She looked back at the vial in his hand, as though seeing it for the first time. She studied it carefully, placing a hand under her chin—a gesture of deep thought as she searched for an answer that would preserve the image of expertise she had built in front of the young man.
His question had shaken her confidence. For the first time, she wasn't sure if she knew all the answers. Finally, after a moment of silence and contemplation, she lifted her head. Her expression was less assured than before. She spoke in a quiet, slightly hesitant voice:
"I'm not entirely sure. I've never heard of it being used in clinics. I don't think it's a complete substitute for traditional medicine, but I do believe it plays an effective role in helping the body fight off diseases."
Her words struck a balance between confident knowledge and humble uncertainty, like someone walking a tightrope between pride and self-doubt. Ace wasn't bothered by the vague answer. He continued to stare at the vial, as though trying to unlock its secrets. He didn't seem eager to buy it, but he asked, his voice filled with curiosity:
"How much do these vials cost?"
At that, the girl's features softened. Her shoulders relaxed, and her posture changed from thoughtful scholar back to seasoned merchant. She said:
"The red vial is 500 silver coins, the blue one is 800, and the green costs 1,000."
Ace raised his eyebrows, a small, almost sarcastic smile crossing his face as he said:
"That's quite expensive."
The girl laughed softly, closing her eyes briefly, then nodded and said with a shrug:
"Yes, I know. But everything has its price—and the price of life is steep, as you know."
From that answer, Ace understood that these vials were rare possessions. Most people wouldn't carry them in quantity due to their high cost. They were used only in extreme circumstances. Those who owned them were either wealthy or on critical missions where risk could not be tolerated. That insight alone may have been the most valuable takeaway from the entire conversation.
With that, he decided he had learned enough for the day. He chose to leave, realizing it was getting late, and the little one might be worried about him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch of coins. Taking out fifteen shiny silver pieces, he placed them before the girl and said with sincere gratitude in his voice:
"Thank you. You've explained many things I didn't know. This is a separate payment—not part of the total cost. I know my request is difficult, but could you try to have the sword ready by tomorrow morning?"
The moment she saw that generosity, her eyes widened with joy. But that joy quickly dissolved the instant the weight of his request echoed in her mind. She wanted to scream, to object, to explain that the work required time and precision—that it couldn't be rushed overnight. And yet, she couldn't lift her eyes away from that money. It wasn't offered as a mere tip, but as a token—a gesture carrying with it a genuine intention to forge a bond between a client and a craftswoman.
In that moment, something stirred within her—a special kind of challenge, a desire to prove herself worthy of the expectation. After a brief pause, she lifted her head and smiled broadly, her face lit with determination. Her voice burst forth with confidence as she said:
"Thank you, sir, for your generosity. Of course!!! I'll begin work on the sword tonight. Come by tomorrow morning, and your sword will be ready!!!"
Ace nodded in gratitude, then turned to leave the shop, while the girl kept her eyes on his back for a few moments as he walked away. Then, with a hint of hesitation in her voice, she called out:
"Ex... Excuse me, sir, may I know your name?"
He stopped, turned calmly, and said:
"Ace Farland, traveler and novice adventurer."
The girl softly repeated the name, tasting it on her tongue. It sounded, to her, like it belonged to someone from a wealthy family. But the awareness of his modest financial state—perhaps what pushed him toward the uncertain path of adventuring despite his lack of experience—quickly dispelled that assumption. Then she smiled and, placing her hand over her chest, said:
"A pleasure to meet you… I'm Chloe Harvey, owner of this workshop, and the youngest blacksmith and weapons merchant in town."
Thus, despite its delay, that introduction marked the end of the encounter between the customer and the merchant. Shortly after Ace left, another customer entered the shop—one unlike any Chloe had ever seen or dealt with before.
As Ace stepped onto the street leading to Emilia's house, the sunset was already weaving its final threads across the sky. The cool evening breeze drifted by like cold fingers brushing past the faces of passersby—gently stinging, then vanishing as if it had never been. From afar, the half-open window of Grandma's small shop reflected the glow of twilight.
At the door stood Emilia. Her gaze moved slowly, nervously shifting from left to right, as if afraid something might slip away in a single careless moment. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, and her hands were clasped tightly against her chest in an effort to calm a faint trembling. Her pressed lips only deepened the tension in her features, and her hazel eyes shimmered with a mix of sorrow and unease. Her golden hair glistened, as if the sunlight refused to leave without leaving one last trace upon it.
From the moment Ace saw her in that state, he knew worry was gnawing at her. He quickened his pace, the sound of his boots echoing louder against the stone pavement. When the little girl noticed him approaching, her expression shifted. Her eyes widened suddenly, and she hesitated for a moment, as if trying to believe what she saw. Then she began to run toward him, the clack of her heels striking the stone floor in a rising rhythm that matched the beating of her heart.
She did not stop. She did not think. She simply rushed toward him—toward something she feared might vanish at any moment. And when she reached him, there was no hesitation. She threw herself into his arms, her slender body trembling as if she had been holding herself together all this time but could no longer contain it. Her breath came in heavy bursts, and warm tears fell one after the other onto her clothes, as though what had been burning within her had finally found release. She pulled back slightly, lifted her tear-streaked face to his, and cried in a trembling, fear-laced voice:
"Why? … Why did you take so long to come back?"
She threw herself into his arms again and whispered with a voice tinged with relief:
"I was so worried about you. So very worried."
Her words cracked between her lips, but he felt every syllable—as though she were telling him everything she couldn't say while he was gone. He closed his eyes and gently ran his hand through her soft hair, trying to offer comfort in silence—to give her a fragment of reassurance with a simple touch, to tell her he had returned and that he was safe. Guilt welled up inside him. He hadn't realized his absence had hurt her that much, hadn't known he'd left her drowning in anxiety and waiting.
"I'm sorry… The shop was crowded this morning when I passed by… I couldn't get in like I planned."
Even as he said it, his words fell into emptiness. They carried nothing that could ease her worry or put out the fire of reproach in her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, her gaze caught between anger and relief, as if trying to make sense of his explanation. Then, with a long sigh, she closed her eyes—as though casting the pain away, or perhaps trying to convince herself that his answer was enough.
She wiped her tears with the back of her small hand and stepped back; her eyes tinged with a faint redness—a sign of the tangled emotions still coursing through her. She was not a girl who cried easily. Despite the fatigue in her searching eyes, she caught sight of the burns and tears on his clothes. She stepped closer again, examining him with concern and asking if he was alright. He assured her there was no need to worry, and that he hadn't been harmed. His words were sincere, and sincerity was something Emilia had always been able to detect. She didn't ask more. She didn't probe further. Instead, she offered a warm smile—a smile that carried a hint of forgiveness—and said softly:
"I'm glad you came back safe."
But the smile didn't last. It faded quickly, as if it had never been. She lowered her head, and her tone shifted—quieter, more serious—as she said:
"Let's go inside. It's getting cold. There's something… I need to talk to you about."
She turned and walked ahead of him, head lowered, leaving the door open behind her as if inviting him in—without looking back. Ace remained still for a moment, a heavy feeling of guilt pressing on his shoulders, as if burdened with a weight he hadn't noticed until now. Yet something else lingered—a vague sense that someone was watching him from afar. This time, he could feel it more clearly. The gaze wasn't just observing; it carried a suppressed anger. He didn't turn to look or search for its source. There was no hostility in it, but rather a distant warning—that he was unwelcome.
Inside the house, where warmth seeped through the walls, the aroma of hot tea filled the air, rising from a clay teapot as though trying to soothe the heavy emotions hanging between them. Emilia sat on the wooden bench, her elbows resting on the dining table where two cups of tea had been placed. Across from her, Ace sat, watching her with concern, trying to read any sign of what was on her mind. Her face no longer bore the innocence he was used to; there was no trace of the childlike softness. Instead, something sharper had taken its place—something that looked like resolve. It felt as though he were about to be interrogated, as if he were standing before a quiet tribunal.
Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the crackling of wood in the fireplace. Finally, the girl raised her head, her eyes full of barely restrained curiosity, and asked in a quiet voice filled with concern:
"What was the second mission you took on?"
Ice was surprised she knew about it, but he answered quickly:
"It was a request involving a creature called Dragon Fire."
She studied his face carefully, but before she could dive deep into his expression, he continued swiftly:
"The fight was a bit tough, which is why my clothes got damaged—but I managed to defeat it."
He stopped there. He didn't tell her how difficult the battle really was, knowing that sharing such details would only add to her worry. Instead, he tried to lighten the mood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag of coins, placing it on the table with a soft clink as the silver pieces brushed against each other. He took some out and said in a steady voice:
"This is the amount I owe you—300 silver coins, plus a little extra to cover the damage to the clothes."
She stared at the silver pieces for a moment, then looked up at him, unmoved. After a pause, her hand slowly reached out, her eyes narrowing as she mumbled:
"You didn't have to go through all this trouble. I told you before—I'm not in a hurry to get the money back. But this is a lot of money."
Her last sentence came with a hint of suspicion. He noticed the flicker in her eyes and realized he had stumbled into what he was trying to avoid. He stammered:
"W-Well… It turns out that one of the rabbit ears I brought back was of special quality, so I got extra for it."
She watched his face as if measuring his honesty. He could see she wasn't fully convinced, but at least she didn't press further. Still, her unwavering eyes no longer reflected childhood innocence. They held something more—something he wasn't ready to face.