Raine acutely noticed the Dwarf’s strange behavior.
He broke off a piece of bread, dipped it into the last bit of rich, savory gravy in his clay bowl, and unhurriedly placed it in his mouth while observing the Dwarf across the table from the corner of his eye.
The Dwarf’s breathing had become somewhat rapid.
His light brown eyes were slightly widened, his gaze locked in a daze on the new Short Sword’s understated dark gray luster.
He reached out with a heavily calloused, large hand and gently stroked the blade, his fingers sliding slowly along the spine toward the tip.
That gentle gesture didn’t seem like he was examining a weapon. Instead, it was as if he were looking at a long-lost clansman, or touching a homeland he hadn’t seen in ages.
But soon, his thick eyebrows knitted together, as though the Short Sword had transformed into a red-hot branding iron, searing into his memory.
Seemingly afraid of being noticed by Raine, the Dwarf closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcefully suppressing the surging emotions back into the depths of his heart.
When he opened his eyes again, they had returned to a calm state. However, his jawline was taut as solid rock, clearly exerting great effort to restrain his inner turmoil.
"Earth People boy, you’ve found the right person. In this world, few are more qualified than I am to judge this."
The Dwarf’s thumb slowly brushed over the blade. His gaze turned focused, as if envisioning the roaring furnace fire from when it underwent Forging.
"Look at this steel pattern. Doesn’t it resemble the flowing clouds over high mountains, or snow marks blown by the wind? This is the pattern of Dane’s Peak.
"Only by using the Ash Meteorite Ore from deep underground in our homeland, Forging it in the furnaces left by our ancestors, and having the most skilled hands repeatedly hammer it a hundred times, can this be formed.
"Some might call these overlapping patterns ’flaws,’ but in our eyes, this is the breath of the mountain."
He gently angled the Short Sword. Illuminated by the dancing firelight from the inn’s fireplace, the blade reflected a sharply defined giant rock crest onto the table.
"This represents the Dwarf Solid Stone Clan. They live beside the largest mineral vein and have guarded the finest iron ore for generations. Their men are as silent as stones, but when they drink, their voices are loud enough to shake the dust off the cave ceiling."
A barely noticeable tremor crept into his voice.
"This sword wasn’t forged for a King or a hero; it is a miner’s sidearm. It can split rocks in the dark, hack through tripping vines, and slice dried meat by a campfire. What it protects has nothing to do with glory, only life."
The Dwarf’s Adam’s apple bobbed vigorously before his raspy voice sounded once more.
"The one who forged it wasn’t thinking of slaughter, but only of how to ensure the person wielding it could return home alive.
"Because of that, its center of gravity is near the hilt, making it effortless to swing. The spine is thick, so it won’t easily snap. This is a sword that longs for its master’s safe return."
He sheathed the Short Sword, placed it on the table, and pushed it back to Raine. His movements were gentle and solemn.
Then, he calmly raised his head and spoke to Raine, enunciating every word:
"So, Earth People boy, you ask me how this sword is? I’m telling you, it is priceless, for hidden within it is the soul of an entire mountain range, and a heart yearning for home."
Raine quietly listened to the Dwarf’s description, his emotions becoming somewhat complicated.
He had originally just wanted to find an excuse to let this down-and-out Dwarf fill his stomach. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect his new Short Sword to be a weapon flowing with Dwarven bloodline!
Although it sounded like a mere ordinary miner’s sidearm, the phrase "Dwarven Forging" itself was the highest guarantee of quality and durability.
To be able to buy such a weapon for 70 Silver Lions was an absolute bargain!
However, the meeting at this moment of a Dwarven Short Sword—imbued with the wish for a person’s safe return—and a Dwarven exile who could "never go home again" could not help but evoke a profound sense of melancholy.
Before the Dwarf could speak again, Raine turned his head and waved at Lian nearby. "Please serve this big guy another mug of ale, make it a full one."
He knew that right now, a mug of ale could soothe that weather-beaten Dwarven heart far better than any pale, feeble words.
For the entire noon, Raine just sat quietly across from the Dwarf.
There were no more words exchanged between the two. The only sounds intertwining in the somewhat empty dining room were the Dwarf holding his wooden mug, silently sipping ale with a GLUG, and the occasional CRACKLE of firewood popping in the fireplace.
Finally, when the Dwarf completely slumped over the table and let out heavy snores, Raine stood up.
He took out a few Copper Deer, accepted a Brass Key from Lady Basha, and painstakingly helped his stocky new friend up, step by step settling him into an empty room on the second floor.
Afterward, Raine spent the entire afternoon in the backyard of the Return Inn.
Clutching his new Short Sword, he repeatedly practiced the basic motions of hacking, thrusting, parrying, and blocking, feeling the excellent balance and profound power of this Dwarven weapon.
During the intervals between practice, he would casually stroll around the inn to take a break.
Unlike those taverns facing the main street, the location of the Return Inn was quite secluded.
This two-story building, constructed of a mix of wood and stone, was surrounded by only a symbolic low fence. Scattered around it were a few quiet residential houses, making it appear exceptionally peaceful.
Standing at the street corner, one could even look past the residential rooftops to faintly glimpse the outline of the town’s southern wall, appearing dark gray under the setting sun.
It wasn’t until the night completely blanketed the town that Raine, whose undergarments were nearly drenched in sweat, returned to the inn.
The results of an afternoon of familiarization were quite good, successfully increasing the proficiency of Basic Swordsmanship by 1 point.
Basking in the lively and warm atmosphere of the inn, he found an empty corner table and sat down. As he waited for dinner, he checked his progress in his mind:
[Eagle Vision Lv2 (12/20)]
[Stealth Step Lv2 (8/20)]
[Basic Archery Lv2 (12/20)]
[Basic Swordsmanship Lv1 (5/10)]
"Eagle Vision and Basic Archery complement each other perfectly. The rate of proficiency growth is ideal," he thought.
He silently assessed, "Stealth Step has almost become an instinct. I subconsciously use it as long as I move. This steady improvement isn’t bad either.
"It’s just that the improvement of Basic Swordsmanship is indeed a bit slow."
He gently tapped his fingertips on the table, recalling Kaelin’s peerlessly sharp sword strike.
"I hope I can master a Sword Combat Technique as soon as possible. Something like Kaelin’s Curved Slash would be very practical. A single strike can break open the tough hide of a Razor Beast."
He couldn’t help but feel a bit of anticipation in his heart.
Speaking of which, Kaelin’s Curved Slash must have been practiced for a long time. It must have reached at least Level 3 or Level 4, right?
Then, what was the highest level for Skills? Level 5? Level 6? Or even higher?
According to the fragmented accounts of the Sloppy Ranger from back then, mastering Combat Techniques relied more on one’s own "feeling."
It lay in their application during countless life-and-death struggles, in diligent training during ordinary times, or perhaps in a sudden epiphany sparked by a flash of Spiritual Light.
When a Combat Technique was honed to its pinnacle, it could reach the "Master" realm revered by everyone.
At that point, the technique would be nearly instinctual, its power leagues ahead of when it was first learned.
"Currently, I can only confirm that the theoretical highest level of Skills is ’Master’." Raine pondered, "But exactly what level that corresponds to when quantified on my Attributes Chapter is still unknown for now."
Right then, Lian brought over tonight’s stewed meat, its aroma immediately capturing all his attention.
After enjoying the simple yet satisfying dinner, he didn’t linger any longer and headed straight back to his room upstairs.
The entire afternoon of high-intensity practice made him just want to get a good night’s sleep.
He planned to wake up early tomorrow to continue practicing, or perhaps head to the Adventurer’s Guild to see if there were any suitable commissions.
After a quick wash, Raine quickly fell sound asleep.
As he slept soundly, the clamor in the first-floor hall gradually quieted down as well.
After all, this was not a tavern for all-night revelry. Before the hands of the Old Bell Tower pointed to midnight, the final lamp in the Return Inn had been extinguished, completely merging into the deep night of Mottled Town.
Dead silence reigned.
However, at this moment of silence and slumber, a blood moon hung high in the sky, shedding its dismal radiance upon the earth.
Outside the inn, in the open space surrounded by the low fence, seven burly figures draped in heavy black robes had quietly emerged at some unknown point in time.
They were like Shadows seeping from the underground, completely soundless, forming a loose semi-circle as they silently faced the sleeping inn.
The night breeze blew past, rustling their oversized hoods, faintly revealing twisted facial contours that flickered in and out of view.
Hidden in the darkness beneath their hoods, viscous saliva dripped down along their fangs.
DRIP... DROP...
The drool fell silently, smashing onto the dry dirt ground and splashing into small dark spots that exuded a nauseating stench.