law, the system—"

  "Failed," he repeated. "You said so yourself."

  "That doesn't mean you can—they'll kill you. They're C-rank thugs with backup from A and B-rank adventurers. You'd be executed for murder even if you somehow survived."

  "I'm B-rank. They're C-rank. Numerical advantage is irrelevant with sufficient capability difference." He tested the bracers' flexibility. "As for execution, that assumes anyone would prove I did it."

  "There are always witnesses—"

  "Who recant under pressure. You said so yourself."

  I stared at him.

  This boy. This analytical, emotionless boy.

  He was serious.

  "Listen to me." I tightened my grip on his arm. "I appreciate—god, you have no idea how much I appreciate that anyone would even consider it. But my daughter is gone. Revenge won't bring her back. And I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't have another death on my conscience. Please. Just let it go."

  He looked at me for a long moment.

  Then nodded.

  "As you wish. The equipment totals twenty silver."

  The subject change was jarring. But he'd accepted my plea.

  Relief warred with something darker. Disappointment? Shame?

  I took his payment with shaking hands.

  "Thank you for understanding," I managed.

  "Of course." He gathered his purchases. "Your daughter made a beautiful sword. The craftsmanship honors her skill."

  He left.

  The bell chimed cheerfully.

  I stood in the empty workshop, staring at the practice sword on the wall.

  That brilliant golden hilt. That yellow gem catching the forge light.

  So bright.

  So happy.

  So dead.

  I returned to work.

  Strike. Heat. Quench.

  Don't think.

  Don't hope.

  Don't believe that anything would ever change.

  The system had failed.

  And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

  The next morning.

  I woke to pounding on my door.

  Stumbled downstairs. Opened it to find the city guard.

  "Mr. Druffen? Sorry to disturb you so early, sir. There's been an incident."

  My heart stopped. "What kind of incident?"

  "Three bodies found in the warehouse district. We need you to identify some recovered property."

  Bodies. Three bodies.

  "Why me?"

  "One of them had a note. Mentioned your daughter's case."

  The world tilted again.

  They took me to the guard station. Showed me the bodies on slabs.

  I recognized them immediately.

  The three thugs.

  The ones who'd killed her.

  Dead. Professionally executed. Single strikes to vital points.

  And pinned to the largest one's chest:

  A note.

  "Druffen's daughter. Insufficient evidence corrected."

  My knees gave out.

  Someone caught me. Guided me to a chair.

  "Mr. Druffen, do you know anything about this?"

  "No," I whispered. "No, I don't."

  But I did.

  Yesterday. The workshop. The boy.

  "Where can I find them?"

  "Why not?"

  "Someone should correct that."

  He'd listened when I said let it go.

  And then he'd done it anyway.

  "Sir, we'll need a statement—"

  "I don't know anything," I repeated. "I want to go home."

  They let me leave. Confusion about jurisdiction—guild members, city guards, who investigates what.

  I walked home in a daze.

  Opened the workshop.

  The practice sword still hung on the wall.

  That brilliant golden hilt. That yellow gem.

  But something had changed.

  Not the sword.

  Me.

  For three months, I'd looked at it and seen my failure. My inability to protect her. To avenge her. To do anything.

  Now I saw her fighting to the last moment.

  Refusing to give up.

  Refusing to let them win.

  And someone—a stranger who'd asked about craftsmanship and listened to a broken man ramble—had finished what she started.

  The system had failed.

  But someone had succeeded where the system couldn't.

  I reached up. Touched the hilt for the first time since her death.

  "Someone cared, sunshine," I whispered. "When everyone else looked away, someone cared."

  The gem seemed to glow brighter.

  Happy yellow.

  Not mocking anymore.

  Remembering.

  I wept.

  Not from grief this time.

  From something I'd thought I'd lost forever.

  Hope.

  That afternoon.

  The boy returned.

  I looked up from the forge and our eyes met.

  He said nothing. Just set a package on the counter.

  "What's this?"

  "You mentioned your daughter was working on projects. I found some rare metals at the market. Thought they might be useful for completing her work."

  My throat closed.

  "Why?"

  "Efficient use of materials. It would be wasteful to leave quality projects unfinished."

  Such a clinical answer.

  But his eyes...

  Young. Analytical. And completely without guilt.

  He'd killed three men last night.

  And he was buying me smithing materials.

  "Thank you," I managed. "For... for the materials."

  "Of course." He turned to leave.

  "Wait."

  He paused.

  "There's something you should know about those three men."

  "They're dead. What else is relevant?"

  "They had backers. Nobles. High-rank adventurers who used them for dirty work." I moved closer. "Those people won't be happy about this."

  "I assumed as much."

  "You're not worried?"

  "Should I be? Their thugs are dead. If they send more, those will die too. Eventually, they'll calculate that the cost exceeds the benefit and stop sending them."

  He said it so matter-of-factly.

  Like he was discussing inventory management.

  "You're not like other adventurers," I said quietly.

  "I've been told that." He almost smiled. "Is that a problem?"

  "No." I picked up the practice sword from the wall. Held it for the first time since I'd hung it there.

  The weight felt right. Familiar.

  "My daughter made this to signal me. So I could find her when she needed help."

  "It's an intelligent design."

  "I found her too late." I ran my fingers along the brilliant hilt. "But you... you finished what she started. When she fought them, she was trying to stop them from hurting anyone else. She failed. They walked free."

  "Not anymore."

  "No. Not anymore." I held out the sword. "I want you to have this."

  He blinked. "That's unnecessary—"

  "It's not payment. It's..." I struggled for words. "She made it bright so I could find her. But I think... I think she'd want it to go to someone who actually stopped them. Who did what the system couldn't."

  He looked at the sword. Then at me.

  "I'm not a hero, Mr. Druffen. I simply eliminated inefficient threats to civilians."

  "I know. But you're the only one who did."

  He took the sword carefully. Tested its balance with the same analytical precision he'd used on everything else.

  "The craftsmanship is exceptional," he said quietly. "I'll honor her work."

  "I know you will."

  He left.

  The bell chimed.

  I stood in my workshop, looking at the empty space on the wall where the sword had hung.

  For three months, that bright yellow gem had been all I had left of her.

  Now it was gone.

  But I didn't feel empty.

  For the first time since she died, I felt like I could breathe.

  She'd fought to the end.

  Someone had cared.

  Justice—real justice, not the system's failure—had been done.

  I returned to the forge.

  Picked up my hammer.

  Strike. Heat. Quench.

  But this time, I wasn't working to forget.

  I was working to remember.

  To finish her projects.

  To honor her dream.

  She'd wanted to be an adventurer who advertised my work.

  Well.

  That boy—that strange, analytical, dangerous boy—was carrying her sword now.

  And somehow, I thought she'd approve.

  [End of Chapter 4]