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

Sunlight spilled through the gaps between stone buildings. The cobblestone streets were already thick with motion and noise, far busier than they had any right to be that early. The air bore a beat that grew with every step. Market stalls filled every open space with stubborn intent. Banners snapped and curled in the wind, each one restless to be seen.

Dwarven vendors barked their prices, traded boasts, raised vegetables and metal trinkets high for the crowd. Their shouts tangled together in bright disorder. The whole place burned with a strange thrill that only comes when everyone believes their work matters.

Kids slipped between carts in streaks of laughter and grit, wove through grown-ups and displays with absolutely no regard for personal space or impending disaster. One of them nearly clipped a fruit stand, and I saw the vendor lunge with the reflexes of a war veteran. Saved by a breath. That happened a lot here.

As I moved through it, the usual vibe caught up with me.

Nods, quick smiles, a few waves from people who had seen my face enough times to stop questioning why I was still around. There was something quiet in it, something that settled low in the chest. That slow realization that I’d stayed long enough to become part of the background noise.

“Hey Kira!” someone shouted.

I turned and caught Durak, Dunverholm’s mayor, across the street, planted in place as the village seemed to hold him fast.

His shoulders could have supported a bridge. His voice carried without effort, a presence that straightened everyone’s posture without a word.

His son, Kheldor, stood next to him, still beaming with the wild joy of someone who saw a final boss and a best friend in the same figure.

I gave a little bow.

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

The kid’s grin jumped from wide to a rush that filled every limb. This was what happened when your hero talked to you on even ground. That whole moment with the Saurian still got retold as a grand tale even though it mostly involved panic and dumb luck.

Durak slapped my shoulder, heavy. My spine made a sound I chose to ignore.

His laugh shook a flock of pigeons into flight. They tore into the sky in a frantic burst that showed how badly they wanted distance from the crowd.

“You joining us at the tavern later this evening? 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 laughed. “Tempting, but I’ve already got plans tonight.”

He wagged a finger at me, all mock disapproval. “Fair enough. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Which, from what I had heard of his early adventures, still covered about eighty percent of the known sin spectrum.

They melted back into the crowd. I kept walking.

About a hundred yards on, I reached the Stonehammer Forge. The double doors stood wide, and the place seemed to pull me in with its own heavy will.

The heat struck the instant I crossed the threshold. Not gentle warmth but full impact, the kind that drove out any trace of cold. The air tasted of iron and labor. Flames clashed against the stone walls, and each hammer blow rang through the space.

And I did not hate it. Not at all. The weight of it steadied me. The harsh cadence felt deserved.

Bromir was already at work, shoulders tight as he leaned over a slab of glowing steel. The metal burned with fury. He stayed calm. The man had seen more years than most ruins I had passed, yet his movement never faltered.

His hammer rose and fell with a consistency that bordered on art. No movement wasted. No pause between strikes. Each blow carried authority, the kind that reminded the metal who it served.

I grabbed my apron from its usual hook. It was stained, scorched, broken in at every fold. At that point, it was less a garment and more a shell I had grown into. I slipped it on without thinking.

“Hey, Ossan,” I called, already moving toward the cooling basin.

Bromir glanced up with a grunt. One eyebrow lifted. Could have been either skepticism or quiet approval. It was hard to tell with him.

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

His voice came through loud and warm with a grain that rasped at the end. A rough edge lingered in it, the sort of sound you eased into once you understood it promised company rather than danger.

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

He snorted and kept working. In Bromir speak, that was basically a hug.

The forge hummed around us. Fire. Sweat. Steel.

I know how that might sound, especially looking back.

But I will give it to you plainly, this place felt like a temporary layover in a glitched out fantasy world where the exit button got swallowed whole.

Somehow though, it became something more.

Maybe not forever. Maybe not safe. Still, it felt solid.

And weirdest of all? I did not actually mind.

Out of all the dwarves in Dunverholm, Bromir was the one I claimed. My hammer blooded kin, carved from grit and flame.

He was the Forgemaster with forearms that seemed shaped by tectonic plates and the patience of a monk watching over a squirrel spun up on espresso. He was the one who showed me what building truly meant. Not a matter of slapping parts together and praying the whole mess stayed intact, but crafting with intent. With soul.

He reminded me of my gramps back home, if gramps had traded the lawn chair for a hearth and bulked up enough to arm wrestle seismic shifts. His beard was big enough that you could probably hide a bird family in there and they would pay rent.

Bromir was the reason I stopped being just another Aoi player camping out in a dwarven village and started becoming something that mattered. Thanks to him, my prestige with the Dwarves climbed to ninety five percent.

Ninety. Five.

That was legendary. Actual legend tier. I was basically a dwarf now. Just taller, sassier, and with better cheekbone definition.

Back then, I had everything. Or so I thought.

But naturally, the Tower hated joy. So the second I reset on floor eleven, everything got torched. Burned right out of existence.

All those bonds I had built? Vaporized. Gone.

Every warm nod and familiar “Hey, Kira” replaced with stiff smiles and polite confusion.

They did not know me anymore. I was back to being a face in the crowd.

And yeah, I admitted it, that hit harder than a centaur stumbling into the wrong bar fight.

The unfinished projects I had with Bromir? Obliterated. No blueprints. No secret stash. Not even the dumb little “World’s Okayest Apprentice” sign I had etched into my corner of the bench.

Clean slate. Again.

That was then. Now I was back at square one.

Small mercy, I only died once in my two years in Dunverholm.

It happened during a quest Bromir commissioned me for, to take out a Naga squatting in a cave up in the nearby mountains.

Sounded simple enough. One snake lady. Minimal scales. Easy loot.

Turned out, not simple. Not even close.

She flung me across the cave in a blur that erased every sense of control. One moment I lined up my shot. The next I met a rock wall face first and wondered if my spine had turned into a mess nobody ever deserved.

And I was so close. So close to harvesting the Mithril I needed, the rare stuff. Light as air, tough as divine judgment. It was the core metal for the gun Bromir and I were building.

My masterpiece. The boomstick to end all boomsticks.

After that mess, I hit pause on tower climbing. No way was I charging into another rave when I had not even finished the one weapon that might actually keep me alive.

Or the ammo. Or, let’s be honest, the fragile remnants of my mental health.

So instead, I dove deep. Tunnel vision. Full obsession mode. Every hour went into design. Loadout tweaks. Casing tests. Pressure tuning. Trigger response. I turned into a gun nut. Fantasy edition.

You ever get that feeling like your life is just a training montage with bad lighting and no soundtrack? Yeah, that was me.

And somehow, it helped. The work gave me structure. Something real to shape with my hands. Something I could control in a world that kept yanking the rug out every time I took a breath.

After easing the tension from my limbs, I settled into my usual spot at the workbench.

Bromir glanced over mid hammer swing. Did not even slow down.

“So, how are those bullets coming along?”

“The casings are almost done,” I said, stretching out a kink in my neck. “Just making sure they don’t jam the barrel or explode on impact. You know, the small details.”

He grunted. Textbook Bromir. Translation, good job, do not die.

He turned back to the grip he had been shaping, hammer still moving in perfect pace. Each strike felt thoughtful and pressed intention into the metal.

“Make sure you finish it clean,” he said. “No room for mishaps.”

I smirked. “Mishaps? Please. When have I ever created one?”

No reply. Just another grunt. That one probably meant he had witnessed disasters from me on a daily basis.

Then he asked, “So how are you planning to mass produce those bullets?”

“Online store.” I replied.

Another grunt. That one carried a hint of reluctant approval.

The truth was that with the Midoris and especially the dwarves, the entire supply chain moved in a slow drift that never tried to hurry. There was no next day shipping. No real delivery at all unless you counted the traveler who passed through twice each season with a horse cart and a map drawn by a drunk fairy.

If you needed something, you had better have ordered it three months ago. Or never needed it in the first place.

When Bromir first heard about my ordering system, he stared at me with the awe of a man who believed he had witnessed the Forgefather’s forgotten secret. He immediately asked for a new whetstone and boots and beard oil that no longer announced its presence with the fury of an upset skunk.

I told him sure, but only if he kept it quiet. No chance I would let the whole village discover I was running a hidden distribution service behind the scenes.

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

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

“Nice,” I said and crossed the room at once.

My SlingBam waited for me. This version held a sleek form with real heft. It promised danger without a word.

Things finally started falling into place. The progress remained slow, yet in a world where death rewound my life through a broken save system, slow felt miraculous.

I remembered the moment Bromir first examined the weapon. His eyes brightened with the same fire that rose from the forge when fresh ore met the flame. He almost bowed over it. For a heartbeat, he seemed convinced I had handed him a relic forged by the ancient lords themselves.

He circled it, prodded the chambers, muttered under his breath in Dwarvish like he was whispering with the steel.

Then he did his usual thing.

He made it better.

First, he yanked out my sad little bamboo barrels and slotted in twin steel pipes instead. He narrowed them for better compression and added a few inches to improve pressure regulation.

Apparently, size mattered when it came to airflow.

He tuned the pump action, reinforced the grip, replaced the janky trigger with some alloy I could not pronounce without swallowing my tongue. He even slapped on a rubber padded butt plate. Tactical, practical, unreasonably satisfying.

Now it looked fit for a royal duel. It also felt ready for a dragon hunt. Anyone pressed for time could have attempted both with it.

Only one problem. No INT boost for me.

None.

The system remained strict. Anything you worked on with someone else lost its status as original. No stat bonuses. Only a pat on the head and the usual “try again next time, Inventor chan.”

Still, it stung. I loved free stats. I gathered them with the enthusiasm of someone who hunted for rare stones.

At least the SlingBam 2.0 still qualified as a Gunner class weapon, so I could equip it.

Sometimes I wondered whether other marksman subclasses could use it. The question never implied. I could not work a bow even when my life was on the line. I had tested that once. One arrow snapped during the draw. Another time, the string snapped and the bow shattered. And do not let me get started about the repeating crossbow incident. That memory stuck like a splinter under my skin.

I ran a hand along the new band. The tension rose under my palm. Bromir watched, his stare edged with a craftsman’s judgment.

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

I gave it a few test pumps. A low vibration crept through my wrist. The weapon felt eager for trouble.

“Much better. Rubber band is tighter. Cleaner snap. Sexy as hell.”

He chuckled, wiping soot off his cheek with the back of his arm. “Glad you think so. But pretty doesn’t matter if it can’t kill a lizardman clean.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Field tests are coming up. Boars, maybe wolves if I’m bored.”

Then my eyes landed on something on the edge of my bench—

A figurine.

Ten inches tall. Female form. Detailed to the edge of obsession level care, and she had that welcome home master pose. A maid uniform that would never pass a proper dress code, yet somehow looked perfectly fitting. Clay laced with trace metals. Painted by hand. Glossed just enough to catch the light.

I had made a bunch of these.

Different outfits. Different poses. Cat ears. Bunny suits. Seasonal themes. Merch, basically.

Commercializing these figurines through the Online Store was genius. The Midoris loved them. Each one added gold to my pouch and a few more points to my passive income meter. Ten percent cut per sale. Real financial stability, one waifu at a time.

But the one sitting on my table? Different.

I built her from memory. Not for gold. Not for show. Just a quiet anchor, something real in a world designed to forget.

A girl from home. A classmate. The kind you didn’t forget, even halfway up a fantasy kill tower. There was heart in it. Too much, maybe.

A reminder that no matter how many floors I climbed, no matter how many monsters I blasted apart or dwarves I impressed, I came from somewhere.

And I left something behind.