The darkness gradually retreated, making way for the first rays of dawn that seeped through the rooftops of red-tiled houses.
The pale glow of the crystal lamps slowly faded, replaced by the warm golden light spreading over the cobblestone streets.
Soft rays of sunlight gently fell upon the town, outlining delicate silhouettes on old brick walls and closed windows, where a few curtains swayed lightly in the morning breeze.
The medieval European-style buildings, with their small balconies and creeping vines wrapped around wooden frames, emerged clearly under the growing light of dawn.
Morning mist lingered on the rooftops, forming tiny droplets that reflected the sunlight like scattered jewels.
From the narrow alleys and stone-paved squares, the traces of a quiet night were slowly erased by the unhurried rhythm of a new day.
A few doors creaked open, the soft clatter of utensils echoed from inns preparing breakfast.
The morning breeze carried the scent of freshly baked bread, mingling with the smoky aroma of kindling from forges that had just been rekindled.
In the distance, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone signaled the first carriages departing the town.
The Starting Town awakened, slow yet full of life, as if it had never endured a long, cold night.
Ren jolted awake at the creaking sound of a door hinge.
His eyelids felt heavy from lack of sleep, his body stiff after spending the night leaning against the cold stone wall.
The blacksmith's shop in front of him had opened.
Light from within spilled out, casting a warm golden hue on the street corner.
The old blacksmith stood at the entrance, arms crossed, staring at him with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
"…Kid, you dozed off in front of my shop all night?"
His voice was hoarse and deep, still carrying traces of sleep.
Ren blinked a few times, taking a second to realize that he had indeed fallen asleep here.
"…Yeah." He murmured, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness.
The blacksmith stared at him for a long moment before sighing. "I haven't even started working yet, but since you're already up, you might as well come in."
With that, he stepped inside, leaving the door open.
Ren hesitated briefly but then stood up, dusted off his cloak, and silently followed.
The scent of hot embers and metal hung in the air. Everything inside was just as familiar as the times he had visited before.
His gaze drifted to the katana hanging on the rack. It was still there, in the same spot.
He had enough money.
He could buy it right now.
And yet, standing before it, he found himself hesitating.
The old blacksmith leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his presence as still and steadfast as a statue weathered by time.
His rugged skin bore deep creases, each line etched with the marks of the years, but his eyes remained sharp—like embers buried deep within the forge.
The morning light traced faint outlines along his silver beard and the calloused hands hardened by years of wielding the hammer.
In that moment, he seemed like a part of this town itself ancient, enduring, and understanding more than anyone.
Ren flinched as the blacksmith's gravelly voice broke the silence of the early morning.
"Why are you here alone today? Where are your teammates?"
A simple question, yet it made Ren freeze. He hadn't expected it to come so soon.
His fingers clenched the edge of his cloak, knuckles turning pale. Not from the cold, but from the weight settling in his chest.
He had prepared himself for this moment. He thought that if someone asked, he would simply answer without letting emotions get in the way.
But facing it now, he realized he couldn't.
His throat felt dry. His lips parted slightly, yet no words came out.
Guilt crept in as he thought of them.
Ren knew… it was his fault… for thinking only of his own goals.
If Klein… or the others hadn't appeared in time… he would have died beneath the claws of the wolves.
They had risked their lives to help him…
Ren didn't blame them, but he felt lonely and afraid… and, more than anything, he felt a deep sadness at the silence they had left behind.
Klein, Dynamm, Issin, and Dale, they had once fought beside him, laughed with him, exchanged jokes and words of encouragement.
For a moment, they had truly felt like comrades.
'Maybe… I don't deserve to stand beside anyone…'
His hand instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword, feeling its weight, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place.
Between them, a heavy silence loomed.
The blacksmith didn't press further. He simply looked at Ren for a long time, not with judgment or impatience, but with quiet understanding.
As if he had already guessed something, yet was waiting for Ren to decide whether he wanted to speak or not.
Ren took a deep breath, his gaze wavering before he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"They… are gone."
Just three words, yet they fell like a heavy stone.
They lingered in the air, leaving behind an empty space.
The morning light stretched farther, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets.
But no matter how warm the sunlight was, it could not chase away the cold lodged deep in Ren's chest.
The blacksmith remained still, saying nothing at first. His aged eyes lingered on Ren, as if seeing through the weight he carried.
The early breeze swept through the eaves, carrying the scent of burnt coal and cooling metal.
After a long silence, as though reading the thoughts swirling in Ren's mind, the blacksmith finally spoke, his voice deep and steady, like the sound of a hammer striking the anvil.
"The longer you live, the more you realize that no one can stand beside anyone forever."
He picked up an unfinished sword from the rack, turning it over in his hands as if weighing something unseen.
"Those who fought beside you, laughed with you… they may leave. They may remain silent. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve to have comrades."
He set the sword down on the worn wooden table, where the morning light gleamed against the rough steel.
"When a piece of metal is still raw, anyone looking at it will see nothing but a useless lump. But when it's tempered in fire and struck by the hammer, it becomes a weapon."
The blacksmith tapped a finger against the blade, his eyes never leaving Ren.
"You think you don't deserve it, but that's not the point. The real question is, do you want to keep standing alone… or will you forge yourself until the day comes when you can truly grip this sword and fight alongside someone without hesitation?"
The wind drifted through the open door, stirring the ashes in the forge. Morning sunlight brushed against Ren's face, but the warmth could not reach the chill in his heart.
"People don't grow strong because they've never been left behind. They grow strong because they choose to keep moving forward after being left behind."
The old man sighed, then slowly walked towards the forge, where the iron bars lay waiting to be tempered into weapons.
"You can decide for yourself… whether you will be scrap metal or a sharpened blade."
...
Ren stood still, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword at his waist as if clinging to the only anchor he had.
The old man's words held no comfort or reassurance, but they were sharp, direct, and honest, so much so that he couldn't turn away from them.
"Scrap metal… or a sharpened blade."
He had lost count of how many times he had questioned whether he deserved to fight alongside others.
But never before had anyone told him that the question was never about worthiness.
Something tightened in his chest, not from pain, but from an emotion he couldn't quite name.
Something inside him ached, as if the words had struck a hidden corner of his heart he had always tried to ignore.
Ren lowered his head, unwilling to let the old man see the uncertainty in his eyes. But even without looking, he knew the blacksmith was still there, silently watching without pressing him for an answer.
He took a deep breath, trying to sort through the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. Maybe… it was time to stop running.
He couldn't change the past. He couldn't reclaim what had been lost.
But he could move forward.
His grip on the sword gradually loosened, his fingers no longer trembling. He lifted his gaze, there was still hesitation in his eyes, but within it, a faint glimmer of determination had begun to take shape.
"I… will think about it."
His voice was quiet, but no longer wavering.
The old blacksmith didn't respond, only giving a slight nod before turning back to his work.
The sound of the hammer striking metal echoed through the air, as if forging something within Ren as well.
He stepped closer to the wooden rack, its paint faded with time. His hands hesitated for a brief moment before finally picking up the katana.
Ren gazed at the blade in his hands, its steel reflecting the cold yet refined morning light. He hadn't bought it for himself.
It was for Klein.
He wasn't good at expressing gratitude, nor did he know how to put into words everything Klein had done for him. But at the very least, he could leave something behind before they parted ways.
Klein was an exceptional swordsman, Ren had realized that when Klein taught him how to properly hold a blade. This sword would suit him better than anyone else.
Gently, Ren placed the katana on the counter. "This… I want to leave it for someone."
The blacksmith looked at Ren but didn't ask any questions. He simply nodded, as if he already understood.
Ren took out a small piece of paper, wrote a few short lines, and set it beside the katana. No flowery words, just a simple message:
"Thank you for everything."
Then, he picked up his own sword, turned around, and walked away without looking back.
He wasn't sure if Klein would understand the meaning behind this gift. But regardless, he had made his choice.
Ren left the forge behind, along with the sound of the hammer, the glow of burning embers, and the faint creak of the wooden door.