Welf Crozzo stood in the middle of his forge for several long minutes after Toji left, staring at the closed door with a quiet frown.
The heat of the forge had seeped into his skin, but something about that encounter had sent a chill through his spine.
He'd seen killers before.
Adventurers with blood under their nails.
Blacklisted mercs.
Exiles from far-off lands who still carried the weight of past wars.
But Toji wasn't like them.
He didn't look like someone who enjoyed the kill.
He looked like someone who understood it.
There was a difference.
A small one. But enough to make Welf pause, grab his notes, and begin sketching designs he never thought he'd use again.
Guns.
Blades made for soft entry through ribcages. Sleek hilts with pressure triggers. Materials for shock absorption. Compact sheaths. Concealed harnesses.
No enchantments. No Familia seals. No goddess blessings.
Just metal.
And lethal.
...
Toji didn't return to his room.
Not yet.
Instead, he found a bench near one of the side plazas, where the trees filtered down the morning light in soft strands, and the stone beneath him held the forge-warmth of the city's bones.
He leaned back, arms spread out across the backrest, one leg kicked out and the other crossed over his knee.
He looked like he belonged there.
Relaxed. Smirking faintly as a few passing adventurers gave him a wide berth. A group of kids pointed at him in hushed awe.
Their mother grabbed their shoulders and steered them away quickly.
A familiar scene.
He didn't mind.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled betting slips.
Old ones. Worn from days of handling, folding, and the halfhearted notion of placing bets on the arena fights.
He turned one over.
Wrote nothing.
Just stared at it.
He hadn't bet in weeks.
Not since.... Gojo.
He remembered the smirk. The confidence. The unbearable brightness of that man's eyes. Like looking into a sun that knew all your sins and forgave none of them.
Back then, Toji had walked into battle like he knew he'd win.
Now?
He still believed in his strength. Still trusted his instincts. But there was a hesitation.
Not in the fight.
In what came after.
Killing was easy. It had always been easy.
The real war started when the adrenaline faded.
When he was left alone in the quiet.
He caught sight of his reflection in a vendor's polished plate, half-shaved, dark green eyes, scarred cheek, that same cocky smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Still got it," he muttered.
The vendor looked confused.
Toji just walked on.
...
By mid-afternoon, he circled back near the Hostess of Fertility, drawn more by habit than desire. The place buzzed as always.
Adventurers of all kinds lined up for meals, drinks, laughter. Syr waved at him from behind the counter.
Ryuu gave him a curt nod and went back to cleaning a glass.
He didn't enter.
Instead, he sat near the wall, half-shaded by the building's overhang, and let the day pass.
He watched people.
Aiz passed once, heading toward the Guild office.
Her hair caught the sun like molten gold, her face as unreadable as always.
Toji didn't call out.
But she turned slightly as she passed, as if sensing his presence, then walked on.
There was something strange in that girl.
A stillness that mirrored his own.
Something buried.
Maybe that's why she looked at him like that.
Like she saw the monster in the glass.
...
Night fell slowly.
The last vendors packed up.
The streets emptied out, save for drunks and patrolling guards.
Toji wandered again, this time through the quieter side of town. He didn't need a reason.
Didn't need a destination.
His instincts tugged him forward like they always had.
He didn't even realize where he was until the streets narrowed and the lanterns became few and far between.
It was the kind of district that looked empty, but wasn't.
The kind of place where shadows whispered, and people disappeared.
And then he heard it.
The soft click of a boot on gravel.
The sharp breath of someone holding tension in their chest.
The scent of cheap alcohol and dull steel.
Toji sighed.
He turned the corner.
Five men.
Dirty coats, bandaged knuckles, worn daggers.
One of them was missing teeth.
Another had a twisted scar running down his neck.
They looked more like carrion than wolves.
"You're far from home, friend," the leader sneered, stepping forward with a swagger that had probably worked on easier prey.
Toji tilted his head. "Am I?"
"We don't like strangers walking alone here."
"Good thing I'm not a stranger," Toji replied, cracking his neck lazily. "And I don't walk alone."
He patted his coat.
They didn't get it.
He didn't wait.
The leader moved first, lunging in with a blade aimed for his ribs.
Toji stepped sideways. One clean, surgical movement.
He slammed his elbow down on the man's forearm, shattering bone with a snap, then drove his fist into the side of the man's throat.
He crumpled like paper.
The second came in wide, sloppy.
Toji ducked, grabbed his ankle, and twisted.
The man hit the ground with a scream, his kneecap folding sideways.
The third tried to stab him from behind.
Toji spun, caught the wrist, and drove the dagger into the man's own thigh.
Four seconds.
Three men down.
The last two bolted.
He didn't chase.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood there, cracked his knuckles, and let the adrenaline cool in his blood.
His breathing hadn't even changed.
His eyes were calm.
Focused.
Old habits.
He was supposed to be better.
He wasn't.
He waited another few seconds, then turned and walked off after the last two men, who were too panicked to realize that they'd just led a wolf straight to the den.
It didn't take long to find the hideout.
A crumbling warehouse on the edge of the slums.
No guards at the front.
Just a single swinging lamp and a drunk passed out near the wall.
Toji stepped inside.
Ten men inside.
Crates. Tables. Weapons. Money.
Someone raised their voice. Another reached for a crossbow.
Too late.
Toji moved like a ghost.
His blade cut air.
His foot crushed a sternum.
One by one, they fell, fast, clean, efficient.
Screams choked in blood.
Struggles ended before they could begin.
He didn't speak.
Didn't gloat.
Just worked.
Professional. Ruthless. Unstoppable.
When it was over, he stood among the corpses, breathing slow.
The moonlight through the broken window lit the blood on his sleeve like ink.
He walked to the back, found the stash, gold, weapons, documents.
He pocketed nothing.
Just lit a match, dropped it into the pile, and watched it burn.
...
Outside, the night was still. No sounds but the wind and the far-off noise of taverns closing.
Toji didn't go home.
Instead, he walked through the streets until he found himself near the forge again.
Smoke curled up from the chimney.
He stood there, silent, watching the soft glow behind the window. The hiss of heated metal. The rhythm of a hammer.
Welf hadn't gone to sleep.
Neither had he.
...
The forge pulsed with heat even at this hour, deep into the night when the rest of the city slept beneath closed shutters and half-burned lanterns.
Toji stood at the edge of the doorway, letting the scent of metal, soot, and magicless fire wash over him.
Inside, Welf Crozzo moved with the practiced rhythm of a man who had long since become one with his craft.
Hammer. Rotate. Heat. Quench. Repeat.
No enchantments. No divine tricks. Just the old-fashioned patience of a stubborn bastard born to make things that lasted.
Welf glanced up.
"...You really don't sleep, do you?"
Toji leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, that same lopsided smirk on his face. He looked like he'd come straight from a fight.
Blood had dried beneath his collar. His knuckles were bruised and slightly swollen. His coat bore new rips. But his eyes were still sharp. Still focused.
"You forge," Toji said. "I kill."
Welf snorted. "Sure. Except your clients don't usually come back."
"Depends. Some crawl."
A pause. Then both of them chuckled, a low, knowing sound shared only between men who lived in the margins of civilization.
Toji stepped inside. The warmth hit him fully now, seeping into the bones beneath his scars.
He glanced over the half-finished weapons scattered across the workshop, swords, daggers, a few experimental constructs that bore the faint silhouette of something more... modern.
"You figured out what I asked for?" he said.
Welf wiped sweat from his brow and pointed to the side bench. "Started with the basics. No enchantments. Pure steel. You want range weapons, right? Something quick to draw. Minimal reload. Hidden, if possible."
Toji nodded. "Concealed. Light. Reliable. Preferably lethal in one shot."
Welf frowned, wiping his hands on a rag. "You sure you're not building these for a war?"
"I don't do war," Toji said, tone low. "War has rules."
That shut Welf up for a moment.
Toji walked over to the bench, picking up one of the prototype weapons.
It wasn't a gun by Earth standards, Orario didn't have the powder, the chemistry, or the manufacturing precision.
But Welf had done something clever.
A spring-loaded mechanism. Compression coils. Repeating trigger function powered by tension magic without divine Falna, meaning no dependency on gods.
The blade edge retracted with a smooth click, like a hidden fang.
Toji tested the balance. Pivoted it in his grip. Flicked it open and closed.
"...Not bad...."
"I'm working on one with a compressed mana reservoir," Welf said, watching him carefully. "Something that could mimic gunfire without Falna support. But I'll need time. Materials."
"You'll have it."
Welf crossed his arms, thoughtful. "You sure about all this? You didn't look like the type trying to build an arsenal."
Toji smiled faintly. "I'm not building it. I'm remembering it."
He placed the weapon down carefully, almost reverently. Then he moved to the far side of the forge and leaned back against the wall.
"Back where I'm from," he began, voice slower now, "there were no monsters like the ones in this Dungeon. No gods walking the streets. But we still had devils. Dressed in suits. Smiled in mirrors."
Welf didn't speak. He just listened, hammer now resting quietly beside the anvil.
"I was a hitman," Toji said flatly. "Assassin. Cleaner. Whatever word makes it easier to swallow. I killed people for money. Sometimes out of revenge. Sometimes for politics. Sometimes just because someone paid more than the last guy."
Welf nodded slowly. "And now?"
"I'm trying to be something else," Toji admitted. "But muscle memory's a bitch. I go into the Dungeon because it's the only place that makes sense. Down there, things are simple. Clear. Kill or be killed. Up here..."
He gestured vaguely toward the world outside.
"Too many eyes. Too many voices telling me I should be more than I am."
Welf chuckled dryly. "And yet you're here. Asking me to forge tools for a man you say you don't want to be anymore."
Toji gave him a look. "Change doesn't mean pretending I was never that man. It just means not letting him drive."
Welf was silent at that.
Then he nodded. "Fair."
Toji stepped forward again, now standing in the orange wash of the forge fire.
He looked older in the light. Not physically, but in his eyes. Like he had carried too many corpses and still remembered every face.
"I want you to make me three things," he said. "A knife. Compact. Bone-hilted. Weighted perfectly for throwing. No enchantments."
Welf grabbed some parchment and started scribbling. "Got it."
"A short-barrel projectile weapon. Low ammo. Just one or two shots. But quiet. Precise. Make it mechanical, not magical."
"Tricky," Welf muttered. "But doable."
"And lastly... something for when everything else fails. A fallback. Emergency tool. Doesn't have to be fancy."
Welf raised an eyebrow. "Like a hidden blade? I think that one work just fine"
Toji smirked. "No, like something you carve names into."
Welf paused. His pen stilled.
"...You planning to carve any?"
Toji looked at the weapon on the table. Then slowly shook his head.
"Not unless they give me a reason."
They worked until dawn.
Welf measured. Drew. Smelted. And Toji gave insight most warriors wouldn't even think of, about weight, pressure, hand positioning.
The feel of a blade against flesh. The importance of silence. Of being forgettable. Kill clean, leave no trace.
It was frightening how easily the language returned to him.
But something was different now.
When the sun crept up, and the city stirred back to life, Toji didn't immediately disappear.
He stood at the edge of the forge, watching the skyline glow, the gods begin their morning squabbles, the merchants hawking bread and fruit on the corners.
He exhaled through his nose.
Welf approached behind him, setting down a mug of lukewarm tea.
"...You staying in Orario long-term?"
Toji didn't answer at first.
Then, "I don't know."
"Something tells me you'll be needed. One way or another."
Toji took the tea. Sipped. It tasted like ash and dirt and something vaguely sweet.
"Don't know if I want to be needed," he muttered. "But I'll be here. If someone needs a knife in the dark."
Welf grinned. "Let's just hope it's not pointed at us."
Toji didn't smile.
But he didn't walk away, either.