The One-Eyed Master Craftsman (2)
Dalen reached out, his fingers closing around a steaming rack of lamb, juices dripping tantalizingly.
This was no ordinary dish. It was a gourmet creation: lamb smoked over fragrant wood, wrapped in herbs, and steamed for four hours. The tender meat melted in his mouth, the rich flavors and juices blending perfectly, with just a hint of fat adding an intriguing texture.
After three long months, Dalen was finally savoring the inn’s special herb-steamed lamb, and the happiness spread through his mouth.
“Dalen, I swear on my honor, don’t go to that clinic,” said Volkmar Gallios, the owner of the Gallios Trading Company, with a serious expression.
Dalen chewed silently, half-closing his eyes to focus entirely on the taste. It was Felber, sipping watered-down rice wine beside him, who responded to the merchant’s warning.
“Why are you so adamant? Didn’t you just visit that clinic yourselves?”
“We were there for business, not treatment, Mage,” Volkmar replied, clasping his hands respectfully.
About thirty minutes earlier, when Felber revealed himself as a senior mage from the Elgaia Tower, Volkmar had been utterly shocked.
“How did you become so young?” he had stammered.
“Hmm? Have we met before?” Felber had asked.
“When I was a child, my father sent me to Falcion for education. I only saw you from afar, but it’s been twenty years since then, and you seem to have aged backward.”
“Is that so? Hahaha! You’re quite the merchant, aren’t you?” Felber’s laughter had echoed through the inn.
Seeing how pleased the seasoned mage was at being called young, Dalen realized that even the most experienced mages were still human.
“It is true, though,” Felber had admitted. One of the two skills Dalen had granted him, the Dragon’s Blood Regeneration Factor, had revitalized Felber’s body. His wrinkles had halved, and his internal organs and bones were as robust as those of a man in his twenties. The extended lifespan he gained as a familiar synergized with the regeneration factor, making his transformation seem like the result of a youth elixir.
“For the past few months, I’ve been establishing a herbal trade between Revivach and the Labyrinth City. The forests of Revivach have been bountiful, and I’ve reaped the benefits,” Volkmar said, gulping down a low-alcohol beer to quench his thirst.
Dalen paused from gnawing on a rib to watch him. Wasn’t this man a lightweight when it came to alcohol?
With a flushed face from just half a beer, the merchant began recounting his recent business ventures. The gist was simple: despite the frequent monster attacks and the rise in swindlers due to the influx of people in Revivach, Volkmar had successfully established a solid trade route between Revivach and Falcion in just three months. Naturally, he had also built connections with local herbalists and clinics.
About two weeks ago, when he returned to Revivach, he heard about a newly opened clinic and decided to visit. He had met with them a few times, establishing a small supply deal.
“But there’s something odd about them,” Volkmar said, his words slightly slurred.
“They don’t seem to know the local market prices. They paid us about fifty percent more for the herbs than the going rate. It’s practically a losing business, and no matter how new they are, no merchant would operate like that.”
“Could they be trying to dominate the market with low prices?” Dalen suggested.
Volkmar tilted his head. “How do you know about such tactics?”
“I learned it back home.”
The strategy of aggressively undercutting prices to monopolize a market before normalizing them was familiar to Dalen, thanks to his life in the 21st century, where news and the internet were prevalent. For a local merchant like Volkmar, it was baffling that a mere mercenary would know such marketing strategies.
After pondering for a moment, Volkmar shook his head, deciding to accept that Dalen was no ordinary mercenary.
“Well, to do that, they’d need a substantial financial backer. But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find any trace of their funding. It reeks of something fishy, doesn’t it?” Volkmar said, shaking his empty beer mug.
“Usually, it’s a ducal power with royal backing that disguises itself like this. They have so much money that negotiations are just a formality, and they’ll buy anything they need, even at a premium.”
To a merchant like me, they’re a good target to exploit for a season, Volkmar chuckled, accepting a fresh beer from a server.
After a few more sips, he turned serious again. “So if you’re injured, don’t seek treatment from such a suspicious group. I can introduce you to a reliable herbalist and clinic.”
“Seems like unnecessary worry,” a deep voice interjected. Dalen glanced over.
The voice belonged to a dwarf quietly drinking high-proof ale beside them. Unlike Volkmar, the dwarf had already emptied his wooden mug and was pulling a new one toward himself.
“Besides, it doesn’t seem like this warrior is here for treatment.”
“Is that so…?”
“Yes. I can smell gunpowder on his clothes. Looks like he’s tangled in something troublesome. Isn’t that right, warrior?” The dwarf smirked meaningfully. Dalen turned to face him with a blank expression.
The dwarf’s deep brown eyes met Dalen’s dark, intense gaze, and for some reason, the dwarf shivered.
His hands trembled, spilling beer. Dalen continued chewing his meat and said, “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name.”
”······.”
“I’m Dalen.”
“···I know.”
With a sigh, the dwarf finally spoke, raising his trembling hand to wipe his forehead. As if by magic, his face transformed.
No longer the nondescript dwarf with a stern expression, he now had a slightly gaunt face with one eye replaced by a glass one.
“I’m… Bjorn. I run a small shop in the Bronze District of Falcion. People call me the Glass-Eyed Junk Dealer.”
Hearing the dwarf’s introduction, Dalen nearly choked on his meat.
The dwarf chugging beer before him was none other than the creator of Sienna’s five-shot crossbow. Alongside Mithril Smith Reberon Ahakim, he was one of the few hero-level craftsmen in the game.
A master of mechanical devices and gunpowder weapons, he was the legendary “One-Eyed Master Craftsman,” Bjorn Kaladrakum.
“An honor to meet you, Dalen the Demon Slayer,” Bjorn said. Dalen set his mug down and turned to the merchant.
Volkmar, who had been watching their exchange, flinched at Dalen’s intense gaze.
“Wh-why are you looking at me like that? It’s unnerving.”
“···Good grief.”
Dalen rubbed his face with his hand.
The One-Eyed Master Craftsman was a character who, in the game, wouldn’t step outside the city until the mid-game. Skilled at changing his appearance with his bloodline’s power, he was an NPC impossible to find early on.
“Tell me honestly, merchant,” Dalen sighed, “how did you manage to find the One-Eyed Master Craftsman?”
To cut to the chase, even a savvy merchant like Volkmar hadn’t found the One-Eyed Master Craftsman on his own.
In fact, it was Bjorn who had sought out the merchant.
“This fellow insisted on meeting you,” Volkmar explained, sobering up with some herbal tea.
“He mentioned a problem concerning a friend and hoped to seek your help. He didn’t share the details with me, though.”
“A friend?” Dalen mused, stroking his chin. As far as he knew, the One-Eyed Master Craftsman was a solitary figure, rarely interacting with others. At this point, he could count on one hand those who might be considered Bjorn’s friends, and among them, a couple were known to Dalen as well…
“Let’s save that story for later. First, we should address the warrior’s current predicament, don’t you think?” Bjorn interjected, waving his hand to change the subject.
Dalen chuckled and nodded. Indeed, the immediate issue was more pressing.
After Bjorn revealed his identity, Dalen shared a brief account of his situation with the two.
He explained how rebels from the Tsar’s country had attacked him before entering the city, how they had opened a clinic to ensure his assassination, and how it all revolved around the “unclaimed” mercenary badge he had stored in his subspace.
During the conversation, the curious merchant leader gave Dalen a meaningful look and began to say, “Surely you didn’t take care of the owner of that group…?” before being playfully smacked on the back by the dwarf sitting next to him, causing a minor commotion.
“Hmm, come to think of it, how were you planning to handle it?” Bjorn asked, stroking his beard. Dalen shrugged.
“The usual way.”
“The usual?”
“Charge in and take them all down, of course,” Dalen replied with a chuckle.
Felber, his face slightly flushed, laughed heartily. Bjorn joined in, thinking it was a joke, but upon seeing Dalen’s expression, he realized it was no bluff.
“Even if they’re rebels, they’re still people of the Tsar’s nation. They’re resisting the mighty iron-blooded army of the Tsar,” Bjorn pointed out.
“So what?” Dalen asked.
“It means they’re capable enough to take on the iron-blooded army. Even for a demon slayer, it’s a dangerous challenge.”
Dalen laughed softly. Dangerous, indeed.
The Tsar’s iron-blooded army was a formidable force, comparable to the imperial army. They had held their ground against the corrupted barbarians from the north. But when had it ever not been dangerous?
Whether it was facing the high priest of a cult with a blade or wrestling with demons, danger was always present. A witch’s curse nearly reduced him to ashes, and he had faced a dragon, ready to risk his life in a single strike.
A single opportunity. He had walked this path with the conviction that he’d rather be the one to strike first than be devoured by the end. And at the end of that path stood the man he was today.
Even if it wasn’t the rebels of the Tsar’s nation, even if he had to face the iron-blooded army directly, Dalen had no intention of backing down.
“I see,” Bjorn said, perhaps reading some of Dalen’s past in his silent smile and gaze.
The master craftsman, who had lived even longer than the ancient wizard Felber, took a deep breath and nodded. He downed his beer in one go and slammed the mug down on the table.
“Good. I’m glad I sought you out. Let me offer you my help this time.”
“Help?”
“So that when I ask you for a favor, I won’t feel as indebted.”
Dalen leaned back in his chair, sipping his strong drink, and looked at Bjorn.
“Alright. Let’s hear it.”
“As you suspect, it’s not wise to just avoid them. If we don’t strike now, they’ll surely come after us again soon,” the dwarf said. Dalen nodded.
“But it’s best not to make enemies of the mercenaries in this city. You don’t have to do it yourself.”
“If not by my hand, then how?”
“Loan me your explosives.”
Bjorn’s eyes sparkled, his single brown eye revealing the craftsman’s intense passion and determination. With a smile that deepened the wrinkles around his mouth, the one-eyed master fondly caressed his beer mug.
“I’ll blow them sky-high, building and all.”
In a room filled with the pungent smell of herbs, a middle-aged man with a scraggly beard tapped the table with an uneasy expression. Across from him, a robed shaman peered into a crystal ball, his gaze anxious, lips chewed out of habit.
The tapping stopped. The middle-aged man spoke.
“The location?”
“Still not visible.”
“You said you saw it yesterday.”
“Yes, it was clear. Near where the ambush team was hiding.”
“Then why can’t you see it now? Is there a problem with the spell?”
“Well, it’s just that…”
The shaman hunched his shoulders. He had a thousand things to say. He hadn’t even created this tracking spell, so how could he know if there was an error?
If he were capable of figuring it out and fixing it, he’d be a grand wizard, not stuck here as someone else’s compass. Besides, he hadn’t chosen to be part of this mess.
He had only applied to a job posting looking for someone who could use tracking spells, hoping to make a living with the skills he had picked up from his late master.
“How was I supposed to know I’d end up working with these damned rebels?”
The shaman bit his lip. Regret was useless. With a sword hanging over his neck, leaving would only lead to betrayal and execution by the iron-blooded army.
These rebels, having already committed treason once, were ruthless when it came to dealing with traitors. If he was lucky, he’d just be executed. In the worst case, he’d face torturous days and nights that made death seem preferable.
“Damn it. Why did I let greed blind me?”
Having witnessed such fates multiple times, the shaman could only hope to survive another day.
“Wait, what?”
His eyes widened. He fumbled with the crystal ball in surprise.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“The tracking spell on the mercenary group has reappeared.”
“Are you sure?”
The bearded man jumped to his feet and strode over to the shaman.
“Where? Tell me now.”
“Well, it’s…”
The shaman hesitated, peering into the crystal ball, unsure if he could believe what he saw.
The spell, whose creator was unknown, revealed more details as the target drew closer. And now, the target’s location was just a few meters from the building, right in the middle of the street.
The proximity allowed the crystal ball to form a faint image of the target, as if viewed through a telescope.
“It’s right near the building. And…”
“And what?”
The shaman swallowed hard, his voice trembling.
“I see a large coffin on a cart. The mercenary group must be inside.”
The bearded man broke into a wide grin.