After just a month of being awakened, I finally managed to rank up. It seems like I might have a real knack for this blacksmithing business, Wright mused as he walked back
home from his newly established forge in the B-district.
Tomorrow, I'll need to start looking for a new apartment in the area, and then I'll be all
set. A broad grin spread across his soot-covered face as he finally arrived home after a day filled with action, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.
After washing up and grabbing a quick bite from the fridge, he headed towards
his bedroom. But as he reached for the door handle, he noticed it was slightly
ajar, causing him to hesitate. His pulse quickened, and adrenaline surged as he
became aware of the open door. There had been reports of people going missing
in town lately, and many suspected the involvement of the Anti-Occupation cult.
Wright tightly gripped his smithing hammer, feeling its familiar weight and solidity
reassure him as he braced himself before opening the door. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the door open, causing it to emit a low groan. As the door creaked open, the faint blue light from the lanterns in the hallway spilled into the room, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The shadows elongate and twist in the half-light, creating an unsettling atmosphere. He scrutinized the room for anything out of place as he entered it.
His eyes had trouble adjusting to the shades of grey and black that swam in the air. He cautiously approached the lantern on his nightstand, the soft light flickering and casting strange shapes on the walls. Just as he was about to reach for the lantern, he heard the floorboards behind him whisper a warning
creak, sending shivers down his spine.
Wright spun on his heel, muscles
coiled like a spring, and let his hammer fly with brutal precision. A metallic clang
echoed through the room as steel met steel—his hammer colliding with what looked like a kitchen knife held by a shadowy figure. The sudden impact rattled the air, but the attacker barely flinched, absorbing the force and countering with a quick, vicious jab. Wright dodged, barely, the knife grazing his side as
pain flared like a hot brand. He grunted and was forced back a step, his balance faltering. The assailant was fast—too fast. Each movement was sharp and fluid, while Wright was off-balance, struggling to regain his footing. He swung again, but his strike met empty air as the attacker ducked under the arc and surged forward, driving a shoulder into Wright's chest.
The breath exploded from Wright's lungs as he crashed into the wall, the impact jarring his bones. His vision swam, and for a moment, panic gripped him. His strength, his raw power, was supposed to be enough. But the attacker moved with an unnatural grace, slipping past his defenses, every knife thrust forcing Wright further onto the back foot. The helplessness gnawed at him, his
instincts screaming for the magic that refused to come. His power—the one thing
he could always rely on—was dormant, leaving him exposed. The assailant's knife
flashed again, a blur aimed straight for his heart. Wright twisted desperately,
the blade slicing across his shoulder instead, pain dashing down his arm. He
couldn't keep up like this. He was losing. But then, amidst the chaos, a
thought cut through the haze of pain and fear: slow down. Wright's heart
pounded, his breath ragged, but he forced himself to focus. He couldn't match
the attacker in speed, but he didn't need to. He just needed one good hit. The
next time the attacker lunged, Wright didn't try to dodge. Instead, he stepped
into the blow, his free hand shooting up to catch the assailant's wrist.
The knife stopped inches from his neck, the blade trembling as the attacker
struggled to push it forward. Wright's muscles burned, every ounce of strength
brought to bear as he held the knife at bay. With a roar, he slammed his
forehead into the attacker's face. The man uttered a choked cry, staggering
back, and Wright didn't hesitate. He swung his hammer in a brutal upward arc,
catching the man under the ribs. A guttural crack sounded through the room as
his ribs caved in slightly. The impact lifted the assailant off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap. Wright stood over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from his wounds. The attacker groaned, trying to rise,
but Wright was already moving. He kicked the knife out of the man's hand, then
brought his hammer down, slamming into the side of the assailant's head.
"Stay down," Wright growled, his voice raw but exhausted. The man lost consciousness as his body went limp. He had won—barely—but he had won. He caught his breath and ensured the man was out before checking his pockets and finding nothing. From how the man maneuvered with such precision and speed, Wright guessed the man had the Chef occupation. The knife tool only added to
that guess.
Once he was no longer as winded as before he ran outside to call for guards and
explained the situation to them. The neighbors came out onto the street to
listen in, and hushed murmurs were heard talking about how lucky he was to
survive another cult attack. The guards applauded him for being able to defend
himself and asked him to come down for questioning tomorrow to fill in any
information they couldn't get from the criminal. They told him to try and get
some rest. Wright went inside to collect some clothes and his hammer before
deciding he couldn't stay here tonight. He took off toward the B-district to
find an inn for the night. He didn't doubt for a second that someone else would
probably show up tonight if he stayed here. Tomorrow he would try to get some
answers about who was behind this.