the glory of the Winston Knight's Auction had begun to fade into the twilight, but for Arthur, the work was only beginning.
While the city celebrated the influx of wealth and the renewal of its prestige, the internal landscape of Khan's Smithy was shifting.
Arthur stood by the central fountain in the square, his silhouette elongated by the flickering mana lamps.
He wasn't looking at the bags of gold tied to his belt, nor was he thinking about the "Smithy's Successor" title that is a new addition in his status window.
His eyes were fixed on a young man named Steng, who was packing his share after the auction.
Arthur saw something different in Steng. He saw the quiet discipline. He saw a craftsman being stifled by the very system that should have nurtured him. He should be presenting his own work instead of running an errand for his master.
"The road to the Northern Garrison is long at this hour," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the evening chill.
Steng flinched, nearly dropping the coin pouch. He looked up, eyes wide with the lingering shock of the day. "Master Arthur. I... yes. I have to deliver the gold. Master Razen is particular about the accounting. If I'm a copper short, or a minute past the midnight bell, I'll be barred from the forge for a week."
Arthur stepped closer. He didn't see a "Blacksmith player." As Arthur, Grid and even Cecil was bound to let go of the small place called Khan's Smithy in future, He saw in Steng reflection of the Khan's Smithy's future.
"A week away from the anvil is a week where the learning grows cold, Steng. Tell me, what has Razen taught you of the 'battlegear production'?"
Steng looked confused. "Battle gear production? He taught me the Horse shoe making and other everyday products like shovel, axe, Hammer etc. As for battlegears, he taught me to never look at his private ledgers. He says knowledge is a privilege for those who have earned it through years of of hard work, I have to prove myself first, I have to become an advance blacksmith before I could ever peek at those blueprints."
Arthur felt a flare of cold irritation. This was the old way—the hoarding of techniques, the stifling of talent out of a pathetic fear of being surpassed. It was the antithesis of everything Khan stood for.
"Knowledge isn't a hoard to be guarded, Steng," Arthur said, reached his system window and send stend an invitation to Khan's smithy. As the Smithy's successor, he have also got a few privilages.
The system chimed in Arthur's ear:
[System: You are attempting to recruit a 'Talented Blacksmith'.]
[As the Smithy's new successor you have the right to recruit blacksmiths at the smithy.]
"This is an invitation," Arthur continued, his gaze steady. "Khan's Smithy is no longer just a local shop. We are the foundation of Winston's growth. I am the Successor, and I am looking for brothers-in-arms. Craftsmen who want to see their work carried by the Rankers."
Steng's mind froze as he look at the digital invitation. "But... why me? Why invite a Garrison apprentice who can barely stabilize a carbon edge?"
"Because you stayed until the end," Arthur replied. "Because you watched the the works of others at the display rack and try to understand them instead of feeling jealousy. At Khan's smithy, we appreciate talent."
Three days later, Arthur sat in the quiet of Khan's back room after the day's work, reviewing the ledgers. The smithy needs firewood, coal and high quality ingots to produce items. As the new successor, his focus was on the "Forge Infrastructure" tab.
He looked up as the front door creaked open. Steng stood there, looking like he had walked halfway across the kingdom. He carried nothing but his hammer and a small bag of clothes.
"I left," Steng whispered, his voice cracking. "I gave master Razen his gold. He took it without a word, locked himself in his office to count the profit, and told me to go scrub the slag pits. So... I walked out."
Arthur rose from his chair, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Then you've already passed your first test. You realized that your value isn't determined by the man who pays your wage, but by the items you produce."
Arthur led Steng into the main workshop. The signt was jarring for the young smith. In the Northern Garrison, the forge was a place of darkness, secrets, and hissed warnings. Here, the atmosphere was one of chaotic, brilliant transparency.
On the central drafting table lay a thick book of blueprints. It wasn't hidden under a cloth; it wasn't locked in a chest instead it was in open table, for everyone to see.
Steng stopped dead. "You... you just leave these blueprints out? This is an Epic-rank blueprint. This could be sold for thousands of gold to any merchant guild."
"A blueprint is just a map. Without the talent to make it into reality, it's just paper. If you can read it, Steng, then it's yours to learn. How can I expect you to help me if I keep you in the dark?"
Khan emerged from the living quarters wiping his eyes after a quick afternoon nap. His eyes lit up when he saw the newcomer. "Ah! You're the boy Arthur told me you had the 'eye.' Welcome to the smithy, son."
As the sun set, Arthur began the process of integrating Steng into the household. The smithy wasn't just a shop; it was a sanctuary.
"The forge is crowded, but we've made space," Arthur explained as they walked down the hallway behind the shop.
He pointed out the rooms with the practiced ease of a man who had become the "Pillar" Khan described. He showed Steng where the twins alongside Cecil and Nana, stayed—the younger generation who brought life and noise to the old stones.
He pointed to the heavy, reinforced door where Piaro, the mysterious swordsman-turned-farmer, resided.
Finally, they reached a door at the very end of the hall. It was made of solid oak, but the wood was dry and grey with age.
"This was my son's room," Khan said, joining them in the hall. His hand lingered on the doorknob, his expression a mix of sorrow and a newfound, fragile hope.
"It has been empty for a long time. It felt wrong to put anyone in here... until now. A house that doesn't grow is a house that dies of its own silence."
Khan pushed the door open. A cloud of dust billowed out, smelling of decades-old stagnation. The furniture was draped in grey shrouds, a tomb for a life cut short.
"Allow me," a melodious, crystalline voice interrupted.
Alfia stepped into the hallway, her presence like a breath of mountain air. She didn't look at the dust with distaste; she looked at it as a canvas. Beside her, Meteria followed, a small spirit of light dancing on her shoulder, casting a warm, flickering glow that chased away the shadows of the son who was gone.
Alfia began to chant. Her voice wasn't loud, but it held a rhythmic power that resonated with the very mana in the walls.
"[Purifying Wind]"
A gentle, glowing breeze swirled into the room. It wasn't a violent gust; it was a caress. Steng watched in awe as the dust didn't just scatter—it dissolved.
The grey sheets seemed to brighten, the stale air replaced by the crisp, clean scent of a forest after a spring rain.
"There," Alfia said, smiling at Steng with a kindness that seemed to melt his lingering anxiety.
Materia came and gave a reassuring pat on Steng's shoulder, "A clean start for a new brother. If you find the room too cold at night, tell me. I can ask the spirits to warm the stones."
Nana stepped forward, placing a small, enchanted lamp on the bedside table. "And if you have bad dreams, the light will stay on. This house is protected, Steng. You're safe here."
Steng looked at Arthur, his eyes shimmering. "I've never... I've never been treated like this. Not even by my own family."
"You're a blacksmith of Winston now," Arthur said, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, the hammer starts at dawn."
The next morning, the smithy was alive with a new energy. The usual duet of Arthur and Grid had become a trio, and the sound of the forge had changed.
Arthur stood at the primary anvil, working on a series of reinforced bracers. His movements were a study in economy and grace. Every strike was calculated, the timing of the bellows synchronized with his breathing.
To his left, Grid was a whirlwind of frantic energy. He was obsessed with the tempering of a new dagger, his face twisted in a scowl of pure, unadulterated greed. "More! It needs more! If it's not sharp enough to cut through a knight's budget, it's not good enough!"
And in the middle was Steng.
He was at a secondary anvil, he was given high quality black iron ore smelting work. His movements hesitant and stiff. He kept looking over at Arthur, terrified of making a mistake that would ruin the expensive iron ore he had been given.
"Stop watching, Steng," Arthur called out over the roar of the furnace. "Watch the color. The liquid metal is talking to you. It will tell you when to put in into the mould!"
Steng plunged the tongs into the forge and took out the crucible, then he carefully poured the liquid metal into the ingot moulds. The results were quite satisfactory.
"Better," Arthur nodded, not stopping his own work. "Again, the more you work the more you learn about the metal."
Khan moved between them, the elder craftsman of the smithy. He corrected Steng's grip, adjusted the airflow for Cecil, and shared a silent, knowing look with Arthur. The old smith looked ten years younger. The "Successor" hadn't just taken over the business; he had rebuilt the family.
"Arthur!" Grid shouted, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I just realized something! If this kid ruins the materials, I'm not paying for it! That comes out of his share or yours!"
Arthur didn't even look up as he struck a finishing blow on a bracer. "It comes out of my share, Grid. But if he succeeds, his production bonus goes toward the communal food fund. Which means better steak for everyone."
Grid froze, his hammer mid-air. The mention of 'steak' and 'production bonus' did something to his brain. He turned to Steng with a terrifyingly intense look of encouragement.
"You! Newbie! If you ruin that iron, I'll feed you to the furnace! But if you make it high grade, I'll let you look at one of my low-level blueprints for five minutes! Now work! Work like your stomach depends on it!"
Arthur watched the young man work, feeling a profound sense of rightness. The gold in his inventory was a tool, but the people in this room—the tired old smith, the greedy legend, the magical sisters, and the rescued apprentice—they were the true wealth.
He looked at the iron ring on his finger. It was no longer just a mark of status. It was a promise. As long as Arthur held the hammer, the fire of Winston would never go out.