After breakfast, I step out of the lodging house and into the heart of Dunverholm.

Sunlight spills through the gaps between stone buildings, and the cobblestone streets are already buzzing like some fantasy version of Tokyo during rush hour.

Market stalls pop up like mushrooms after rain, banners flapping in the breeze like they’ve got something to prove.

Dwarven vendors are shouting over each other, haggling, bragging, flexing their produce like they’re on some underground culinary fight show.

Somewhere in the chaos, kids are darting around laughing, chasing each other between carts like they’re playing tag on turbo mode.

As I walk through it all, the usual greetings hit me from every direction.

Nods, smiles, waves.

That quiet kind of familiarity that sneaks up on you after two years and makes you realize just how deep you’ve put down roots.

“Hey Kira!” someone yells from across the street.

I turn just in time to spot Durak, the village mayor, standing there like a mountain in boots.

Broad shoulders, deep voice, and the presence that makes folks automatically stand a little straighter.

Next to him is Kheldor, his kid, grinning with that wide-eyed hero-worship I still haven’t gotten used to.

I give them a little bow.

“Morning, Durak-san. You too, Kheldor-kun.”

The kid’s grin explodes like I just complimented his ax swing.

Not that I blame him.

The whole “mysterious outsider saves you from a Saurian death-chomp” thing tends to leave an impression.

Durak slaps a hand on my shoulder hard enough to shake a few screws loose in my spine.

His laugh booms across the square, and a bunch of pigeons take off like they just remembered they had somewhere else to be.

“You joining us at the tavern tonight? We’re throwing a little get-together. Most of our women headed off to Hillstone for the market fair, so it’s just the fellas. Time to cut loose, eh?”

I laugh.

“Tempting, but I’ve already got plans tonight.”

He wags a thick finger at me like I just admitted to a crime.

“Fair enough. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Which, judging by the stories from his wild younger days, still leaves a whole lot of options.

They vanish into the village square, and I keep on walking.

About a hundred yards later, I hit the familiar sight of the Stonehammer Forge. The double doors are wide open, practically yanking me in by the collar.

The moment I step inside, the heat smacks me in the face like an angry sauna with something to prove. It crashes hard against the crisp mountain chill outside.

Flames roar in the hearth. Metal sings out with every hammer strike.

The whole place throbs with the rhythm of real, honest work. It’s noisy, hot, and smells like scorched steel mixed with old sweat.

But I love it, like the way you love a messy kitchen after cooking something awesome. It’s disaster, but it’s yours.

Bromir’s already at it, hunched over a glowing slab of metal like he’s about to pick a fight with it.

The guy’s older than dirt, hunched at the shoulders and built like a barrel, but his arms still move with laser focus.

He doesn’t waste a single hit. Every strike lands like a punctuation mark in a sentence only he understands.

I grab my apron off the hook.

Worn, stained, basically fused to my soul at this point, and I slip it on without thinking.

“Hey, Ossan,” I call, already heading to my usual spot by the cooling basin.

Bromir glances up with a grunt, one eyebrow twitching like he’s deciding whether to be annoyed or impressed that I showed up.

His hands never stop moving.

Sparks fly from the anvil like they’re trying to start a fireworks show.

“’Bout time you showed up, kid! What’re you waiting for, an invitation?”

His voice bounces off the forge walls, loud and warm, like a bear’s growl that somehow feels like a hug.

I grin. “Nah, just wanted to make a grand entrance. Got to keep the legend alive.”

He snorts but doesn’t say anything else. Which, in Bromir-speak, basically means “glad you’re here.”

The forge hums around us, full of fire, sweat, and steel.

And for a guy stuck in a game world with no logout button, it’s kind of wild how much this place has started to feel like home.

Even weirder? I don’t really mind.

Out of all the dwarves in Dunverholm, Bromir’s my guy. My hammer-blooded kin.

The forge master with forearms carved from actual stone and the patience of a saint trying to teach a hyperactive cat to knit.

He’s the one who shows me what it really means to build something. Not just slap parts together and pray it holds, but to make stuff with purpose. With soul.

He reminds me of my gramps back home, if gramps was a jacked fantasy blacksmith with a beard big enough to house a sparrow condo.

His hands might be rough as sandpaper, but they move with this calm, practiced grace that makes you forget he could probably crush a watermelon just by thinking about it.

Bromir’s the reason I go from just some random Aoi player squatting in a dwarven village to something more. Thanks to him, my prestige with the Dwarves shoots up to ninety-five percent.

Ninety. Five.

That’s legendary tier, baby. No joke, I’m basically a tall dwarf. Just with less beard and way more sass.

But of course, the Tower can’t ever let me have nice things.

The second I get reset on Floor Eleven, everything goes poof. All those hard-earned relationships? Gone.

Every friendly nod and warm “Hey, Kira” gets swapped for awkward smiles and polite confusion. They don’t remember me. I’m just another outsider again.

And man, that hits harder than a drunk centaur throwing elbows in a mosh pit.

Even worse? My unfinished projects with Bromir? Wiped clean. No blueprints, no stash, not even my sentimental “World’s Okayest Apprentice” scrawled on it.

So yeah. Back to square one. Again. Yay.

Luckily, I only die once during my two years in Dunverholm.

It happens on a quest from Bromir—to take out a Naga holed up in some cursed cave in the mountains.

Sounds easy, right? Just one snake lady. How bad could it be?

Turns out? Very bad.

She yeets me across the cave like I’m a glitchy character in a broken game.

And the worst part? I’m this close to harvesting the Mithril I need.

That stuff’s like diamond-tier metal here. Light, strong, stupid rare. Totally essential for the special gun Bromir and I’ve been working.

My magnum opus. The boomstick of destiny.

So yeah. After that, I slam the brakes on climbing the Tower.

No way I’m diving headfirst into another lizard rave when I haven’t even finished my gun.

Or my ammo. Or, let’s be real, my mental stability.

Instead, I get obsessed. Full-on tunnel vision.

I pour everything into getting it right. Tweaking the loadout. Adjusting mechanics. Testing casings. Tuning pressure.

Basically, I turn into a fantasy gun nerd. And honestly? It helps.

The process grounds me. Gives me something I can actually control in this chaos-fueled madhouse of a game world.

I settle into my usual spot at the workbench, letting the forge’s heat wash over me like a warm, slightly aggressive blanket.

Bromir glances over without even pausing his groove-carving routine.

“So, how’re those bullets coming along?”

“The casings are almost done,” I say, cracking my neck. “Just need to make sure they don’t jam the barrel or explode in my face. You know. The little things.”

He grunts.

Classic Bromir for “good job, don’t die,” and he goes right back to shaping the grip on my gun. His hammer’s still dancing like it’s following choreography, every strike carving out meaning in metal.

“Make sure you get it right,” he says. “We don’t want any mishaps.”

I smirk. “Mishaps? Please. When have I ever mishapped?”

No answer. Just another grunt. Pretty sure that one means every single day.

Then, without missing a beat, he asks, “How’re you gonna mass-produce those bullets?”

“Online store, obviously. Got to keep up with demand.”

Another grunt. This one’s got a hint of respect.

Thing is, with Midoris, especially the dwarves? Their entire supply chain moves slower than a tortoise on vacation. There’s no Amazon Prime here. They order stuff through traveling merchants, and depending on what you need, it might show up in a few weeks.

Or a year.

Or never.

When Bromir first finds out about my online ordering system, he looks at me like I’ve just reinvented fire. Then immediately asks if I can get him a new whetstone. And boots. And some kind of oil for his beard that doesn’t smell like he fought a skunk and lost.

I say sure, but only if he keeps it quiet. No way I’m letting the whole village know I’m secretly fantasy DoorDash.

“Ossan, did you swap the band on my SlingBam?”

“Aye. Stronger than the last one. Set it on your table.”

“Nice,” I say, walking over to grab my favorite chaotic little toy.

My SlingBam.

Well, this version of it’s looking good. Sleeker. Heavier. Deadlier.

Just how I like it.

Things are finally coming together. Slowly, sure. But progress is progress.

And in a world where death resets your life like a busted save file? I’ll take any win I can get.

When Bromir first lays eyes on the weapon, he lights up like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. You’d think I handed him the lost relic of the Forge Lords or something.

He circles it. Pokes at it. Mutters in Dwarvish under his breath like he’s decoding ancient runes.

Then he does what Bromir does best.

He upgrades the hell out of it.

First thing he does is rip out my janky bamboo barrels and swap them both for steel pipes. Narrows them for better pressure. Adds some length, because apparently, size really does matter.

The pump action on the foregrip? Smoother than a bard’s pickup line on payday.

He reinforces the grip. Replaces the trigger with some kind of alloy nonsense I can’t even pronounce. Even slaps a rubber-padded butt plate on the end.

It’s like my baby hit the gym, got a glow-up, and came back looking like a compact shotgun built to ruin someone’s career.

Of course, there’s a catch. Because there’s always a catch.

No INT boost.

None.

Zero.

Nada.

I mean, sure, it makes sense. Anything you build with help doesn’t count as your original invention. The System’s way of saying nice try, cheater.

Still stings, though. I love free stats. I live for free stats.

On the plus side, the SlingBam 2.0 still counts as a Gunner-class weapon, so I can equip it just fine. But sometimes I wonder if other MARKSMAN subclasses could use it. Not that it matters. I can’t even look at a bow or crossbow without it falling apart in my hands like some kind of slapstick curse.

No joke.

I once nocked an arrow, and the string snapped. Another time, the arrow turned into splinters mid-flight. Don’t even ask what happened with the repeating crossbow.

I still have nightmares.

Bromir watches me run a hand along the SlingBam’s new band like I’m checking out a sports car.

“What do you think, kid? Better than the old one?”

I give it a couple of test pumps, feeling the tension and recoil in my wrist. “Much better. Rubber band’s tighter. Cleaner snap. Sexy as hell.”

He chuckles, rubbing soot from his cheek. “Glad you think so. But remember, pretty doesn’t matter if it can’t kill a boar clean.”

“Don’t worry. I’m planning a field test soon. Couple of boars, maybe a wolf if I’m feeling spicy.”

Then my eyes land on something sitting on my workbench.

A ten-inch female figurine.

Detailed. A little too good-looking for something made of clay.

She’s posed with that “welcome home, master” energy, and the maid uniform... well, let’s just say it follows the dress code the way I follow traffic laws.

Crafted from clay laced with trace metal, painted with careful hands and a lotta love—she’s a stunner.

I’ve made a bunch of these.

Different costumes. Different poses. Some have cat ears. Others, bunny suits. You get the idea.

But this one? This one hits different.

She’s not just merch. She’s a memory.

A tribute to a girl from my old world. A classmate.

The kind of girl you don’t forget, even when you’re stuck halfway up a mystical murder tower.

I modeled her from memory, tried to capture more than just her looks.

The tilt of her head. The way her eyes smiled before her mouth did.

There’s heart in it.

Maybe a little too much.

Commercializing these figures through the ONLINE STORE was a genius move, not going to lie. The Midoris love them. Each one sold adds a nice pile of gold to my pouch. I even get a ten percent cut per unit sold. Passive income, baby. Financial freedom, fantasy-style.

But this one? This one’s mine.

Not for sale. Not for show.

Just a little reminder that no matter how many floors I’ve climbed, no matter how many boars I’ve blasted or dwarves I’ve impressed, there’s still a part of me that remembers where I came from.

And who I left behind.