Following the bustling street all the way down, Raine soon arrived at the most prosperous area in the southern part of Mottled Town. This was exactly where the Blacksmith’s Shop was located.
"Come to think of it, this is where I woke up," he murmured.
His gaze fell on the corner of the stone wall he had once leaned against, and he couldn’t help but feel a wave of emotion. Back then, he was weak and bewildered, possessing nothing but a single Copper Deer to his name, completely surrounded by fear and rumors. Now, although he still couldn’t be considered strong, his footsteps were much more grounded, and his pockets jingled with coins.
Gathering his thoughts, he strode toward the smoke-billowing stone building across from the tavern.
[Mottled Town • South District • Flint Blacksmith’s Shop]
[Description: A Blacksmith’s Shop run by "Mute Hammer Kent," renowned for its excellent quality and reasonable prices.
Kent hailed from the Flint Clan of the Grim Kingdom. He was exiled from his homeland for falling in love with a woman from a rival Clan.
On the eve of his exile, Kent used a dagger to personally ruin the tattoos on his forehead that symbolized glory. From then on, he tied a faded, washed-out old bandana around his head, never taking it off regardless of winter or summer.
For over thirty years, his gaze always carried a hint of detachment and melancholy, until wrinkles completely covered the corners of his eyes.
When alone, he would stare blankly toward the north, his fingers unconsciously tracing a coarse Protective Talisman woven from some kind of blue feathers hidden beneath his clothes.
It symbolized the homeland he could never return to, and the lover he would never see again.]
Sensing the information surfacing in his mind, Raine’s footsteps faltered slightly. Although he had heard this Old Blacksmith’s name many times, he never expected him to have such a poignant past.
The Sloppy Ranger had once mentioned that according to the customs of the Northern Barbarian Race, every Grim male would tattoo their forehead. It wasn’t just for decoration or sacrifice; it was their badge of honor and glory, and more importantly, the resume of their soul. The first successful solo hunt, slaying an enemy on the battlefield, hunting an Ice Bear, taking down a Fierce Wolf, or winning a tournament—each achievement would add one or more corresponding ancient, rustic lines.
The "Traceless" held no voice within the Clan, while "Reading Trace" was the very first lesson in every Grim child’s life.
The more complex the patterns on a tribesman’s forehead, the more it proved his bravery and strength. For some Legend warriors, the markings would even spread down to their cheeks and neck, while nobles possessed their own unique Clan Emblems.
As for "Scars of Destruction," it was a "social execution" far crueler than any physical punishment. It meant the sinner was uprooted, completely erased from the genealogy, and reduced to a phantom that never existed on the soil of their homeland.
The Sloppy Ranger had also made a lamenting comparison, stating that the social structure of the Grim was quite similar to the Dwarf Race, especially regarding exile. He had once teamed up with an elderly Dwarf exile. It was said that the weather-beaten old Dwarf hadn’t returned to his homeland in three hundred years; he would only secretly wipe away tears when drunk late at night.
The method of exile for the Dwarf Race involved using a sacred Warhammer to personally shatter the exile’s Oath Stone and chip off a corner of the Clan Emblem that represented their identity. The shattering of the Oath Stone symbolized the complete termination of the sacred pact between the exiled Dwarf and the Clan. It would even cause a shock at the soul level, making him forever lose his connection to his homeland.
Chipping the Clan Emblem meant he was ruthlessly abandoned by the souls of his ancestors. Upon death, his soul could not enter the glorious Ancestral Hall, doomed instead to wander in the endless void. A Dwarf without an intact Clan Emblem would find that no other Dwarf would share a drink at his table, trade with him, or grant him the slightest bit of trust on a life-and-death battlefield.
Once a family produced an individual whose mark was "chipped," the entire family would be disgraced before the Clan Council. It would take generations of devout dedication and outstanding achievements to barely wash away the shame.
Sighing inwardly as he walked up to the Blacksmith’s Shop, Raine noticed something amiss. The Blacksmith’s Shop Apprentice, who was usually outside loudly pumping the bellows, was nowhere to be seen. The familiar, rhythmic clinking of iron forging was absent, replaced by the faint, muffled sounds of a fierce argument.
Puzzled, Raine lifted the thick door curtain, which had been blackened by smoke and soot.
The moment he stepped into the Blacksmith’s Shop, a wave of scorching heat washed over him. An Old Blacksmith with grizzled hair and beard, yet exceptionally tall and burly, stood by the roaring furnace. Oil and sweat mingled on his bronzed skin, his muscles sharply defined under the firelight.
The Old Blacksmith wore a heavy leather apron, and a faded old bandana tightly wrapped around his forehead like a hat. It was none other than Mute Hammer Kent.
Right now, a surge of agitation and fury seethed within Old Kent’s grayish-blue eyes. Standing opposite Old Kent was a Dwarf, a rather rare sight in Mottled Town. This surprised Raine a little, considering he had just recalled some information about the Dwarf Race in his mind.
Unlike Half-Elves or Dwarfs, a true Dwarf possessed a sense of solidity, as if they were chiseled straight out of mountain rock. This Dwarf was astonishingly robust. He only reached the waist of an average person, but his shoulders were almost as broad as the towering Kent’s. His thick beard, as fiery red as magma, was meticulously braided into several thick strands. Adorned with a few mottled brass rings, it quivered slightly with his every breath.
He carried a worn-out Great Shield on his back that was almost as tall as he was, and he was currently brandishing a One-Handed War Axe with several chips along its blade.
The Dwarf’s face flushed beet red, his broad nose flaring. Under his bushy eyebrows, his light brown eyes widened into perfectly round saucers. "Listen here, Earth Person! You can’t patch this up with this limp heap of scrap iron! It won’t survive a few real chops! And your furnace isn’t hot enough!" His voice rumbled through the shop like tumbling boulders. "The iron you forcefully melt in like this looks connected, but the moment it takes any force, it’ll snap right off! Understand?"
"My shop has been open in this town for over thirty years! So many swords, Shields, and horseshoes for the Adventurers of the whole town have been repaired by me!" Old Kent forcefully suppressed his anger, the veins on his forehead throbbing. He let out a hoarse growl, "My craftsmanship was passed down through the hands of my father and my grandfather! Three Silver Lions. Are you going to repair it or not?"
The Dwarf’s face turned even redder. He abruptly pulled out a few scattered Copper Deer and slammed them onto the iron-shaving-covered workbench with a loud SMACK. The sparse Copper Deer bounced on the table, looking incredibly meager.
"I—I only have this much!" the Dwarf shouted, straining his neck, though his voice unconsciously lowered a pitch. "But I can generously tell you how to adjust your damn broken bellows to make the furnace fire truly roar—at least twice as hot! That technique is enough to cover your labor fee!"
"Get out!" Old Kent was finally pushed past his breaking point. He pointed toward the door. "You arrogant, stubborn, and penniless little rock! My shop doesn’t need your nitpicking! And I don’t need your crappy technique, either!"
"What did you say?!" The Dwarf flew into a raging fit, his red beard practically bristling straight up.
Beside the two of them, the young Blacksmith’s Shop Apprentice, his face smudged with coal ash, tried in vain to break up the fight, but he couldn’t make a sound when he opened his mouth. In the face of these two furious, burly men, he seemed so utterly insignificant.