A few days of training had left Gayle's body creaking in multiple places. His shoulders, elbows, wrists. Especially his wrists. Every time he forced the wind's power into his sword, a pain shot through him as if pressure were building from inside the bone. He'd grown accustomed to that much. The real problem lay elsewhere. Gayle lowered himself onto the edge of the training grounds and laid two swords across his knees. The longsword Danfū and the short sword Shuya. Both had been his companions for nearly twenty years. But staring at their blades, he could see countless fine scratches etched into the metal. Not the kind of damage from normal combat. These were uniform marks, as if the blades had been exposed to a sandstorm. Every time he tried to channel wind pressure into the swords, the uncontrolled force was shaving away at the edges. (At this rate, the blades won't hold.) Gayle ran his thumb lightly across the flat of the blade. A faint roughness met his touch. The senses he'd honed over decades as a swordsman told him clearly—leaving this any longer would be dangerous. "I have no choice but to go," Gayle murmured, sheathing his swords. --- Tulis's craftsman district lay a short walk west from the Stone Plaza. The smoke of forges, the smell of tanning leather, the sound of wood being carved. The place buzzed with activity from early morning, and it was where adventurers stopped by whenever they returned from requests. Ash Iron Furnace—the sign hung on the front of a stone building darkened by soot. The letters were old, discolored by years of heat. But the trial blades lined up before the entrance gleamed sharply, silently proclaiming the craftsman's skill. Pushing open the door, heat struck his face. The furnace's red glow illuminated the room. The smell of iron and charcoal was thick. A single man stood before the anvil. Reddish-brown short hair stained with soot. It clung to his forehead, perpetually damp with sweat. His frame, around 175 centimeters, was neither delicate nor heavily muscled—the practical build cultivated by years of smithing work. Both his hands bore countless burn scars and calluses. His gaze was fixed on the blade he was currently sharpening, and he didn't look up even as Gayle entered. Glen Hart. Fifty-two years old. Master of this workshop. Gayle's relationship with him spanned nearly twenty years. When they first met, Gayle had just become a Silver-rank adventurer. Glen had taken one look at the cheap sword Gayle brought in, said nothing, and returned it the next day without a single chip in the blade. Since then, Gayle's swords had been brought to this workshop continuously. "Glen," Gayle called out briefly. Glen looked up. His black eyes reflected the flames, glinting faintly. He wasn't surprised by customers. Before surprise came the thought of whether to stop working. "Gayle," Glen Hart replied, then stopped his work. As he moved toward the counter, he jerked his chin—a gesture meaning "let me see." Gayle held out both swords. Glen took them and removed the sheath from Danfū. He held it up to the furnace light, examining the blade. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Not a single eyebrow moved. Next, he checked Shuya with the same deliberate care. "Wind," Glen Hart murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the furnace's roar. Gayle's eyes narrowed slightly. (He figured it out just from looking at the scratches.) To identify the damage as wind-caused simply from the pattern of the marks—that was impressive. Or perhaps terrifying. Gayle suppressed a wry smile. Saying "that's impressive" out loud would have felt embarrassing somehow. Glen's gaze shifted to Gayle's wrist. There, a faint reddish line was visible. A mark from wind pressure. The uncontrolled force flowing through the sword had affected even the skin of his wrist. "Even your wrist," Glen Hart said quietly, the words containing an unspoken question. He continued, spacing out his words slowly. "You, who are magically incompatible. You can use wind now?" Glen Hart asked. "...There are circumstances," Gayle replied. Gayle explained the situation briefly. How the spirit he'd saved twenty-two years ago had appeared as the great spirit Jinn. How that power now dwelt within his body. However, the strain on his body was significant, and he still couldn't control it completely. Glen listened in silence. He interjected only with brief words like "I see" or "is that so," asking no unnecessary questions. When Gayle finished, Glen moved toward the furnace, still holding the swords. "I'll heat them. Sit down," Glen Hart said. --- The furnace burned bright red. The sound of the hammer rang out in steady rhythm. Gayle sat in an old chair placed in the corner of the workshop, watching the work. Glen heated Danfū's blade and adjusted it. His hands seemed to have memorized the sword's structure from nearly twenty years of continuous observation. The silence was comfortable. A man who spoke only when necessary, and a man who struggled to put things into words. This workshop always held such moments. After a while, Glen spoke, his hands never stopping their work. "It was twenty-two years ago when you first came here," Glen Hart said. Gayle nodded. "You'd just become Iron-rank. You had a cheap sword," Glen Hart continued. "You remember that?" Gayle asked. "Seven chips in the blade. Two spots of rust. All from monster damage. But the ridge was clean. Evidence you'd been polishing it," Glen Hart said. Gayle was somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected Glen to remember even the number of scratches on that cheap sword from twenty-two years ago. Glen continued. "I forged Danfū and Shuya two years after that. I designed them based on watching your swordsmanship habits. Receive with the left, cut with the right. I shaped them to match that form," Glen Hart explained. "I've been indebted to you ever since," Gayle said. "It's not debt. It's work," Glen Hart replied. But the words that followed carried a different tone. Still holding the hammer, Glen glanced at Gayle, then turned back to the furnace. "Your swords were more sincere than anyone's. Every strike bore the marks of effort. I know no other adventurer who polished their swordsmanship to this degree with nothing but their body, without magic," Glen Hart said. Gayle said nothing. "That's why I've continued to maintain them. Incompatibility with magic or not—it doesn't matter. If the sword is sincere, I answer," Glen Hart continued. Incompatible with magic—a derogatory term for those without magical aptitude. Gayle had heard it enough over forty years to be sick of it. But from Glen's mouth, it carried no contempt, merely the confirmation of a fact. Gayle stared at the furnace flames. Something warm stirred deep in his chest. It was difficult to put into words, but something had definitely moved. (Thanking him would be embarrassing too.) Instead, Gayle exhaled slowly. Rather than saying "thank you," he simply nodded in silence. Glen seemed to understand, for he snorted and returned to his work. --- "There are rumors that monster activity has been increasing around the Spiral Tower recently," Glen Hart said after some time had passed. He spoke while examining Shuya's blade, his tone almost like talking to himself. "I've heard that several adventurers have gone missing. The request board at the Stone Plaza apparently has several cases still waiting for information," Glen Hart continued. The Spiral Tower—approximately ninety kilometers east of Tulis. An ancient ruin-type dungeon rising from the deepest part of Tōre Forest. A massive stone tower twisted in a spiral shape, its interior spanning twelve levels. It was recommended for Silver-rank and above, with levels eight and beyond requiring Gold-rank strength. Gayle paused before speaking. "I'm going to challenge the tower. There's something I need to find in its depths," Gayle said. Glen's hands stopped. For the first time, his work clearly halted. Glen slowly turned to face Gayle, his black eyes fixing on him with certainty. "Are you serious?" Glen Hart asked. "I am," Gayle replied. Gayle continued. "This may be my last adventure. But there's a reason I must do this," Gayle said. Glen studied him for a while. His gaze held no surprise or worry, but rather a quiet quality of assessment. The eyes of a craftsman who had watched this man's swordsmanship for twenty years. Finally, Glen turned back to his work. "Then the swords need appropriate preparation as well," Glen Hart said. There was slightly more heat in his voice—the kind that emerged when Glen spoke of technique. Gayle recognized it. "I'll apply reinforcement to channel the wind's power. Mana-infused forging. Unlike normal smithing, I'll create pathways for mana flow within the sword's structure. When you channel wind through it, the power will flow along the blade's form rather than shaving it away. It won't be perfect, but it should last longer," Glen Hart explained. "Can you do such a thing?" Gayle asked. "I've never done it before. But I understand the principle. The problem is the material..." Glen Hart trailed off. Glen moved toward the back of the workshop and retrieved something from a shelf. A small crystal. A faintly blue-tinted transparent stone that glimmered softly in the furnace light. "A wind-attribute mana crystal from the upper levels of the Spiral Tower. A Gold-rank adventurer brought it in for processing once, and this piece was left over. I've had no use for it until now," Glen Hart said. Gayle looked at the crystal. He understood what it was. A mineral infused with wind power—exactly what he needed now. "...Can I use it?" Gayle asked. "It's meant for your sword. That's the best use for it," Glen Hart replied. The words were brief, but Gayle understood their weight. For a craftsman, how materials are used is the core of their work. Glen had judged that this crystal's optimal use was in Gayle's sword. That was all. No excess emotion. But in that judgment lay twenty years of trust. --- The sound of the hammer changed. It became more delicate, more precise. Mana-infused forging differed from normal smithing. Rather than striking with great force, it required reading the material's nature and applying power with precision. Gayle remained in the corner of the workshop, watching the work continue. The furnace fire flickered. Heat caressed his face. The hammer's sound marked time in steady rhythm. In that repetition, decades of Glen's years as a craftsman seemed concentrated. Jinn was waiting outside. He'd said he'd return to the inn. There was more to discuss about power training. They'd need to talk about the Spiral Tower again. But for now, this time in the workshop felt right. Hours passed. "Done," Glen Hart said simply, laying both swords on the counter. Gayle stood and picked up Danfū. The weight was unchanged. But the moment he gripped it, he felt a subtle difference. A sensation like fine wind flowing through the sword's interior. The wind core dwelling in his own body responded faintly. He tried channeling just a little power. The excess pressure that had previously shaved the blade now flowed smoothly along its form. The sword accepted the wind. "...This is," Gayle began. "Not bad, is it," Glen Hart said. Glen simply returned to wiping his workbench. Whether he was embarrassed or simply moving on to the next task was impossible to tell from his expression. Probably both. "What do I owe you?" Gayle asked. "Pay me later. After you come back alive," Glen Hart replied. "...I'll come back alive," Gayle said. "See that you do. Then I can maintain them again. I want to see what face a sword that's conquered twelve levels wears," Glen Hart said. A craftsman's words. Not sentiment, but pure interest in technique. That's why they resonated with Gayle. He sheathed both swords and secured them at his waist. The same weight as always. Yet the s