Vale stumbled forward, his legs dragging through the endless sand as if each step cost him a piece of his soul. The weight of the anvil strapped to his back had become a curse rather than a companion, pressing down on him with merciless gravity. His breath came in ragged gasps, his red hair clinging damply to his forehead, soaked with sweat.
The sun blazed overhead without compassion, its golden fire burning against his skin. It was not just heat, it was punishment, an invisible hammer beating him down far harder than any forge could. He raised a fist weakly toward the sky.
"Damn it! Why, of all times, did that stupid old master have to throw me out in the middle of summer?!" he roared, his voice echoing across the barren land.
The cry reverberated through the empty desert. His frustration scattered lizards that had been basking on hot stones, sending them scrambling back into the safety of their burrows. One of them slithered into the hollow skull of a long-dead beast, its sun-bleached horns jutting out like eerie monuments to forgotten battles.
The silence that followed his outburst was oppressive. Only the crunch of his boots on the shifting sand and the faint whisper of the wind accompanied him.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, leaving streaks of dirt across his face. His throat felt like it had been forged dry in the very furnace of his master's workshop.
"How did it come to this…?" he muttered, half in despair, half in disbelief.
The answer was as simple as it was humiliating. In his hasty, angry departure, Vale had forgotten the most important thing any traveler needed, he had left without a map.
Now, with nothing but sand in every direction and no clear path toward civilization, Vale Adam, apprentice no longer, walked blindly into the unknown, cursing his luck and the summer sun alike.
Vale trudged onward, his legs stiff as wooden planks. The sun above seemed determined to strip him of every drop of strength he had left. His canteen, once his lifeline, now lay empty. When he shook it, only a faint rattle of dryness answered him.
Food was still tucked away in his bundle, but he dared not touch it. He knew well enough that eating would only make his thirst gnaw deeper. His stomach growled, but his throat was already a wasteland.
His vision wavered in the heat. The air rippled, twisting the horizon into strange shapes. At first, he thought it was another mirage, the kind travelers often saw before collapsing in the sand. But what his eyes painted for him this time was far more absurd.
He blinked.
There, in the shimmering haze, a horde of orcs thundered across the dunes. Their tusks gleamed in the light, their rough armor rattling with each movement. Beneath them charged massive beasts, boars the size of carriages, with tusks like curved swords, snorting and tearing up the desert floor as they ran.
And from the opposite side, Vale saw riders of men. Knights and soldiers on horseback, banners whipping in the wind, their armor glinting like silver waves.
Both armies stormed toward each other with fury, the ground trembling beneath their charge.
"Yep. Not falling for it. Just a mirage," Vale muttered, squinting at the scene before him. He forced a laugh that cracked dryly in his throat. "No way my dehydration is this creative."
Yet as he turned his head and rubbed his eyes with his fists, the sound of hooves and claws did not fade. If anything, it grew louder. The sand itself shivered beneath his boots.
He froze. His body stiffened as he realized the impossible truth.
This was no hallucination.
"Forward! Crush the humans and win this war!" a guttural voice bellowed across the desert, loud enough to shake Vale's bones.
"Charge! Break the orcs and return victorious to our families!" another voice, proud and human, roared in defiance.
Vale's eyes widened, his stomach sinking. The armies were real. And worse, he stood directly in the middle of their battlefield. Literally.
To his left, a tide of snarling orcs and their monstrous boars. To his right, a wave of armored knights and galloping steeds. Both sides surged forward, weapons raised, war cries tearing the sky apart.
And he, Vale Adam, was caught between them with nothing but an empty water flask and a hammer at his hip.
His jaw dropped. "Oh, come on… really?!" Vale broke into a desperate sprint, his voice lost beneath the chaos of war. The thunder of hooves, the snarls of monstrous boars, the clash of steel, and the furious commands of commanders drowned out his every breath.
The battlefield was alive with madness. Dust and sand whipped into the air, stinging his eyes, while the ground quaked with each charging step of beast and man alike.
Adrenaline surged through his body, sharpening his senses, forcing his limbs to move faster than they ever had before. Instinct drove him to duck, weave, and roll between shadows of death. A lance struck the ground where he had stood a moment ago, sending shards of sand flying into his hair. An axe swung overhead, missing him by an inch. He screamed as he leapt aside from a galloping horse, the beast's rider never even noticing him.
It was astonishing, almost superhuman, how the body could push itself when survival demanded it. And yet, the truth remained: humans, no matter how desperate, were fragile.
Vale realized that a heartbeat too late.
From the side, one of the enormous boars barreled toward him, tusks gleaming like curved scythes. The beast let out a guttural squeal, lowered its head, and rammed into him with the force of a charging boulder.
"Gyaaah!"
The impact launched Vale skyward, his arms flailing as though he were a ragdoll tossed by fate itself. His hammer and bundle rattled wildly on his back as the desert sky spun around him.
"Oof!"
He crashed down face-first into the sand with a sickening thud. The grains scorched his skin, but by some cruel twist of irony, his landing spot was damp. The sand gave way to a tiny spring hidden beneath the surface, and droplets of cool water splashed against his cheeks.
His cracked lips twitched into something almost like a smile, as though the desert itself mocked him with this final mercy.
Then his vision dimmed. The sound of steel, hooves, and war cries faded into nothing. Vale's body went limp, and consciousness slipped away, swallowed by the scorching desert.
..........
.....
...
Vale's senses returned slowly, as though he were clawing his way up from the depths of a heavy dream. His body ached in places he had never thought could ache, and the first thing he noticed was the surface beneath him. The mattress was thin, more straw than padding, and the pillow beneath his head felt like it had been stuffed with air rather than cotton.
Then the smell hit him. Bitter herbs, pungent alcohol, and the faint copper tang of blood. A battlefield's perfume.
He cracked his eyes open, blinking against the dim light filtering through canvas walls above him. His lips curled into a dry smile."I never imagined heaven would smell so strongly of medicine."
A voice answered, smooth but edged with exhaustion. "That is because this is no heaven. This is exactly the kind of place it smells like."
Vale turned his head, slowly, because his neck protested even that small movement, and found himself staring at a woman seated at his side. She had long blonde hair neatly braided down her back, strands catching the light like pale gold. Her clothing was pure white, running from collar to boots, and on her head rested a small cap emblazoned with a bold red cross.
He blinked twice, his dazed mind struggling to catch up. "Huh. I never imagined angels would dress like battlefield doctors."
Her lips tugged into a faint smile, though her eyes remained sharp. "That is because you are not in heaven. You are lying in a field hospital, and I am exactly what I look like. A medic."
Vale groaned softly and let his head sink back into the stiff pillow. His body was heavy, but his spirit, true to form, still clung to sarcasm.
"Figures," he muttered. "If this really were heaven, the bed would at least be softer."
The woman sighed softly, the kind of sigh that carried both weariness and patience. From the small table beside her, she plucked a quill and a thin sheet of parchment. Dipping the feathered pen into ink, she began to scribble as she spoke, her voice steady and clinical.
"Let us start with the basics," she said. "What is your name? Do you remember who you are? What is your profession? Do you have a wife waiting for you somewhere? And, most importantly, are you willing to volunteer as a test subject for one of my new medicines?"
Vale's eyes widened. He sat up straighter, the creak of the thin mattress loud beneath him."My name is Vale Adam," he said quickly, his voice almost defensive. "My profession is… former blacksmith. I do not have a wife. And absolutely not! I have no intention of becoming your test subject, you crazy doctor!"
The medic's quill scratched across the page, as though calmly noting down every word of his protest. Vale, however, could no longer remain still. With a surge of energy that surprised even himself, he leapt off the cot, landing unsteadily on his feet. His heart raced as he immediately looked down, pulling at his tunic and trousers.
A sigh of relief escaped his lips. "Thank the gods… still dressed."
His eyes darted across the tent, and there, piled neatly in the corner, he saw them, his hammer, his bundle, and even the anvil that had nearly broken his back. A foolish smile crossed his face. Against all odds, everything he owned had survived the battlefield with him.
The medic set her quill down on the small wooden table, letting the ink settle into the paper. She leaned back slightly, her expression calm but precise.
"You are currently in the territory of the Kingdom of Astrasia," she said. "We could not find any identification on you, and judging from your belongings… you do not appear to be a merchant. What exactly brings you here?"
Vale's eyes widened. The Kingdom of Astrasia should have been far beyond the range he had traveled. He had been walking for barely over a week. No wonder he had not been able to find a caravan willing to take him alone, who would want to trade in a kingdom torn apart by war?
He exhaled, the weight of realization pressing on him. "A new life… I suppose."
"That sounds unconvincing, but I will accept it," the medic replied, nodding once before gesturing toward the canvas walls. Outside, the sounds of chaos carried through, shouts, clashing metal, the cries of the wounded.
"Now, you must leave," she said firmly. "This is a battlefield. It is no place for a civilian."
Vale rose slowly, leaning on the edge of his bundle as he peered outside. The sun cast an orange glow over the tents and the scarred earth, illuminating the groans of injured soldiers and the frustrated shouts of commanding officers from a nearby command tent.
"Ugh… how did I manage to get lost in a place like this?" he muttered under his breath.
"That should be our question," the medic said dryly.
Vale shook his head and hoisted all of his belongings over his shoulders. Every muscle in his body still throbbed from the encounter with the giant boar, but years of hauling heavy tools had conditioned him well.
"Then I will be on my way," he said. He stepped out of the tent, and the wounded soldiers turned their hollow eyes toward him. Many seemed to have given up hope, believing victory against the orcish forces impossible.
As he passed a command tent, a stern female voice rang out, sharp and angry.
"What?! Our weapons are no match for the orcish armaments?!"
"Ma'am… you might want to lower your voice. We do not want to sap the soldiers' morale any further," a subordinate cautioned.
"And what would you have us do? Stand idle? Our blacksmith fled the battlefield because someone embezzled the funding, and now the weapons we have are of poor quality!" Her voice trembled with both fury and despair. Silence fell in the tent, only punctuated by her heavy breaths. "There is no hope left. If we are to win… we need weapons of true quality."
Vale could no longer remain quiet. He strode forward, moving toward the command tent. Two guards crossed their spears to block his path, but with a single motion, Vale shoved them aside and swung open the flap of the entrance.
"Who are you? We are busy!" someone barked.
Vale's gaze met that of a striking woman standing at the center of the tent. Her long black hair was braided to rest over her shoulder. Her eyes were like moons in the dark, calm yet fierce, and her face could have been mistaken for that of a goddess if not for the faint scar cutting across her brow. Her tall frame was armored heavily, making her taller than even the generals around her. She was, in every way, formidable, perfect, if such a thing could exist.
Vale shook his head, shaking off the momentary awe. There was no time for distractions.
"I heard you are in need of weapons," he said, his voice steady.
He drew a deep breath, then dropped to one knee, lowering his head in a gesture of respect.
"Allow me to craft swords capable of defeating your enemies!" he declared, his words ringing with unshakable determination.
Vale's heart sank as he knelt there, the weight of his own foolishness pressing down on him. He cursed himself silently. Who would trust a stranger wandering in from who-knows-where? Even if he mentioned the name of his village, it would be meaningless here; nobody would know the place. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable rejection, imagining the curt dismissal that would send him stumbling back into the desert once more.
Then, the armored woman's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "General Brant, use your [Appraisal] skill to examine this man," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Vale's eyes flew open in surprise. If they were using such a skill on him, it meant he was being seriously considered, a small step, but a step forward nonetheless. Hope flickered in his chest, even as doubt lingered like a shadow.
From the corner of the tent, a figure stepped forward. The general was completely covered in armor, his face hidden beneath a polished helm, yet his voice was gentle, measured, and calm. "May I borrow your shoulder, young man?" he asked.
Vale stiffened but obeyed, feeling the heavy weight of the general's armored hand resting on his shoulder. Another finger pressed against the paper the general held in his other hand. Slowly, the sheet seemed to shimmer, and mysterious writing began to appear, as if revealing truths the world had long hidden.
Vale leaned forward instinctively, curiosity warring with caution, but the words were surrounded by the other people in the tent, and he could not see them clearly.
The paper listed:
[Perfectionist] – This skill enhances the quality of anything the user creates or produces, whether magic, training, or physical objects.
[Heart of Fire] – A blessing from the goddess Agni, granted to her devoted followers. Rarely, it appears in someone who is not her direct worshipper, but such occurrences are extremely uncommon.
[???] – Unknown.
Gasps and murmurs spread throughout the tent at the mention of the second and third skills. The weight of the revelation hung thick in the air. Vale could not see the details himself, and yet he sensed the magnitude of the moment through the shocked expressions and whispered conversations around him.
General Brant leaned closer to the armored woman, his voice barely audible. "Miss Annette, he must never know about these skills. If he discovers them, he may become arrogant and stagnate, refusing to grow further."
Annette nodded solemnly. She tore the paper into pieces, letting the fragments fall to the floor. Vale's mouth fell open in shock. His heart sank further. "…Does that mean… I'm rejected?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, unsure if he could bear another blow.
"No. On the contrary," Annette said firmly, stepping closer to him. She extended her hand toward Vale, a gesture that carried multiple meanings: support, congratulations, and an invitation. It was an offer of both trust and challenge, a hand reaching out to shape a shared future.
Vale's lips parted, momentarily speechless. "…Vale Adam," he said softly, taking her hand.
"I am Annette von Rute," she introduced herself with quiet authority, her gaze steady and unwavering. "One of the Thirteen Knights of the Kingdom of Astrasia, bearing the title Thorned Black Roses. And who are you, wandering blacksmith?"
Vale tightened his grip, feeling the warmth and firmness of her hand as if it were a promise sealed in iron and fire. The connection between them was unmistakable: a pact, a challenge, and the first step toward the path they would walk together.
This moment, small and intimate as it seemed in the chaos of war, was monumental for Vale. It was a turning point, a line drawn between the life he had known and the destiny that now stretched out before him. For the first time, he felt a glimmer of purpose, a mission that went beyond survival, beyond wandering, beyond the mistakes of the past. This was the moment when the lost blacksmith became something more.