I spend the whole afternoon going full blacksmith mode.

Hammer in hand. Metal screaming. Sparks flying like confetti at a rock concert. The forge booms with every strike, sound bouncing off the stone walls like it’s trying to hype me up. Honestly, it feels like I’ve got my own soundtrack. Just me, fire, and steel doing a slow-burn dance battle.

You know that sound. That rhythmic clang that hits deep in your bones. Like metal and magic arguing in a back alley, and the hammer’s the one throwing chairs.

Sweat slides down the side of my face and slaps the floor. The heat from the smelting fires wraps around me like a blanket from a volcano’s walk-in closet. I pause, wipe my forehead with the back of my arm, and let out a slow breath.

The whole place smells like hot iron, scorched coal, and elbow grease. It’s the scent of real work. Gritty. Honest. Loud.

And yeah, it feels like living inside a dragon’s stomach. Minus the teeth.

Still, I love it. There’s something sacred about the forge. Like a church, if the gods were into molten metal and near-death by dehydration.

Then comes the rattle rattle THUD of wagon wheels and the groaning creak of wood. That kind of noise slices right through hammer swings and yanks your attention like a leash.

I squint through the heat shimmer and spot two big transport carts bumping their way down the path toward the forge. Horses trot lazily in front, tails flicking, drivers shouting at each other like they’re competing for “Loudest Human Alive.”

And sitting next to the lead driver? A certain goblin-sized trouble magnet.

I tilt my head and shout, “Ossan! Dax’s on his way here!”

Now, let me give you the lowdown on Dax.

He’s a gremlin. Like, literally. Small, wiry, sharp ears, eyes always scanning, and that eternal used-chariot-salesman smile glued to his smug little face.

He’s got the vibe of someone who’d sell you a “limited edition” sword that falls apart the moment you draw it… and then somehow convince you it was your fault.

Bromir snaps his head up, eyebrows already pulling their disappearing act into his forehead. The whole forge just… stops. Like the air itself knows something sketchy’s about to happen.

Then his voice hits, booming across the space like a warhorn.

“Hide your things, kid!”

Didn’t need to tell me twice.

I grab the nearest canvas and fling it over my current masterpiece like I’m covering a crime scene. Gun parts, springs, bolts. Gone in a single motion.

Perfect drape. Ten out of ten.

A moment later, Dax strolls into the forge like he owns the place.

Which, to be clear, he absolutely does not.

He’s got that same grin that says, I just made ten gold selling junk and I’m here to ruin your peace.

“Hello, Bromir,” he says, voice all sunshine and sales pitches. Then he turns to me. “And you too, Kira-san.”

Bromir crosses his arms so hard, I swear I hear his biceps flex. He’s not smiling.

“What brings you here this time, Dax?” he asks, voice low and suspicious.

Dax doesn’t even blink. His grin just stretches wider. Guy’s got teeth for days. He leans in a little, like he’s about to whisper a royal scandal.

“I’m here to deliver goods for my lovely Dunverholm customers, of course.”

I narrow my eyes.

“That’s funny. I thought your assistants handled all the deliveries.”

Dax lets out this high-pitched chuckle that makes my spine itch.

Why does it sound like his laugh’s made of mosquito wings and betrayal?

“Oh, come on, Kira-san. You and Bromir are my favorite clients. I had to come express my gratitude personally.”

He gives me a wink that probably works on barmaids. I give him the same look I give expired milk.

Still not impressed.

Then he turns back to Bromir, his voice all sweet and sticky. “Though I noticed you’ve stopped ordering from me.”

Bromir’s face doesn’t change, but his eye twitches. That’s dwarf-speak for caught red-handed.

“Oh! About that,” he says, a little too quick. Then he throws me a desperate glance like, help me out here, kid.

I respond the only way I know how.

I stare at the ceiling and whistle, suddenly very invested in air quality.

Flawless deflection. Ninja-level.

“I asked someone else to help me order what I need,” Bromir finally says, flailing for a name like a man dangling off a cliff. “Durak! Yes! Durak’s been handling my orders.”

“Ah, I see,” Dax replies, nodding way too enthusiastically. “I figured you’d switched to a new trader.” He chuckles, and Bromir lets out the quietest sigh of relief.

Not subtle. Not even a little.

I fold my arms and step in before Dax can spin another bedtime story.

“Cut the sales pitch, Dax. What’s the real reason you’re here?”

His eyes sparkle with that dangerous glint that always means trouble.

“My boss has a proposal for you, Kira-san.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“You mean the boss of that ‘Online Store’ you’ve mysteriously never met?”

“Yes!” he says, like I’ve just helped him ace a test he never studied for.

“The one whose office is in the Merchant Guild building you’ve definitely never visited?”

Dax nods, still grinning like this is the most normal business arrangement in the world.

“Exactly!”

I stare him down.

“You take me for a fool, Dax?”

“I swear on my nonexistent reputation, I’m just the middleman,” he says, throwing his hands up like I’ve just accused him of stealing candy from a temple. “I handle the customer orders, and the items just magically appear in my warehouse at Grimlock a few days later.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, already regretting this conversation. “Fine. I’ll bite. What does your imaginary boss want?”

His face lights up like someone just handed him a lifetime supply of underhanded merchandise.

“He wants you to invent something new… A modification, to be exact.”

I narrow my eyes at him again.

“A modification of what?”

Dax’s gaze drifts toward my workbench.

“That.”

I follow his line of sight and squint.

“The figurine?”

He nods.

“Does your boss want a new dress?” I ask. “Maybe a school uniform this time?”

Dax’s face explodes with excitement.

“A school uniform! Why didn’t I think of that? Brilliant, Kira-san!”

I smirk.

“Of course I am.”

And yeah, I live for moments like that.

But then Dax’s tone shifts, just enough to send a flicker of warning through my spine. That grin of his goes crooked. Gremlin crooked.

“My boss wants a larger version. Four to five feet tall.”

I blink.

Bromir beats me to the question.

“You want the kid to make a full-size bronze statue?” he asks, brows knotting. “Is your boss trying to build a shrine and worship that thing?”

“No no no,” Dax says, waving his hands like we’re the weird ones. “Made from softer materials. You know, for customers to use as a… bolster pillow.”

The forge goes dead quiet.

I swear, you could hear a piece of coal combust in shame.

I stare at him. Then at the figurine. Then back at him.

And then it clicks.

“Oi, you twisted gremlin,” I say, glaring daggers. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

Dax’s voice turns all pleading, which somehow makes it worse. “The customers will hold you in high esteem, Kira-san! If you create this pillow doll, they might even give you an honorary title.”

My eyes light up with pride.

“Of course! I’m Akira the Cogmaster!” I strike a heroic pose, hands on hips. “The greatest inventor in this tower.”

… Though deep down, I’m totally side-eyeing my PLAYER STATUS.

Still no title updates. You’d think after everything I’ve built, it’d at least say “Competent Inventor” or something halfway flattering.

But nope. Still just “Lover of Peach.”

Come on, system. I deserve at least “Mildly Useful Tinkerer” at this point.

Bromir, meanwhile, loses it. His laughter rolls through the forge like a rockslide of dwarf delight.

“So,” Dax asks, pulling out a notebook and a feather quill like we’re about to plan world domination, “what materials do we need for this bolster doll?”

“First, artificial hair,” I say, trying to sound serious. “And none from deceased donors.”

“Why not?” Dax blinks, dead serious.

“The owner of the hair’ll come back and haunt you, asking for it back,” I reply, deadpan.

His expression twists. “Wait… really?”

“Yep. Happens all the time back in my world,” I nod solemnly. “Imagine waking up at night and finding yourself spooning a ghost instead of your bolster doll.”

Dax shivers. “What about elf female hair? Will that do?”

I rub my chin. “Haven’t seen an elf ghost yet. If their hair’s anything like human hair, yeah, should be safe.”

“Perfect! What’s next?” His quill moving like a weapon and the page is losing the fight.

“We’ll need a metal skeleton,” I say. “Flexible steel frame. Gives it structure, holds poses, and doesn’t crumple like wet paper.”

Dax scribbles faster. His quill’s practically on fire.

“For the skin,” I continue, “we’ll use latex from the Plum Blossom peach tree. It works as a solid silicone substitute. Soft, durable, and actually pretty lifelike once treated.”

He lights up like a kid who just got handed a box of fireworks.

“Fantastic!”

Then my brain finally catches up with the nonsense coming out of my mouth.

Wait a second.

The corners of my grin fall faster than a dropped anvil.

I march over to Dax, park myself right in front of him, and give him a good old knuckle rub on the scalp.

“I’m not making you a sex doll, you bastard!”

His yelp shoots through the workshop and probably scares a few pigeons clean off the street.

And yet… deep down, I’ve got this nagging suspicion.

This won’t even crack the top three weirdest requests I’ll get this week.

An hour later, Dax slinks off to the tavern like a scolded raccoon, dragging his crushed dreams behind him and drowning them in a frothy mug of ale.

I’d agreed to sketch up some new dress designs for the smaller figurines, sure.

But a life-sized pillow waifu?

Hard nope.

As the sun dips low and bathes everything in that golden-hour glow that makes the world look way more peaceful than it actually is, I hear the telltale clanking and bickering of Durak and his brother Gromli heading toward the forge.

“Oi, Bromir!” Durak yells as he barges in, energy set to maximum dwarf. “C’mon, let’s go! Our wives left for Hillstone hours ago.”

Bromir smacks his forehead, gears clearly turning. “Ah, the celebration! Just give me fifteen to close up.”

“You can bounce now, Ossan,” I say, grinning. “I’m not joining the geezer brigade. I’ll lock up.”

Bromir gives me that proud-dad smile. “Thanks, kid.” Then he turns to the others, hands already twitching. “Okay, boys! Let’s party!”

“Let’s go wild,” Durak adds. “It’s Gromli’s kid’s birthday.”

“Perfect,” Bromir says, cracking his knuckles. “My fists are feeling neglected. Time to remind the tavern who runs this town.”

I watch them shuffle off into the sunset, their booming laughter echoing like a boss battle intro. For a bunch of so-called adults, those guys are chaos with beards. I’d bet money they end the night in a drinking contest or another “friendly” brawl that wrecks two tables and at least three chairs.

With the forge finally quiet, I do a quick cleanup. Tools stashed, coals banked, workbench wiped down.

Then I plop down for dinner. Nothing fancy. Instant ramen and onigiri, courtesy of the online store.

As I slurp the last of the noodles, night rolls in like a chill blanket. The moon hangs low over the hills, glowing like nature’s version of a soft LED nightlight.

Perfect mood lighting.

With my energy recharged and my dignity… well, let’s just say it’s on thin ice, I grab my gear and head out to my favorite spot.

The hidden hot spring just outside the village.

Yeah. That one.

The air’s crisp—pine-scented with a dash of wildflowers. Somewhere off to my left, an owl lets out a hoot like it’s judging me from its branchy high horse.

Whatever, owl. Stay in your lane.

I creep through the shadows, weaving between trees until I hit the hillside that overlooks the spring. From behind my trusty bush, I reach into my inventory and pull out the real MVP.

A compact telescope I made myself. Polished lenses. High zoom. Lightweight.

Top-tier stalker tech.

I raise it to my eye and take a breath.

“Well, ladies, forgive me for this,” I whisper, smirking like the morally confused anime protagonist I am.

But instead of Thrainna, Durrina, and Brundis…

What I see blue-screens my brain and hard-resets my soul.

There, knee-deep in the steamy water, are three very naked, very drunk dwarves.

Durak. Gromli. And Bromir.

Linked arm in arm like they’re trying to summon something unholy with friendship. Swaying together in a bizarre conga line. Mugs of ale sloshing. Beards dripping. Mouths wide open, belting out the worst off-key tavern song in the history of music.

And they’re completely nude. Not a towel. Not a scrap. Not even a shred of shame.

“ARGHHHH! MY EYES!” I yell, slamming a hand over my face and nearly dropping the telescope into the chasm.

The mental damage is instant.

Permanent.

So much for peaceful moonlit vibes.

Tonight, the gods cursed me with boomer buns.