Malaca was still gripping my hand tightly as she marched through the city with long, almost military strides. I could barely keep up with her.
— Miss Malaca, where are we going? — I asked, out of breath.
— We're almost there. Don't worry.
The city was small, and Helena and I had already explored nearly every corner of it. But something felt off. I realized that Malaca wasn't taking me anywhere inside the city. Before I knew it, we were crossing the large wooden gates I had entered through not many days ago.
— Miss Malaca, Mister Bardo… How can I help you? — said Thorn, the gate guard, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
— Thorn, good morning. I'm taking this boy to Arnald. He's in need of an apprentice.
Thorn's expression darkened immediately. Clearly, Arnald wasn't someone he liked very much.
— Alright, ma'am… Go ahead… — He paused, gave me a somewhat pitying look. — Good luck, kid.
My confusion only grew. With every step we took deeper into the forest, I felt as though I was being led into something completely beyond my understanding. The path was narrow but well marked, and after about ten minutes in silence, I finally saw something up ahead: a cabin.
But it wasn't an ordinary cabin.
It was made of treated wood, solid, with a careful finish. The roof was well maintained, and there was a wide yard around it, with trimmed grass and various tools scattered across the ground, as if someone had left them in the middle of a project.
Malaca crossed the green space naturally, as if she visited often, and knocked hard on the dark wooden door.
— ARNALD! WAKE UP, YOU SON OF A BITCH!
As she yelled, I looked around. There were axes of all sizes, hand saws for one and two people, files, felling wedges, and even a steel lever carefully laid beside a split log.
I was lost in that arsenal when a booming shout nearly made me fall over:
— WHO THE HELL DARES TO WAKE THE GREAT ARNALD?!
The voice was like thunder trapped in a cave — deep, hoarse, and full of rage. I half-expected a giant to come bursting through the door.
But to my surprise, someone very familiar appeared.
— Mr. Bernald?! — I exclaimed, stunned.
The dwarf gave me a confused look, then turned to Malaca, frowning.
— Malaca, who's this idiot?
— HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Holy shit, Arnald, don't blame the boy! You two are EXACTLY ALIKE!
— WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ALIKE?! I'm clearly bigger, stronger, and with much more… refined features. Don't compare me to that scarecrow!
Indeed, they were identical. Same face, same height, even their voices were hard to tell apart. If I didn't know Bernald was in the city, I would've sworn he had a twin living out here in the woods.
Arnald huffed loudly, crossing his muscular arms.
— Alright. What do you want from me?
Malaca was trying not to burst out laughing again.
— Hahaha… Sorry… Anyway. Remember how you said you needed an apprentice? And that instrument your brother helped build? Yeah, it was all this kid's idea.
Arnald narrowed his eyes, examining me more closely.
— You're kidding… This scrawny kid is the one who made that contraption work?
I felt that was the right moment to introduce myself, before he mistook me for some kind of forest creature.
— Nice to meet you, Mr. Arnald. My name is Fly. And yes, I'm the one who designed that instrument. I call it a guitar. But I can do other things too, so I could be useful as an apprentice.
Arnald scratched his thick beard and muttered something I couldn't understand.
— At least the kid doesn't seem as arrogant as the last one… Hm. Might work. But I'll need to test you first.
Malaca crossed her arms, satisfied with how the conversation was going.
— No problem. He's free now, right, Fly?
— Yes, ma'am. What should I do, Mister Arnald?
— You'll start by chopping down that tree over there. I want to see how you handle the tools. Meanwhile, Malaca and I will discuss… business.
While the two of them entered the cabin, probably to discuss my "compensation" (or lack thereof), I took the chance to examine all the tools more carefully.
Arnald had an impressive arsenal. There were felling wedges, which could open deep cuts into the trunk with the help of an axe. There were also levers to force the direction of the fall, and even simpler tools, like two-man saws and curved-blade axes. Everything was meticulously sharpened and well-maintained — surprisingly so, considering they were lying scattered on the grass.
That cabin might have been hidden deep in the woods, but there was something there — a kind of order in the chaos, a focus on creation and raw cutting. It was the home of someone who didn't just survive, but shaped nature around him.
And if I was going to stay there… I'd have to prove I could do the same.
— Well… unless he's got a magic chainsaw hidden behind the cabin, I guess it's all muscle from here.
I took a deep breath, staring at the pile of logs before me. Working with wood wasn't exactly new to me — after all, building my own instruments had become almost a sacred ritual in my life as a musician. But it was the first time I'd do it with no modern tools at all. This was another level of primitiveness. No engine, no power. Just muscle, blade, and sweat.
— So where are the dry logs… Got it.
I walked over to a log sitting a few meters from the house. It was thick, about forty centimeters in diameter. Probably meant for firewood. I grabbed a polished-edged axe and carefully placed a few smaller logs underneath to level the main trunk.
— Winter's coming… — I murmured, now understanding the reason behind the absurd amount of chopped wood.
Tevandria didn't have a deadly winter, but the maritime cold could turn cruel in old houses like these — no insulation, no double glazing, no heating. When it got cold… it really got cold. And summer? A furnace.
I landed the first blow. The blade sank in with a dry crack, and a chill ran down my spine. It was a clean cut, but it took more strength than I remembered.
— Maybe this'll boost my Strength stat? — I muttered, sweating.
I still didn't fully understand how that system worked. I had a Status, just like in an RPG. But I didn't know if it evolved like in Dungeons & Dragons, the game my daughter loved. Would running increase Agility? Chopping trees boost Strength? Was leveling up automatic?
She would've loved this world.
My gaze drifted for a moment toward Tevandria's strange sky. The moon always seemed to be in the same place, suspended as if held by invisible strings. The sun followed the same path every day, with an almost artificial precision.
— Is the sun more red here? Or am I just seeing things?...
I was pulled out of that thought by a familiar voice.
— Hey, kid! How's it going out here?
I turned. Arnald and Malaca had returned. They both looked pleased about something they had just discussed.
— Very well, kid — said the dwarf, with a less grumpy expression than before. — I talked to Malaca. I'll take you as an apprentice, and I'll teach you the trade. But know this: I'm not my brother. If you're expecting an easy ride… you'd best turn around now.
Oddly, that comforted me. Arnald's brother, Bernald, didn't exactly seem like the "patient and professional" type. If Arnald wanted to teach — no matter how tough he was — that was already a win.
He handed me a thick roll of parchment.
— Here's the contract. Read it carefully before accepting.
I took the document and sat on a stump to examine it. I'd signed enough contracts in my life, especially with record labels — and several had left scars. I knew contracts could seem simple, but hide traps between the lines.
Reading it was easier than I expected, and I quickly grasped the main points:
Apprenticeship Contract – Arnald Ferrum
• Working Hours: 10 hours per day
• Payment: 50 silver coins per week
• Schedule: 6 workdays, 1 day off
• Bonus: based on delivery and quality
• Termination Clause: prohibited from working with competitors for 10 years
The pay was… modest, not to say unfair. Less than half of what a regular professional earned in this town. But considering I had no formal experience as a carpenter—or even a lumberjack—maybe it was the equivalent of an internship.
I took a deep breath.
— Very well, I accept. But I have two conditions — I said firmly. — If I show significant improvement, I'd like to negotiate a raise. And if I create something original, the patent should be mine.
They looked at each other, surprised by my assertiveness. Arnald narrowed his eyes, thinking.
— Hmmm… You saying that… sounds fair. If you prove yourself, I'll raise your pay myself — he said, crossing his arms. — And any invention of yours… fine. But I want exclusive selling rights. Deal?
— Deal — I extended my hand.
The dwarf gripped my arm with surprising strength for someone his size. It felt like his hand was a hydraulic press.
My mind was already spinning with possibilities. I might not know how to build roofs, but I understood wood—especially when it came to acoustics, shape, and harmony. And more than that, I still had my main skill, my trump card.
I was a Bard.
Zomeia had already told me that many adventurers had a regular trade and did dungeon runs or monster hunts on the side. Living solely as an adventurer was for those with power beyond the norm. I even had a special class, but it was support—or better yet, buffs, songs, motivation.
And between us: who's going to pay for a bard when they have to scrape money together to afford a healer—who were expensive, but essential?
— If I'd been born a Heller… I wouldn't need side gigs or break my back doing manual labor.
But then I'd be thrown straight into that damn dungeon… which also isn't exactly a dream.
— Ahhh, why wasn't I born rich? — I muttered, lifting my face toward the sky with a restrained irritation, as if expecting the universe to finally answer me.
Does she hear me? — I wondered, without much hope.
My thoughts drifted as I raised the axe once more. Healers usually ended up inheriting wealth—noble titles, merchant family fortunes, connections, even magical gear. Me? I got dropped into a new world, no status, no money, and with the duty of sending money back to Helena at the end of each month.
No use crying over spilled milk. I needed a job. A real one. Even if my profession was still rooted in music, my body had to carry the weight of this new life.
— Goddammit, kid! Try to hit the center of the wood! — yelled Arnald, in the familiar tone of a battlefield general. — Use your arms! This hand here, near the base… the other near the blade… and then just bring it down. Smoothly, dammit!
After almost two hours of failed attempts, I had nearly lost a leg four times. And twisted my wrist twice.
— Yes, sir…
Another four hours went by. Between mistakes and more mistakes, curses and corrections, I started to get the hang of it. In the final three hours, what had started as pain turned into something close to meditation. Adjusting the blade's angle, calculating the force, listening to the sound of the wood giving way… it was almost like composing.
— Alright, kid, that's enough for today — said Arnald, handing me a small pouch of coins. — Here's your cut. See you tomorrow. And please, buy a potion. Your hand looks like hell.
I looked at my palm and, for the first time, noticed the raw flesh. I was literally skinless. Burst blisters, swollen fingers. The repetitive motion of the axe had scraped all the skin off my palm without me realizing it. But… it didn't hurt. Maybe I had been too focused.
Being focused had healed me from the pain. During those hours, I forgot my problems. Earth. The record label. The breakup. The grief. It all dissolved in the back-and-forth of the blade.
— Well… it's not much, but it'll cover a potion and dinner.
Two silver coins. It wasn't a lot, but it covered the basics: food, a cheap potion, and even a small bit left to save. I felt a flicker of pride. For the first time in a long while, I'd earned money with my own hands.
On the way back, I found Thorn leaning against the guardhouse, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy.
— Good afternoon, Mr. Thorn.
— Hey there, kid… — he replied with a tired half-smile. — Look, maybe Malaca didn't warn you, but Arnald can be a real pain in the ass.
Still… deep down, he's a decent guy. He just makes a point of hiding it well.
I nodded. Arnald was a brute, but at least he made the effort to teach. That's more than most masters do. If all I ended up with was a destroyed hand, I could already count myself lucky.
I kept walking through the city streets, now lit by what looked like magical lanterns flickering to life as night set in. The city of Strugar had two reliable potion shops, according to Malaca. One near the city entrance. The other, close to the dungeon.
— I think it was this way…
Malaca had warned me: avoid the potion peddlers at the dungeon entrance — most of them sold colored water instead of real healing.
I assumed the shop near the dungeon would be more expensive, since it was closer to the adventurers… but to my surprise, Malaca explained the opposite was true.
The shop near the city entrance, despite looking simpler and being away from the busy areas, was considerably more expensive.
The reason? According to her, it was run by a race famous for their intelligence and mastery of alchemy.
The shop was made of light-colored stone, with a dark wooden door adorned with strange but beautiful symbols. A little bell jingled as I entered.
— Good evening… Anyone here?
No one answered right away. The counter was empty.
— Hello… are you looking for something specific?
The soft voice came from below. When I looked down, I saw a young woman crouched between the shelves, arranging vials. She had hair so light blonde it was nearly silver, and vivid blue eyes—so pale they almost glowed in the dim light.
She rose with an otherworldly grace, and as she tossed her hair behind her pointed ear, my heart skipped a beat.
— Hm… I guess you've never seen a Pointy-ear before, huh?