When Ludger finally returned home that evening, Elaine was already waiting by the door with crossed arms, a raised eyebrow, and the twins dangling sleepily from her hips. She didn’t even need to ask, her expression alone demanded an explanation. So Ludger explained, in the most condensed, factual way he could, why he had spent three full days in Raukor’s forge melting mountains of froststeel, what “perfectionism” meant in the context of beastman craftsmanship, and why Raukor felt personally offended by metal imperfections invisible to normal human beings.

Elaine listened, sighed more than once, pinched the bridge of her nose twice, and after the fourth explanation simply muttered something about “boys and toys” before dragging the twins to bed. Ludger took that as permission to leave the topic alone.

The next morning, he returned to Raukor’s workshop as if nothing had happened. The forge was already roaring, of course, and Raukor was hunched over an anvil, working through yet another batch of froststeel with the same relentless pursuit of perfection. Ludger stepped around him quietly, heading toward the iron carriage parked just outside. Every part of Raukor’s forge, the tools, the specialized stones, the anvil array, even the rune-etched tongs, came from that massive metal wagon. But Raukor didn’t mind Ludger using them while he rested between forging sessions or while he melted another ton of froststeel into creative scrap.

Ludger, however, had his own goal now. Using Repair all day would have been efficient for leveling, sure. But he wanted something else, proof that his forging didn’t just support magic. He wanted to see if he could forge something alone, something simple and functional, and confirm whether the System would acknowledge his creations the same way it did his sculptures.

The only way to know was to try. He chose something small: a buckler. Simple design, minimal curves, straightforward. Something that didn’t require Raukor’s insane perfectionism but would still challenge his control. It was hard. Much harder than he thought.

Froststeel was temperamental, and without Raukor’s corrections, Ludger had to make every decision himself, temperature adjustments, mana shaping, controlling the glow so it never dipped into the dangerous “scrap metal” threshold. More than once he nearly overheated the edge. Twice he had to cool it faster than intended and watched the metal threatening to crack under the sudden shift. The hammering rhythm was wrong at first, too slow, then too fast, then not aligned with the mana pulse at all.

By noon, he had a plate that looked like a shiny bowl. By mid-afternoon, he had what resembled a shield but wobbled like a drunk plate when set upright. But by evening, after hours of trial, error, frustration, and careful mana channeling, Ludger managed it. A small buckler.

Barely large enough to protect his forearm. The edges were uneven. The shape wasn’t symmetrical enough to make Raukor happy. The interior mana flow was clunky, not elegant. And the handle wrap was definitely too tight. But it held. It was real. Usable. Froststeel, shaped by his hands alone.

He turned it over, testing the balance. The weight distribution was mediocre at best, but it didn’t crack, didn’t warp, didn’t lose its glow. For a first attempt? It was a victory. And now Ludger was ready to see if the System agreed.

When the final hammer strike settled and the froststeel buckler cooled enough for the glow to stabilize, Ludger exhaled a long breath and checked the surface one last time. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t even symmetrical. But it held mana, it held shape, and it hadn’t exploded in his face, which, given Raukor’s method of quality control, was already a small miracle.

Then the familiar ripple brushed across his senses. A translucent window formed in front of him with a soft, crystalline chime.

[Item Created: Froststeel Buckler (Poor)]

Durability: 48/48

Defense: +6

Damage Absorption: 2%

Passive: Ice Resistance +1

Description: A small, crudely shaped froststeel buckler forged with uneven mana flow.

Barely functional, but still better than most cheap iron gear.  Demonstrates early-stage magical forging technique.

Ludger stared at the screen for a solid two seconds. Then he smiled. A real smile, sharp, genuine, and far too pleased for someone holding a lopsided disc of metal that looked like it survived being stepped on by a mammoth.

“It’s trash,” he murmured to himself, “but the system recognizes my trash… so it’s at least slightly usable.”

Progress. Slow, messy progress. But progress. Behind him, Raukor rumbled out a low snort, his version of a laugh. The beastman crossed his arms and leaned against the furnace with a weight that would have crushed a normal anvil. “If you’re planning to use that thing,” Raukor said, voice dry and unimpressed, “or gods forbid sell it, you had better not tell anyone that I taught you how to forge.”

Ludger held up the buckler, tilting it so the uneven light caught the dimpled surface. It really was ugly. Almost impressively so.

He shrugged. “It’s just my first step.”

Raukor grunted at that, approving, or at least no longer disgusted. “Then keep stepping. And make sure the next one doesn’t look like it was chewed on.”

Ludger smirked, already thinking about the next attempt. The buckler was terrible. And it was proof. Proof that the System accepted his forging. Proof that his class would grow. Proof that forging could be shaped into another weapon in his arsenal. Ugly beginnings didn’t matter. Everything worthwhile started rough.

Ludger set the buckler aside, carefully, because he wasn’t fully convinced it wouldn’t spontaneously collapse if exposed to too much confidence, and dusted froststeel shavings off his sleeves. Raukor watched him with arms crossed, mane shifting in the heat of the forge, waiting to see whether the human would try making a second abomination or finally take a break. Instead, Ludger straightened and spoke with his usual calm, matter-of-fact tone.

“I’ll return in two weeks to continue lessons,” he said. “I need to prepare for my half-sister’s birthday party. Ten days left, and I’d rather not show up with nothing and get strangled by my mother on the spot.”

Raukor blinked slowly, clearly trying to imagine what kind of family dynamic required combat preparation for a birthday party. But he didn’t question it. Beastmen clans had their own chaotic traditions.

“The froststeel shipments will keep coming,” Ludger continued. “So don’t worry about running out. And once you start making things that suit your tastes, we can split the profits.”

That made Raukor pause. Deep, surprised silence filled the forge. Ludger glanced up, noticing the beastman’s expression, an unreadable mix of caution and unexpected respect. Raukor finally broke the quiet.

“You are not… recounting the wasted material cost?”

Ludger raised a brow. “Why would I?”

Raukor snorted once, quietly. “Most humans would demand repayment for every shard. They always think froststeel is gold. They do not understand.” His gaze drifted toward the pile of mangled metal outside the forge. “Perfection requires sacrifice.”

Ludger shrugged, unfazed. “If the guild wanted someone who cared about expenses more than results, we wouldn’t have called you here.”

Raukor stared at him, long enough to make the moment heavy, before giving a single, slow nod.

“If you are willing to help with your magic,” he rumbled, “then I can wait until you return. I will gather materials myself in the frost labyrinth while you are gone. If you give permission to use it.”

Ludger considered it. Raukor gathering froststeel on his own would certainly speed up forging progress, and the blacksmith was definitely strong enough to handle the first zone without much issue. But there was one snag.

“The northerners guard the area with us,” Ludger said. “They won’t start trouble unless someone gives them a reason, but you should avoid picking a fight with them.”

Raukor’s ears flicked back, then forward again. “I do not fight unless challenged.”

“Good,” Ludger replied. “Then you have permission to use the labyrinth. Just don’t scare off half the camp by dragging another iron carriage through the entrance.”

Raukor’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, before he straightened and returned to inspecting his tools. Ludger gave a final nod, satisfied, and headed for the door. Two weeks away from forging. Ten days until Viola’s birthday.

Ludger made his way back through Lionfang with the freshly forged buckler spinning lazily on his index finger. The thing wobbled every third rotation, as if offended by the indignity of being balanced like a toy, but Ludger kept flicking it back into motion. For all its flaws, misshapen edges, uneven weight, a personality that screamed please don’t use me in real combat, it had a certain charm. Or maybe it was just the fact that he’d forged it himself.

Either way, it wasn’t going to be useful as a shield. But it would look fine hanging on the otherwise empty wall of his room.

His room didn’t have much, just a bed, a shelf, and the occasional stack of notes he forgot to organize. He didn’t need more. He barely spent time there except to sleep, and even that wasn’t guaranteed if missions cropped up. A buckler-shaped wall decoration? Sure. It would at least break up the bare stone.

As he walked, though, Ludger found his thoughts drifting back to Raukor. The beastman’s perfectionism was extreme. Obsessive. Intense enough that half the froststeel shipments were getting flattened into artistic trash heaps before ever becoming weapons. Someone like that shouldn’t want help. Shouldn’t trust others. Shouldn’t even consider letting another person influence his forging.

But he had asked Ludger to assist. Not lightly. Not tentatively. Deliberately. And Ludger had the feeling he understood why.

Maybe Raukor only succeeded once every month. Maybe perfection came slowly to him, painfully slowly. And with Ludger’s elemental assistance, precise cooling, stabilizing air flow, controlled flame, the success rate shot up. A piece every three days instead of every thirty.

That would be worth swallowing a little pride for. Ludger tapped the buckler with his other hand, letting it spin faster. If his help made Raukor’s work smoother, then their partnership would benefit both the Lionsguard and Raukor’s reputation.

But all those thoughts evaporated the moment he turned the corner toward his home. Elaine was standing outside the door, arms folded, the faint glow of the porch lantern casting sharp edges along her silhouette. And in her hand, held between two fingers like it might explode, was a sealed letter.

A letter sealed with Torvares’ personal crest. That stopped Ludger cold. Such letters rarely came directly to his house. Official business always went through the guild. Personal messages went through Yvar. But this, this had bypassed every route and ended up straight in Elaine’s hands.

Elaine lifted the letter slightly as Ludger approached. Her expression didn’t show worry, Elaine didn’t worry, she terrified others into worrying, but there was a quiet, controlled tension behind her eyes.

“This arrived for you,” she said. “Delivered directly. No messenger stayed long enough for questions.”

That was wrong. Very wrong. Letters from Torvares did not arrive like that. Ludger let the buckler fall into his hand, the spin finally stopping, and took the envelope. It was heavier than usual. A bad sign. He broke the seal. More trouble was brewing.

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