Anthony puffed up his chest in mock offense, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. "I could, if I wanted to."
"You'd burn the entire forge down first," Lawrence cut in, his low chuckle grounding their lighthearted exchange.
Arlon slowed his steps, his sharp gaze narrowing as he observed the scene before him.
Lawrence, Alice, and Anthony, laughing and teasing as though they had known each other for years. It was a camaraderie that had formed almost effortlessly.
Of course, Arlon thought dryly. Lawrence is the protagonist of this world—the one who draws people to him like moths to a flame. Alice and Anthony, destined to be his first allies, are no exception. Their bond was inevitable.
There was a strange pang of something in his chest—relief?. He shook the thought away and stepped closer, his presence finally catching their attention.
Alice froze mid-laugh, her gaze snapping to Arlon. She straightened immediately, her respect for him evident in the way she folded her hands neatly in front of her.
"Master Arlon," she greeted, her tone more formal now.
Anthony offered a quick nod of acknowledgment, though his casual stance betrayed his lingering amusement.
Lawrence, however, stiffened noticeably, his gaze dropping to the ground.
Arlon's sharp gaze swept over the three of them before settling on the bundle Lawrence held. "What are you discussing?" he asked, his voice even but firm.
Alice hesitated, glancing between Lawrence and Arlon, clearly unsure how to respond. Finally, she cleared her throat and took a step forward. "Master Arlon, we were just discussing Lawrence's sword," she said, her tone faltering slightly.
Arlon arched an eyebrow, his focus narrowing on Lawrence. "His sword?"
"Broken is an understatement," Anthony interjected, crossing his arms with a snort.
"I don't even know how that thing held together in the last fight. It's practically falling apart."
Alice shot Anthony a quick, disapproving glance. "Anthony," she said softly, but there was a firm edge to her tone.
Lawrence shot Anthony a glare but didn't refute him.
Arlon's eyes flickered back to Lawrence, his expression unreadable. "Broken?"
"I didn't want to bother you," Lawrence said quietly, his grip tightening on the hilt. "You've already done so much—for my hometown, for my people. This is something I can handle on my own."
Arlon's gaze narrowed slightly. "Show me."
Lawrence froze, his grip tightening around the cloth-wrapped sword. His jaw clenched as if revealing it would expose more than just a broken blade. For a long moment, he didn't move.
"Lawrence," Arlon said quietly, his voice steady but firm.
Finally, Lawrence exhaled and unwrapped the sword, his movements slow and deliberate. The weapon, now exposed, looked more like a relic than a tool of battle—fractured and worn, yet clearly cherished.
The weapon was a mess. Deep cracks marred the blade, the edge was chipped and dull, and the hilt showed signs of wear from years of use. Despite its current state, Arlon could tell it had once been a well-crafted weapon—one that had likely seen countless battles.
Arlon's gaze lingered on the sword. His mind flashed back to the battle with the Moon Mage, to the moment Lawrence had delivered the final, decisive blow. Despite the blade's fractured state, Lawrence had pushed it—and himself—to the limit.
"This was my father's sword," Lawrence said, his voice steady but heavy, each word sinking under its own weight.
"He gave it to me before he passed. It's… all I have left of him." His grip tightened on the hilt as his gaze dropped. "I didn't want to trouble anyone with it. It's my responsibility."
Anthony cut in with a snort. "You were going to keep fighting with that thing? It's a miracle it didn't snap during the last battle."
"Anthony," Alice scolded, her voice soft but firm.
Lawrence glanced at the blade again, his grip tightening. "I was going to figure something out on my own. I didn't want to be a burden."
Arlon's expression remained unreadable, but inside, his thoughts churned.
In the original story, Lawrence had cherished it above all else, even as it broke under the strain of battle. That sword had been repaired and reforged by a master blacksmith in Falcon City, the same one who would later create Lawrence's legendary weapon.
Arlon's gaze shifted back to Lawrence, who stood stiffly, the burden of his pride and responsibility weighing on him.
Lawrence is the linchpin of this world's story—my survival depends on him. His victories, his alliances, his growth—they all lead to the future I need to ensure. If he stumbles, so does everything else.
"You should have come to me," Arlon said at last, his tone cool but absolute.
Lawrence stiffened, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the hilt.
"Master Arlon, I—"
"This sword is more than a weapon," Arlon interrupted, his voice softening only slightly.
"It's a reflection of the man who wields it. If it's broken, it must be reforged—not abandoned. And it's my responsibility to see it done."
"It's part of who you are. If it's broken, then it's my responsibility to ensure it's repaired."
Lawrence blinked, startled. "Master Arlon, you don't have to—"
"I insist," Arlon interrupted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "We'll go to Falcon City together. I know a smith there who can handle it."
"You do?" Anthony asked, raising an eyebrow.
Arlon ignored him, his focus remaining on Lawrence. "You swore to follow me," he said evenly. "Let me do this for you."
Alice and Anthony exchanged a quick glance, the admiration in their eyes unmistakable. Lawrence, meanwhile, looked conflicted. Finally, he sighed and nodded. "Alright," he said quietly. "But… thank you. For everything."
Arlon gave a faint nod before turning to Alice and Anthony. "Prepare for the journey. We leave after lunch."
Alice quickly bowed. "Yes, Master Arlon."
Anthony smirked faintly, giving a casual salute. "Got it."
As the group began to disperse, Arlon lingered for a moment, watching as Lawrence carefully rewrapped the broken sword.
Ace, lounging lazily on a nearby ledge, flicked his tail and let out a mental quip. "My, my, noble Arlon. You're practically bending over backward for this boy. Are we becoming soft?"
Arlon ignored him, though his lips twitched slightly. Instead, his thoughts returned to the novel—the path Lawrence was meant to walk, the allies he was meant to forge, the battles he was destined to win.
In that story, Lawrence had forged bonds with people like Alice and Anthony effortlessly, building an army of allies as he journeyed toward his destiny. And now, here they were, following the same script.
But Arlon wasn't part of that story originally. He was an outsider. A variable. And if he wanted to secure his place in this world, he needed Lawrence to succeed.
Arlon's jaw tightened slightly. He had read that story, witnessed the events unfold on the page. But now, standing here, seeing the weight of Lawrence's guilt and gratitude, it felt different. More real.
With that, Arlon turned and walked away, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. Behind him, Ace leapt down and followed, his ribbon swaying with each step.
As he walked toward the main hall, Arlon's mind churned with thoughts.
Lawrence's reluctance wasn't surprising. In the story, he had always carried the weight of others' sacrifices on his shoulders, often to the point of refusing help. But Arlon couldn't allow that—not now.
Arlon exhaled softly, his sharp gaze fixed ahead. For now, his responsibility was clear: keep Lawrence on the path that would shape the future—and ensure that the bonds forming between him, Alice, and Anthony remained strong.
After all, they weren't just allies. They were the foundation of everything to come.
Arlon reached the entrance to the main hall, where Dimitri stood waiting silently.
"Dimitri," Arlon called as he approached, his voice sharp and authoritative.
The steward stepped forward, bowing slightly. "My lord?"
"We're traveling to Falcon City," Arlon said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Ensure everything is ready by the time we've finished lunch."
Dimitri inclined his head. "It will be done."
As Dimitri moved to carry out his orders, Arlon glanced back toward the training grounds, where the faint sound of laughter echoed in the air.
This is where it begins, he thought. The journey that shapes him—and by extension, my fate in this world. I'll make sure he gets there, no matter what it takes.
———
The carriage wheels groaned to a halt, releasing its passengers into the bustling heart of Falcon City, where energy thrummed through its cobbled streets.
The city teemed with life, vendors crowding the cobbled streets with stalls of intricate jewelry and the aroma of freshly baked bread.
The tang of forge smoke mingled with the scent of roasted spices, a constant reminder of the blacksmiths who formed the city's beating heart.
Above it all loomed the towering silhouettes of Falcon City's renowned forges, a stark contrast to the narrow alleys Arlon's memory led them toward.
Click—
Arlon stepped out first, his movements precise and deliberate as he adjusted the dark mask over his face and pulled his robe's hood further down to conceal his features.
The city hasn't changed much, he thought, scanning the bustling streets. Same chaos, same noise. He pulled his hood further down, blending into the crowd as easily as a shadow slipping into dusk.
Step— Step—
Alice and Anthony stepped out, their wide eyes darting between the towering buildings and chaotic streets, a stark contrast to their quiet hometowns.
"This place is massive," Anthony muttered, his voice tinged with awe as he scanned the endless rows of shops and forges, each hammer ringing with its own rhythm.
Alice nodded, her gaze flicking between the crowd and the ornate details on the surrounding architecture."It's so much... bigger than I thought," Alice murmured. "And louder."
Lawrence stepped down from the carriage last, his expression starkly different. He wasn't drawn in by the city's energy. His jaw was set, his eyes focused on the bundle in his hands—the cloth-wrapped remnants of his father's broken sword.
Arlon glanced at him briefly, noting his silence. "Let's move," he said, his calm, authoritative voice cutting through their awe.
The trio fell in line behind him without question.
Arlon had ensured Dimitri gathered everything they needed before leaving. Always reliable, that one, he thought, recalling the detailed notes tucked away in his satchel. Still, I'll have to double-check—information this precise can be as dangerous as it is useful
Arlon moved with purpose, his memory of the tale unfolding with every step. If the book was right, this street leads to him, he mused, glancing at the narrow alleys closing in around them. And if it's wrong... well, we'll find another way.
Henry Owl. A name that most would never know, a blacksmith whose legend existed only in whispered tales and, in Arlon's case, the pages of a novel.
In the original story, Henry Owl had crafted not just swords but futures. He was the one who would eventually forge Lawrence's legendary blade, the weapon that would carry him to countless victories.
But none of that had happened yet. Here and now, Henry Owl was simply a man hidden away at the edge of the city, far removed from the grandeur of Falcon City's central smiths.
"This way," Arlon said, leading them through a narrow street lined with vendors selling trinkets and strange spices.
"Are we really going the right way?" Anthony asked, ducking to avoid a rack of hanging scarves.
Alice glanced nervously at the towering buildings hemming them in. "It doesn't seem like the kind of place for a blacksmith…"
Lawrence said nothing, his focus fixed on Arlon's back as the older man led them deeper into the winding alleys.
Arlon stopped abruptly at a worn, unmarked stairway carved into the stone street. The narrow stairs dipped sharply, their chipped edges whispering tales of decades of wear. A faint draft carried the tang of iron and coal, guiding them downward.
"We're here," Arlon said, his voice calm.