After a heavy breakfast, I stepped out of the lodging house and onto the streets of Dunverholm. The first thing to meet me was the morning air with its hug that carried the scent of earth and blooms. The village was alive with activity. Market stalls lined the streets, their banners fluttering in the breeze. Vendors called out their wares, and the cheerful drone of daily life combined with the laughter of children at play. As I walked, dwarves greeted me warmly, their smiles evoking the connections I had formed in this charming community.

“Hey, Kira!” Durak, Dunverholm’s mayor, called out from across the street, his robust figure outlined by the morning sun. His son, Kheldor, stood by his side, a wide grin lighting up his youthful face.

I offered a slight bow in acknowledgment. “Good morning, Durak-san,” and then turned to his son. “And good morning to you too, Kheldor-kun.” His eyes gleamed with gratitude. This is the kid I rescued from the clutches of the Saurian lizardmen.

Durak clapped me on the shoulder with a loud laugh. “Are you joining us at the tavern tonight? We’re having a celebration. Most of our women are heading to Hillstone for the annual market fair, so we can run wild.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got plans tonight,” I replied, my thoughts drifting to the special evening I had intended for myself.

“Fair enough. See you around, kid!” Durak said, waving as the sound of his laughter still heard from the village square.

Another hundred yards down the road, I arrived at the Stonehammer Forge. The large open doors welcomed me inside like the arms of an old friend. The moment I took a step inside, a wave of intense heat hit me, conflicting with the cool morning air outside. The forge throbbed with life. The roaring flames of the smelting fires cast lambent shadows on the walls, revealing the outlines of the stonework. The clang of hammer on anvil filled the space, a sound of metalwork that was both familiar and uplifting to my ears, a song that all craftsmen cherish.

Bromir, the village’s seasoned dwarf overseeing the forge, was deeply engrossed in work at his large oak workbench. The air was thick with the flavor of molten metal and the scent of coal. His back was slightly hunched as he shaped something difficult. Decades of practice had imbued his hands with astonishing dexterity and precision, displaying the culmination of years of honed skill. Each strike of his hammer was purposeful, oscillating through the forge as if the very metal sang in response.

“Hey, Ossan!” I called out, slipping on my well-worn apron, the weight settling down comfortably against my chest.

Bromir looked up, his eyes were warmth behind his bushy eyebrows. “About time you showed up, kid! What are you waiting for, an invitation?” His voice bounced off the stone walls.

Among the dwarves, Bromir was the sole individual with whom I shared a close bond, a connection that felt like a bridge to my past. He bore a striking resemblance to my granddad back home, though with the added distinction of possessing massive biceps and muscles capable of effortlessly wielding a five-kilo battle ax. His hands, calloused yet gentle, had become a source of wisdom for me, guiding me through the workings of forging and craftsmanship. Moreover, he played a pivotal role in elevating my prestige within the Dwarven community to an impressive ninety-five percent. I believed that no other Aoi player beside me could attain such a remarkable level of prestige amidst the dwarf race. I practically can be considered a dwarf myself. A tall dwarf, to be precise.

Despite my reputation with the Dwarves remaining unchanged after my life in the game was reset, I realized I needed to repeat interactions and forge new bonds, as they no longer recognized me. Each smile I received now felt bittersweet, the familiarity absent. Any projects I had started with Bromir but hadn’t finished needed to be restarted, and I had to gather the materials again. Fortunately, I had only experienced death once during my two-year tenancy among them. That particular demise had occurred during a quest commissioned by Bromir himself. The extermination of a Kiiroi creature, Naga, within a cave in the nearby mountain range. The quest aimed at mining the rare mineral called Mithril, a blue metal known for its strength and lightweight properties, which was one of the essential components needed to craft my special gun.

This was one of the reasons I halted my ascent of the Tower beyond the eleventh floor and rarely engaged in battles with the Lizardmen. The cost of resurrection bore heavily on me, each death a prompt of my struggle to maintain connections and the tenuous threads that bound me to my identity. Instead, I prioritized completing my gun and bullet project before leveling up my stats and pursuing further quests.

As I settled into my place at the workbench, Bromir shot me a glance. “So, how’re those bullets coming along?”

I focused on my work, trying to ignore the slight tremor of excitement in my chest. “The casings are almost done. Just need to confirm they fit into the gun’s barrel.”

Bromir nodded approvingly, his hands deftly carving the finger grooves of my future weapon. “Make sure you get it right. We don’t want any mishaps.”

I admired his thoroughness, the way he poured his heart into every detail. There was something almost poetic about it, watching a master craftsman at work.

“How are you going to mass-produce those bullets?” he asked, still not looking up from his task.

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Online store. But first, I need to make sure everything works perfectly.”

Bromir grunted in acknowledgment.

Now, here’s a fact about the Midoris. They, including the Dwarves, have their own way of ordering items from the online store. They place orders with traveling merchants who swing by their towns or villages. Depending on the quantity, those items could take a month or more to arrive. When Bromir found out about my unique online ordering method, he appointed me as his personal shopper. I accepted, but I made it clear to him that my little shopping secret needed to stay under wraps from the other dwarves.

“Ossan, have you changed the rubber band on my SlingBam?”

“Aye, it’s stronger and more durable than the previous one, and it’s over there on your table.”

“Thanks,” I replied, making my way to the desk to pick up my SlingBam, or, more accurately, its new version. When Bromir first laid eyes on it, he was fascinated by its design and mechanism, prompting him to redo it using different materials. He elongated the barrel slightly, using steel pipes instead of bamboo, and narrowed the diameter. The result? A smoother pump action for the forehand that held the pouch mechanism. He also reinforced the pistol grip and trigger with sturdier materials and added butt plates with rubber pads for comfort. Once Bromir completed the modifications, the new SlingBam looked less like a slingshot and more like a shotgun.

Of course, there was a catch. I wouldn’t receive any intelligence (INT) stats for this beauty. Understandable, right? Any item created with the help of a third party wouldn’t count as my own invention. On the upside, the SlingBam was classified as a gunner’s weapon, so I could use it. But sometimes I wondered if other Marksman subclasses would be able to wield it. I could only use my gunner class weapons. The bow and crossbow were a no-go for me. I had tried them a few times, but let’s just say things didn’t go well. The bowstrings snapped, arrows broke mid-flight, and there were other accidents. It felt less like a challenge and more like a curse at times.

Bromir watched me inspect the new SlingBam. “What do you think, kid? Better than the old one?” he inquired.

I nodded, testing the weapon in my hands. “Much better. The replacement rubber band makes a huge difference.”

“Good to hear. Just remember, the real test will be out in the field. No point in having a fancy weapon if it doesn’t perform when it matters.”

“True,” I agreed, nodding. “I’ll take it out for a spin during my next hunt.”

My gaze fell on something on my workbench. It was a ten-inch-tall female figurine. It was crafted from clay infused with a metallic element, standing in a colorful range of painted clothes. Her face and body contours were painstakingly detailed, capturing the likeness of the real person I chose to create it. Now, while I’d created many similar figurines, each featuring different styles of maid uniforms, this one was special. Let’s just say her clothes revealed a little more than they should, adding a cheeky attraction that set her apart from the rest. Commercializing these creations through the Online Store had proven lucrative, earning me an enormous chunk of gold, a ten percent profit share per sale for each piece.

But her statue was more than just a money-maker. It was one of my greatest creations and a precious memory, a compliment to a classmate who had left an ineradicable mark on my world. The subtle craftsmanship and scrupulous attention to detail induced a sense of her physical presence, and sometimes, I wished I could see her in person just one more time.