The road to Winston was a winding ribbon of dust and gravel, carved through a landscape that shifted from the lush greens of the Bairan outskirts to a somber, grey-brown terrain.
Arthur sat in the back of the carriage, the rhythmic thud-thud of the horses' hooves providing a steady beat to his thoughts.
He wasn't resting. His eyes were glued to the ancient metallurgy book he had purchased, his mind processing the chemical compositions of alloys that wouldn't be "discovered" by players for another two years.
"Beggin' your pardon, traveler," the coachman called out, snapping his whip over the horses' ears. "But you don't look like the usual sort to head into Winston these days. Most folk with a bit of gold are lookin' to leave, not arrive."
Arthur looked up, closing the book with a soft thud. "Is that so? I heard Winston was a prosperous hub for trade."
The coachman let out a dry, hacking laugh. "It was. Before Baron Lowe took the seat. A man with a heart made of lead and a stomach that never fills. He's a degenerate, that one. Spends the village taxes on wine and women from the capital, while his guards shake down the villagers for their last copper."
Arthur leaned forward, his interest piqued. This was the political landscape he remembered from the records—the fertile ground for the Mero Company's rise.
"And then there's the Mero Merchant Company," the coachman continued, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper.
"They're like locusts. They've moved into the village with the Baron's blessing. They're buying every scrap of land, every storefront, every family farm. If you don't sell, they find a way to make your life a misery until you do. They're trying to turn the whole village into a private factory."
Arthur nodded slowly. The pieces are exactly where they should be. In the original timeline, Winston was the site of a brutal economic war.
The Mero Company wanted to monopolize the blacksmithing industry to secure a military contract with the Earl of the North. To do that, they needed to crush the last remaining obstacle: a stubborn, old man named Khan.
The carriage pulled into the Winston square an hour before dusk. The village was larger than Bairan, with tall stone buildings and wide streets, but the atmosphere was suffocating.
The people walked with hunched shoulders, their eyes darting toward the armored guards patrolling the corners. Signs for the Mero Company—a golden scale on a black field—were plastered over half the storefronts.
Arthur hopped down, tossing the coachman the agreed-upon silver. "Keep the change. Buy yourself a drink, but keep your head down."
"Thank ye, milord! Watch your step in the back alleys!"
Arthur didn't head for an inn. He navigated the winding streets with a sense of purpose, his internal map guided by Ciel's memory banks.
He turned into a narrow lane at the edge of the commercial district—an area that should have been echoing with the ringing of hammers.
Instead, there was only silence.
The sign above the door was hanging by a single rusted hinge. It depicted a hammer and an anvil, once painted in bright gold, now faded and peeling.
[Khan's Smithy]
The building was a skeletal remains of its former glory. The charcoal bins outside were empty, covered in cobwebs. The forge, visible through the open doorway, was cold, its hearth filled with grey ash.
Arthur stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale and fermented despair.
"Hello?" Arthur called out.
The only response was a heavy, rattling snore.
Arthur walked deeper into the workshop. There, slumped over a workbench covered in empty green bottles, was an old man.
His hair was a chaotic nest of white, his face etched with deep lines of grief and age. His clothes, once sturdy leather aprons, were stained with wine and grease.
This was Khan. The man who, in the chronicles of Satisfy, was the last descendant of a line of master blacksmiths. The man who would become the mentor and first true friend to the Legend of the Anvil.
Currently, he was just a drunk.
Arthur stood over the sleeping man. He could see the tremors in Khan's hands even in his sleep.
"Appraisal."
[NPC: Khan]
Condition: Severe Alcoholism, Depression, Malnutrition.
Status: The last master of the Winston Smithy. He has lost his son and his legacy to the Mero Company. His spirit is 95% broken.
Hidden Note: He possesses a secret inheritance related to Pagma's techniques, but has forgotten how to hold a hammer.
Arthur looked around the empty smithy. It was pathetic. The tools were rusted, the bellows were torn, and the anvil was covered in dust.
'Is this the man I'm supposed to build my empire with?' Arthur thought, a flash of doubt crossing his mind.
'In the original story, Grid found him like this and saved him through a series of accidents and sheer persistence.'
But Arthur wasn't Grid. He didn't have months to wait for Khan to sober up.
Arthur grabbed a bucket of stagnant water from the cooling vat by the forge. Without a word of warning, he doused the old man.
"Gah! Wha—! Who?! Raiders! Mero bastards!"
Khan scrambled backward, his chair clattering to the floor. He slipped on an empty bottle, his bleary eyes trying to focus on the young man standing in his shop.
"Who are you?" Khan rasped, clutching his chest. "If you're here for the deed, tell Valmond he can have it when I'm dead! Not a day sooner!"
Arthur didn't move. He stood with his arms crossed, his gaze piercing through the old man's drunken fog.
"I'm not here for your deed, Khan," Arthur said, his voice cold and resonant. "I'm here for your skills. But it seems I've made a mistake. I was looking for a master blacksmith. I only found a ghost who smells like a brewery."
Khan flinched as if he'd been struck. He looked at his shaking hands, then at the cold forge. "A master... heh. That man died with his son. Leave me be, traveler. Go to the Mero Smithy in the square. They have the iron ore. They have coal. All I have is the bottom of a bottle."
Khan reached for a half-full bottle on the table, but Arthur was faster. He snatched the bottle and smashed it against the stone floor.
"Hey! That was my last—"
"Listen to me, Khan," Arthur stepped into the old man's personal space, his Dignity stat radiating an invisible pressure. "The Mero Company is a plague. Baron Lowe is a maggot. But they only win because men like you have stopped fighting. I have the materials. I have the skill. But I need a forge that hasn't sold its soul."
Arthur reached into his bag and pulled out a single Mythical Jaffa-Silver Arrow—one of the Unique-rated ones he had kept for himself. He slammed it onto the dusty workbench.
"Look at this. Tell me if you still have enough of a blacksmith's heart to recognize what this is."
Khan, still shivering from the cold water, looked down at the arrow. His eyes, initially clouded by drink, suddenly sharpened. He reached out a trembling finger, touching the blue-tinted metal of the tip.
"This... the temper... the quenching cycle is impossible," Khan whispered, his voice losing its raspy edge. "This isn't just steel and Jaffa. This was made by someone who knows the rhythm of the metal. Someone who... who understands the breath of the fire."
He looked up at Arthur, his gaze finally clearing. "You... you made this?"
"I did," Arthur said. "And I can make things that make this look like a toy. But I need a master. I have technique but in the field of blacksmithing I'm novice. I need a base in Winston. And I need a man who remembers how to stand tall."
Khan looked at the arrow, then at the empty, silent smithy. For the first time in a year, a spark of something other than grief flickered in his eyes.
It was the spark of a craftsman's pride—the only thing stronger than a merchant's greed. "All right," Khan said, his voice finally stabilizing as he grabbed a dirty rag to wipe his face. "I'll teach you... until the Mero Company takes this smithy away from me."
Arthur smiled. The first brick of the fortress had been laid.