Adrian woke before the first bell.
Grayhaven was still half-asleep, the last traces of night clinging to the crooked roofs like stubborn mist. Dew silvered the cobblestones, and thin trails of smoke curled lazily from distant chimneys — bakers, already coaxing fire into their ovens, but not yet awake enough to shout at one another.
Adrian liked this hour. Quiet. Honest. No swaggering adventurers stomping through the streets, bragging about monsters they'd "nearly" slain. No guild recruiters sniffing around for fresh bodies to toss into some dungeon. Just him, the cold air, and the promise of fire and steel.
He rolled his shoulders. Something crunched unpleasantly in his back. "Nineteen," he muttered, "and I sound like Kell after a rainy day."
The forge wasn't much to look at — a wide stone room, soot-stained walls, a single stubborn bellows that wheezed like an old man, and a signboard that had been half-rotted since before Adrian was born. Ravensteel Smithy. He hadn't picked the name. He'd just inherited it.
Two years ago, it belonged to Master Kell, the man who'd taught Adrian how to swing a hammer without shattering his own thumb, how to tell good steel from trash, and how to stay out of the sort of trouble you couldn't fix with hot iron. Kell wasn't family by blood, but he'd been the closest thing Adrian ever had.
And then one morning, Kell simply didn't wake up. No epic battle. No heroic farewell. Just… gone.
The forge should have gone with him. Adrian had no money, no apprentices, no noble patrons — just calloused hands, a rusted sword, and a refusal to quit. But the guild registrar had glanced at Kell's old sign, then at Adrian, and shrugged."If you can pay the taxes, you can keep it."
So he did. Somehow.
Most of his coin came from jobs no one else wanted — reforging dented swords, sharpening chipped axes, hammering out cheap horseshoes for farmers who paid in grain instead of gold. It wasn't glorious work. But it was work.
Grayhaven itself wasn't glorious either. A mining town at the foot of the Ironspire Mountains, it existed mostly to resupply caravans and adventurers on their way to somewhere better. The Adventurers' Guild had a small branch office here, which meant the streets stayed noisy, and gold flowed in just fast enough to keep the inns open.
Adrian didn't care about any of that. No treasure. No fame. Just enough coin to keep the forge burning.
And then the system showed up.
No lightning. No divine voice. One morning, six months ago, a faint glowing panel had appeared over his workbench.
[Forge System Activated]Welcome, Blacksmith Swordsman Adrian.Initial Functions Unlocked:– Item Appraisal (Basic)– Material Efficiency (Basic)– Tempering Boost (Basic)
Adrian had almost smashed it with his hammer out of pure reflex.
It wasn't miraculous. It didn't forge swords for him. But it whispered how to fold steel so it held an edge longer, how to judge ore quality at a glance, how to shave hours off a job without cutting corners.
And that was enough. Blades lasted longer. Repairs came easier. A few mercenaries even started recommending him.
Adrian told no one. In towns like Grayhaven, strange drew attention, and attention drew trouble. He wasn't about to stick his head up just to have it cut off.
By mid-morning, his first customer arrived — a farmer with a cracked plowhead. Adrian charged just enough to cover coal and bread, and the man left whistling.
Next came a scrawny adventurer barely older than Adrian, holding a sword so bent it looked like a sickle."Orcs," the kid muttered, eyes wide. "Blade folded on the first swing. Can you… fix it cheap?"
Adrian didn't laugh. He just nodded, took the sword, and went to work.
Hours passed in the familiar rhythm: hammer, fold, quench. Hammer, fold, quench. By noon, the streets were full of voices — merchants hawking wares, wagons rolling through, adventurers boasting about loot. Adrian ignored them all.
Low-key was good. Low-key was safe.
Still… coal cost coin. Taxes cost more. If the forge was ever going to do better than scrape by, he needed to think bigger — maybe start forging original weapons, selling to merchants passing through. But business like that meant connections. And connections always came with strings.
Adrian hated strings.
That night, as he banked the coals and Grayhaven sank into its usual restless hush, the panel lit again on its own.
[Forge System Notification]Milestone: 100 successful repairs completed.New Function Unlocked:– Basic Commerce Insight: View approximate market value of crafted items.
Adrian stared at it for a long moment, then let a rare grin tug at the corner of his mouth. "Market value, huh? Guess I've been working blind long enough."
If he could finally see what his work was worth, maybe he could stop underselling himself. Maybe Ravensteel Smithy could become more than just surviving.
But even then, he had no plans to stand out. Grayhaven had enough loud adventurers and greedy merchants. Adrian Ravensteel would just keep his head down, his hammer hot, and his blades sharp.
The world didn't revolve around him. He planned to keep it that way.
Far north in the Ironspire Mountains, something ancient stirred deep within a forgotten dungeon. But Grayhaven slept on, blissfully unaware.
For now.