By the time Arin reached the Steel Belly, the sky had already begun to dim into a deep, amber-blue twilight.
Evening in Ironreach was not quiet.
It never was.
The streets breathed differently at this hour—less urgency, more release. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their warm glow spilling across the rugged stone paths. Small clusters of fireflies drifted lazily in the air, weaving between wooden posts and hanging signs as if the district itself exhaled light.
Adventurers moved through the streets in pairs and groups, their steps slower now. Some laughed. Some argued. Some walked shoulder to shoulder in silence, their armor dulled by the fading sun. The scent of roasted meat and spiced broth drifted through the air from nearby stalls that had no intention of closing.
If anything—
Ironreach had only just begun its night.
Arin walked through it all without stopping.
The day had drained him more than he had expected.
The last thing he had eaten was the two cookies Kiri had slipped him along with the coffee in the morning—an afterthought that now felt like a distant memory. His body reminded him of that with a quiet, persistent ache.
By the time he pushed open the doors of the Steel Belly—
The world shifted again.
Warmth.
Noise.
Life.
The tavern was alive.
Voices overlapped into a constant hum—laughter, arguments, the clatter of mugs striking wood. Adventurers filled the space, some already deep into drink, others halfway through meals that looked far better than anything Arin had eaten all day.
At the center of it all, Kiri and Kira moved like practiced chaos.
One darted between tables with exaggerated flair, the other slipped through gaps with quiet precision. Their voices occasionally cut through the noise—one loud and playful, the other sharp and dry.
Arin stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
He looked… different.
The iron helmet was gone, tucked away inside the worn cloth bag in his hand. The wolf-hide cloak now showed its crimson red side outward, giving him a more grounded, less shadowed presence. Cleaner. More… approachable.
Still, the fatigue lingered.
And it showed.
Behind the counter, Helgarth noticed immediately.
The towering dwarven woman stood like a pillar behind the reception, her presence cutting through the noise without effort. Her sharp eyes landed on him the moment he entered.
She didn't need to ask twice.
"Long day, huh?" she said, voice steady, carrying easily despite the chaos around her. Her gaze dropped briefly to the cloth bag in his hand. "Looks like you did some shopping."
Arin stopped before her, adjusting his grip slightly.
"Yes, ma'am."
The word came out naturally.
Automatic.
Helgarth's brow lifted just slightly.
"You can call me Miss Helgarth."
Arin gave a small nod. "Yes… Miss Helgarth."
A brief pause.
Then—
"If possible… could you have an omelette sent to my room?" he added. "I didn't get the chance to eat lunch."
"Mm."
A short, approving sound.
"Go on. It'll be sent."
No extra words. No fuss.
Arin nodded once more and headed upstairs.
—
His room greeted him with quiet.
A contrast he hadn't realized he needed.
He set the cloth bag down, placed the iron helmet carefully beside it, and lit the lamp. Warm light filled the space, pushing away the last traces of dusk.
Then—
He washed.
The water was cool, steady, grounding. It stripped away the dust of the streets, the sweat of the day, the weight that had settled into his muscles.
By the time he stepped out, a towel loosely tied at his waist, the world felt… slower.
Cleaner.
He stood before the mirror.
For a moment—
He simply looked.
His frame was lean, but not fragile. Defined lines of muscle traced across his shoulders and torso. His skin, now clean, held a natural clarity that caught the lamplight softly.
A knock broke the stillness.
Arin glanced toward the door, then moved to open it.
Kiri stood there.
A tray in her hands—ceramic plate covered neatly, a glass of water beside it, sealed with a small wooden lid.
Her usual energy was… slightly off.
Her eyes lifted—
And paused.
For a second too long.
"M-Mister Arin…" she said, her voice stumbling slightly. "Your… omelette."
Her gaze flickered—quick, unsteady—before she stepped inside and placed the tray on the table.
Then, with a small tilt of her head and a faint, teasing curve to her lips—
"You work out a lot, don't you?"
The question came lightly.
But her eyes said more than the words did.
Arin blinked once.
"…No," he replied simply. "Not really. Just… started, maybe."
Kiri's cheeks colored faintly.
She looked away almost immediately.
"Ah… I see…"
And just like that—
She turned and walked out in a hurry.
The door closed behind her.
Arin stood there for a moment, then exhaled quietly.
"…That was… strange."
He shut the door, returned to the table, and sat down—still bare-chested, the cool evening air brushing lightly against his skin through the open window.
He lifted the cover.
The smell hit immediately.
Simple yet perfect in its own way.
He ate.
Slowly at first. Then with more intent.
Each bite settled something inside him that had been quietly complaining all day. The water followed, cool and clean, grounding him further.
By the time he finished—
The fatigue caught up.
He leaned back slightly, eyes closing just for a moment.
And then—
Darkness.
—
When he woke, the tavern below was still alive.
Maybe louder.
Maybe fuller.
Time had passed.
Arin washed his face, dressed, and headed down again.
—
The main hall was just as lively, if not more.
Despite the crowd, several tables remained open—this place was built for overflow.
The spot near the corner window that he likes was empty.
He walked over and sat down, placing a few sheets of paper and a pen on the table.
Moments later—
Kira approached.
"Dinner?" she asked.
Arin glanced up. "What's on the menu?"
"Bread. Bean soup."
Simple. Predictable.
Arin leaned back slightly.
"…Can I order something custom?"
"You can," she replied. "Costs more."
"Fine."
Then, almost to himself—
"I've been hungry all day… might as well treat myself."
He looked back at her.
"Rice, bean soup. And… pork belly steak."
Kira gave a small nod. "Alright. Wait."
She turned—
Then stopped.
Her eyes shifted back toward him, narrowing slightly.
"…What did you do to my sister?"
Arin blinked.
"…What?"
"She's acting weird," Kira said flatly. "After coming from your room."
Arin's expression didn't change—but confusion was clear.
"I didn't do anything."
Kira held his gaze for a moment longer.
Studying.
Measuring.
Then—
"…Never mind."
She turned and walked away.
Arin watched her leave, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"…What was that about?"
The noise of the tavern carried on around him.
But for a brief moment—
Arin felt like he had missed something.
And he wasn't sure what.
———————-
The tavern buzzed around him—voices, laughter, the scrape of chairs—but Arin sat still at his corner table, untouched by it.
His food hadn't arrived yet. He didn't mind that.
His fingers rested lightly against the paper. The pen lay between them, unmoving.
And his thoughts… drifted.
—
Rusty iron bars.
A broken arm—useless, hanging—and pain that refused to dull.
The sound of lake water crashing against the dockyard.
A hollow wooden pipe clutched in the trembling hands of Lyra.
The rune circles Arin had drawn in desperation had been crude. Imperfect.
One for compression.
One for release.
Lyra's water droplets drawn into the pipe—
Condensed.
Forced forward.
A sharp, violent burst.
The child trafficker Ludo hadn't even understood what hit him.
Arin's gaze hardened slightly.
Varek Sorn.
That name hadn't faded.
Not even a little.
The man responsible for the kidnapping of him and his friends. The leader of the gang. The one who broke his hands and stole his rune glove artifact.
The man Arin couldn't defeat and had gotten away from the clutches of City watch Captain Dorian Halborn.
"…From that day…"
The thought surfaced quietly.
"…it never left my mind."
His fingers tightened slightly around the pen.
He had thought about it before.
More than once.
But thinking wasn't enough.
Not back then.
Now—
It was different.
"…This is the right time."
His gaze lowered to the blank sheet in front of him.
Because right now he had a problem.
No—two problems.
"First of all…Adventuring like this won't work."
The words formed cleanly in his mind.
He was alone.
New.
Unknown.
Zerath was just a name—nothing more.
Teaming up with strangers?
Risky.
Too many variables.
Too many chances for things to go wrong.
Going alone?
Worse.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"…So I need preparation."
Simple.
Direct.
Preparation meant survival.
And preparation meant—
"…Money."
That part, at least…
He already had an answer.
His hand moved instinctively to his side, fingers brushing lightly against the hidden weight beneath his cloak.
Sanctis Aquilia.
Even without being drawn, the dagger carried a faint, steady presence—subtle, yet undeniable.
"…Holy healing water."
He exhaled slowly, his thoughts settling into place.
He had seen it with his own eyes—the potion shop, the way those small glass vials were valued.
Low-grade potions sold for ten silver.
Mid-grade reached fifty.
And high-grade—
A full gold coin per vial.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"I can sell it."
The idea settled in his mind with quiet certainty. Not recklessly, and not in excess—but just enough to secure what he needed.
"…I already bought the vials."
Two glass containers, safely stored in his room.
All it would take now was mana… and a little time.
After that—
Money would no longer be a problem.
That left the second part—preparation.
Arin's gaze drifted back to the paper before him, his thoughts settling into a quieter, deeper rhythm.
"…From that day…"
His fingers tightened slightly around the pen as he lifted it once more.
"…I wanted to build it."
Not a blade. Not a staff.
Something else.
Something faster… something precise.
A weapon that didn't rely solely on his own body.
"…A pistol."
The word felt out of place in this world—almost alien.
And yet, to him, it was familiar.
A faint, nearly imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"I always liked the Beretta design…"
Clean lines. Balanced structure. Efficient in both form and function.
Nothing wasted. Nothing unnecessary.
His pen began to move again—this time without hesitation.
A straight line formed first.
Then another.
Slowly, the outline began to take shape.
A compact frame. A defined barrel. A grip shaped to sit naturally within the hand.
"…No bullets."
The pen paused for a brief moment before shifting downward.
He marked the base of the grip.
"…Magic stone."
That was the core. The source.
No gunpowder. No ignition.
Only—
Mana.
"…I don't need to use my own."
The realization brought a quiet sense of relief.
Out there… that mattered.
It meant he could keep fighting without draining himself dry.
And if needed—
He could simply outlast his opponent.
His pen moved again.
Inside the drawn frame, he sketched a small internal section.
Then added three rune circles in sequence.
"…Compression first. Mana drawn inward… compressed into a dense, volatile core."
"…Then acceleration."
Forced forward.
"…And rotation."
His pen slowed slightly as he completed the last circle.
"…Make it hit harder."
Not complicated.
Just effective.
He added a small mark near the grip.
"Safety."
Mechanical.
Reliable.
Then the trigger.
A simple connection.
Pull—
And everything happens in an instant.
Arin leaned back slightly, looking at the page.
Neither perfect nor finished. But real.
It wasn't just an idea anymore.
It was something he could build.
"…This will work."
The words stayed in his mind.
At that moment, a shadow fell across the table.
Arin's eyes shifted upward.
Helgarth stood beside him.
He hadn't noticed her approach.
Her gaze swept carefully over the papers.
She didn't speak at first.
Her eyes moved across the main sketch.
Then the smaller notes.
"…That's not something you see every day," she said.
Her voice was calm—but there was weight behind it.
Arin didn't answer immediately.
Helgarth tilted her head slightly, studying the shape.
"The form…" she muttered. "…compact… balanced…"
Her gaze flicked to him.
"Are you building a weapon?"
Arin gave a simple and honest reply. "Yes Miss Helgarth, I am trying to build myself a custom one."
Helgarth let out a quiet breath.
Not dismissive.
More like… impressed.
"I don't know what all of this does," she admitted, tapping lightly near the individual pistol components drawn—touching the page.
"But I can tell one thing."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"This isn't beginner work."
Arin remained silent.
She straightened, folding her arms.
"…You'll need someone who can actually make this."
"I know an old bastard," she said.
A faint smirk tugged at her lips.
"Lives for this kind of madness."
Arin's gaze sharpened slightly.
"He's a blacksmith."
She added,"If he sees this…"
Her eyes flicked back to the sketch.
"…he'll either throw you out or lock himself in his forge until he succeeds."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then Arin asked, simply—
"…Can he do it?"
Helgarth didn't answer right away.
She looked at the drawing again.
"…If anyone in the Ironreach district can,"
A slight nod.
"…it's him."