Upartesk. The city of the working man. Well, working peoples.

  Where sunrises came late, and the clanging of forges had long since replaced the rooster’s crow. Probably the only city on the vast continent of Kilasi where the sunlight must fight tooth and nail to penetrate the soot-rich smog. Infamous for the one day of the year where the Sun rises just so, its light, refracted by the mist rolling of the mountains that nearly envelop the city, causing any unfortunate soul who went outside at sunrise to subsequently lose their eyesight.

  At this time of the year though, the last dredges of winter were loitering. Colours were muted, and even the smog itself felt like it had no job greying out the already bleak days. [Ironmongers] and [Bakers] lingered about their workplaces, making use of the warm remains of their fires and ovens long after they had finished work for the day.

  Dreary though the days were, it was a considerable silver lining for Teskans this time of year led to long afternoons and evenings sitting around smouldering coals, savouring cheap wine with each other, and cashing in on the joy that they had saved up over the past few months of harsh mountain winter.

  Yan Orukan lay huddled under his hessian blanket, trying to focus on the sound of the rain hitting the tiled roof above his head and not on the thoughts flying through his head at the speed of, well, thought.

  Tomorrow was his twentieth birthday. He’d been stuck at Human Lvl 10 for twelve months and five days. Nearly a full year at the peak of prepubescent levelling.

  While he knew that his choices weren’t exactly limitless, thanks in no small part due to the fact that he had been an orphan for eleven of those nearly-twenty years, it didn’t stop him from fantasising and dreaming about what he could become were his current circumstances vastly different.

  If only he’d been born to a rich family in an Iskan castle, he could have levelled to be a [Knight]. Or like that one time an Eremetian [Rider] had strolled into his master’s forge, waist-length blonde hair braided intricately, followed by his loyal [Nomads]. Hell, even the idea of being a [Nomad], forever in the service of a [Rider], seemed a better deal to Yan than staying in the forge any longer than he had to.

  It's not that he had anything against Caiwal. Far from it. He owed the man everything. He looked up to him.

  It was just,... he saw how every night Caiwal would close up shop and sigh deeply as he sat down in his own home. Every night, he'd eat whatever the lads had cooked up without complaint, even helping out during quieter days in the forge. Every night, he'd groan as his joints stiffened up after a long days work.

  Yan truly believed Caiwal was one of the greatest men the city of Upartesk had ever seen. Steadfast and resolute. Someone who would always put others before himself. Truly, a man he could look up to.

  But Yan disliked himself for how selfish he was in comparison. Merchants, Adventurers, even other Blacksmiths would enjoy their time after work, sitting with friends before they went home and enjoyed time with their families. Not Caiwal, who didn't seem to have any form of social life. Yan wanted to experiencethings. To have a living not just a job.

  Mazlow would be turning in his grave to see someone so forgetful of needing food, water, and sleep.

  Restless and as far as could be possible from sleep, Yan quietly got up, tiptoed around half a dozen sleeping boys, and went downstairs to get some water from the barrels in the cellar. He stared blankly at Caiwal's sword, mounted up above the hearth.

[Soldier]? Yan considered it. Caiwal always managed to squirrel his way out of any questions about that part of his life, so Yan was left to his imagination. A life in Upartesk's small but highly trained army. Mazlow could breathe a sigh of relief as Yan thought about how he wouldn't need to worry about finding a place to sleep as a Soldier.

  As is often the case with thinking during the middle of the night, Yan's brain had completely forgotten the idea of becoming a Soldier by the time he was back in 'bed'.

  From [Alchemist] to [Farmer], his mind tried its best to consider every single possible (and impossible) Class that it could conceive. Strangely, and perhaps, quite logically, it was when he considered being an [Accountant] that sleep’s warm embrace welcomed him and he drifted off to sleep.

***

  He awoke with mixed emotions. He knew he had hit the ceiling of his current Level some time ago, but it was nice to have something to show for it now.

  He could feel it now, something inside of him telling him that he was now the proud owner of Dexterity, his first Skill. Every time he Levelled he did the same thing, looking inwards to try and pinpoint which part of him had evaluated his own experience and put a number on it.

  Below the right side of his ribcage was probably most accurate.

  Yan pushed off his blanket and got up, brushing off any loose fibres of hay that had stuck to his clothes overnight. He’d been working and living in Mr. Caiwal’s nameless forge for long enough to have his morning routine down to muscle memory, leaving his mind free to think that beautiful nothingness that all men contemplate before starting their day’s labour. He manoeuvred around the one or two lads who were too young to have gotten used to the early starts and joined the others for breakfast.

  Though his forge was indeed nameless and was basically identical to all the other forges within a few blocks, where Caiwal differed greatly was in his approach to employment. According to the lads who used to be around when Yan was but a waif, the great bear of a man was a widower, and had spent the last thirty years raising young boys and sending them out into the big bad world as young men.

  Having seen it happen himself a few times now, Yan was waiting for the inevitable post-breakfast callout from the old man.

  “Olright son, give us a hand gettin’ the fire up to temp’rachur,” he said without even looking to see if Yan was around.

  There’s never any point using names when it comes to this conversation, Yan thought as he got up and followed, he’s probably got this whole shtick down to a tee.

  They both began working in comfortable silence, loading up the furnace, which had just been used for heating up about five kilograms of porridge, with coal lumps. Yan worked up a sweat carting a few buckets from the large bin in the corner of the smithy while Caiwal focused on getting the forge up to the right heat.

  “So,” he said as Yan stood and caught his breath, “you bin givin’ any thought as to what you wanna do?”

  “Uh. Listen Mr. Caiwal, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me but I-”

  “Don’ worry about me lad. I’ve got more than enough helpin’ hands about.”

  “How did you know that was what I was going to ask?” Yan asked, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Caiwal let out a short gruff laugh.

  “Ah son when you’ve bin doin’ this as long as I have, you learn that young lads like yourself aren’t really as different as you think y’are,” he replied. “It must just be my good luck y’know, if I actually did believe that you all wanted to be smithies like my sorry ass then I’d have the biggest forge this side of the river. Ha, or I’d be chased out of the city for bein’ responsible for about thirty new forges. The gods know we’ve already got more’n enough of ‘em.”

  In a sense, Yan was relieved. It’s not that he didn’t want to do it. He had been quite enjoying the last few years of tinkering with his tiny wrought-iron contraptions, but doing the same thing over and over again, making the same old lengths of chain, or carpentry nails, or miner’s tools, just didn’t really sound like a fulfilling way to live out his life.

  He'd seen first-hand just how monotonous the old man’s life was. Fulfilling, yes, especially with Caiwal’s personal mission to become a father to each and every orphaned boy across the city, but still quite, well, boring.

  “Cat got yer tongue Yan?” Caiwal asked softly. His tone shook Yan out of his thoughts.

  “No,” he replied, “I was just thinking about what I’m going to end up doing instead.”

  “You not got any idea about what you wanna do, then?”

  “Honestly,” Yan sighed as he absentmindedly helped Caiwal with melting down last night’s scrap iron into roughly standardised lumps, “I don’t have the foggiest idea of what I want to do. I just don’t want to do the same shit every single day for the rest of my life. Uh no offence gaffer.”

  “Ha, none taken lad. I agree with you though, I see how yer always messin’ about with those little things on the bench,” he laughed, his face creased in a soft smile, “do me a favour and pour two cups out. Bottle’s behind you.”

  Yan turned redfaced to said bench, a small wine bottle and two almost-thimble sized cups sat out of place amongst the more at-home parchment scraps, leather offcuts, tools.

  He popped the cork, was assaulted with the strong smell of fermented rice wine, and couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows in shock. Definitely too expensive for a man like Caiwal to afford, especially with half a dozen growing boys living under his roof.

  He poured without remark though, a part of him eager to taste what all the old codgers at pubs would rave about.

  “I know I haven’t really been much of a teacher,” said Caiwal after he had finished and taken the proffered cup, “and if there’s only one thing that these years with me teach you, make sure it’s this. Wine and ales are the cruellest bastards you’ll ever befriend. Keep ‘em as associates and you’ll get along great, but try to make ‘em your brothers in arms and they’ll drag you down to hell on Urth.”

  “Cheers,” he said before Yan could stutter out anything to say.

  Yan silently tapped his cup against Caiwal’s and waited a beat, saw how Caiwal had swallowed it all at once and smacked his lips, and did the same.

  ...

  Damn, was all he could think as he coughed drily, doubled over and clutching at his burning throat, vaguely aware of Caiwal’s bassy guffawing somewhere on the other side of his closed eyelids.