The interior of the smithy, usually filled with the comforting, rhythmic clink-clink of a master's hammer, had become a stage for a pathetic tragedy.
The air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco from the thugs and the sharp, metallic tang of cold iron.
Khan, a man whose hands had shaped the steel of the Eternal Kingdom for decades, looked smaller than he ever had.
His shoulders, once broad enough to carry the pride of a seven-generation legacy, were slumped. Tears carved clean tracks through the soot on his cheeks.
"Give me that contract," Khan whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "I'll sign it."
Veil, the leader of the Mero Company's "enforcement" team, let out a barking laugh. He reached out, his thick, calloused palm aiming for Khan's face—a final slap to seal the humiliation.
"That's more like it, Old Man. Know your place."
But the slap never landed.
"Enough."
The word wasn't a shout. It didn't carry the roar of a battlefield cry. It was a flat, cold statement that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the room.
Veil's hand stopped inches from Khan's cheek. He felt a sudden, primal chill crawl up his spine, the kind of instinctual terror a rabbit feels when the shadow of a hawk passes over it. He turned his head slowly, his eyes landing on the "apprentice" standing in the corner.
Arthur had been a fixture in this shop for a while. To the thugs, he was just another blacksmith—someone Khan shielded, someone who stayed quiet and focused on the bellows. He looked unassuming, his level hidden, his presence dampened.
But now, Arthur's eyes were different. They weren't the eyes of a craftsman. They were the eyes of a predator looking at a nuisance.
"You..." Veil stammered, his bravado flickering like a dying candle. "What did you just say, punk?"
Arthur didn't answer with words. He reached into the air, and for a split second, the space around his hand distorted.
Clang.
A massive weight hit the stone floor. It was Dainsleif, the black-as-night greatsword. The weapon was a masterpiece made by Albatino the Smithy's very first Ancestor. Its edge gleaming with a hungry, dark light. This wasn't a tool for a Level 172 high-ranker to use against Level 35 trash, but Arthur wasn't in the mood for efficiency. He was in the mood for a message.
"Arthur? What are you doing?" Khan gasped, his eyes wide. "Run! These men, they are—"
"Khan, take it easy, I didn't solved this earlier, it's my fault," Arthur said, his voice softening only for the old man. "You've protected me from them long enough. It's time for me to protected you."
The thugs, fueled by the stupidity that comes with numbers, drew their weapons.
"He's just one guy!" Johnson yelled, raising a rusted mace. "Kill him and the old man! We'll say they resisted!"
Johnson lunged. To a normal resident of Winston, Johnson was a formidable NPC—strong, aggressive, and level 35. To Arthur, who possessed a stat pool equivalent to a Level 250 ranker, Johnson was moving through molasses.
Arthur didn't use a skill. He didn't use the Undefeated king's Swordsmanship or Pagma's Swordsmanship that would have leveled the Smithy. He simply stepped forward.
The movement was a blur. The heavy Dainsleif swung in a horizontal arc. There was no resistance. The greatsword passed through Johnson's mace, then his leather armor, then his torso as if it were cutting through warm butter.
[You have dealt 14,200 damage!]
[The target has died.]
Johnson didn't even have time to scream. He dissolved into gray light before his upper half could hit the floor.
"One," Arthur muttered.
The remaining four froze. The "excitement" Praga had felt moments ago turned into a cold, wet fear that pooled in his boots. "W-what is that damage? Is he Knight from Eral send here in disguise?"
"Don't just stand there!" Veil screamed, backing toward the door. "Kill him!"
Um and Neil rushed from both sides, their swords flashing. Arthur didn't even parry. He allowed Neil's sword to strike his shoulder.
Ting.
[You have received 10 damage.]
Arthur's natural defense, bolstered by his hidden stats and the sheer level gap, rendered their attacks pathetic.
He grabbed Um by the throat with his bare hand, lifting the Level 38 NPC off the ground. With a sickening crunch of plate-crushing strength, Um's health bar emptied instantly.
"Two."
He tossed the body aside as it started to turn sparks of grey light and brought the flat of Dainsleif down on Neil's head. The impact didn't just kill the NPC; it shattered the cobblestones beneath him.
"Three. Four."
In less than ten seconds, four "veteran" gangsters the Mero Company hired had been erased.
Veil was the only one left. He was shaking so hard the contract in his hand rattled like a dry leaf in a storm. He backed away, his heels catching on the threshold of the forge's closed door.
"Wait! Please!" Veil held up the paper, using it like a shield. "The Mero Company... Baron Lowe... they'll hunt you! You'll be a criminal! You'll never be able to step foot in a city again! You'll be executed!"
Arthur stepped forward, the tip of Dainsleif trailing on the floor, sparking against the stone with a rhythmic, screeching sound. Each spark seemed to emphasize the finality of the situation.
"They'll label me a criminal if they know who killed you," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Veil could hear. "But for the world... you guys never came here today. You simply disappeared on the road. Maybe bandits. Maybe the Yatan Church. Who knows?"
Veil's eyes went wide. He understood. This wasn't a fight; it was a disappearance.
Arthur's arm blurred. Dainsleif whistled through the air. Veil's head rolled across the floor, and the contract, stained crimson, fluttered down to rest on his cooling chest before the NPC dissipated into pixels.
Outside, tucked between a stack of seasoned firewood and a stone buttress, a figure huddled low.
Grid's heart was hammering so hard he thought it might burst through his soot-stained chest. In his trembling hands, he held a Recording Crystal, a rare and expensive item he'd bought during his earlier days "just in case."
He had intended to film his own "heroic" Solo Raid or perhaps some high-level NPC 'Attributes' to appreciate. Instead, he had captured a slaughter.
Through the lens of the crystal, he saw Arthur—the man he thought was just a slightly-more-successful-than-average player—move like a god of death.
Those gangsters were around Level 35. Grid knew he couldn't even take one of them without a miracle, yet Arthur had deleted them with basic attacks.
'A High-Ranker...' Grid swallowed hard, his throat dry. 'He told me he was a blacksmith. He told me to come here. Was he... was he mocking me? No.'
Grid looked at the screen of the crystal. The way Arthur swung Dainsleif—it was beautiful. It wasn't the clumsy hacking of a warrior; it was the precise, weighted movement of someone who understood the balance of the blade.
'If I post this on the Satisfy forum... the views... the ad revenue...' Grid's greedy nature flickered again but then he became afraid of seeing Arthur's ruthless killing.
Grid quietly deactivated the crystal and tucked it into the deepest corner of his inventory. He wouldn't post it, instead he'd sell it to some Satisfy news agency. Who's gonna find out it's him who recorded it then.
Inside the smithy, the silence was deafening.
Arthur turned back to Khan. The old man was slumped against the anvil, his face a terrifying shade of gray.
The emotional trauma, the loss of his son's memory, and the sudden, violent explosion of power from his "apprentice" had been too much.
"Khan!"
Arthur caught the old man before he hit the floor. Khan's pulse was thready, his breathing shallow.
[The NPC 'Khan' is suffering from 'Severe Mental Shock' and 'High Blood Pressure'.]
[Affinity has reached a tipping point.]
Arthur didn't hesitate. He hoisted the old man onto his back, ignoring the blood-stained floor and the lingering smell of ozone. He kicked the door open, his eyes scanning the square.
He saw a familiar shadow ducking away behind the woodpile, but he didn't care about Grid right now.
"You!" Arthur shouted at a passing NPC citizen.
"Where is the nearest clinic?"
The citizen, terrified by the sheer intensity of his gaze, pointed frantically toward the Western District.
As Arthur sprinted toward the clinic, his mind was racing. He had broken his cover. The Mero Company would eventually realize their men were gone. The Lord of Winston would start asking questions.
If the Mero Company wanted this forge, they wouldn't be fighting an old man anymore. They would be fighting a high-ranker with nothing to lose and a grudge that smelled of sulfur.
The era of peace in Winston was over. The era of the Blacksmith's War had begun.