Chapter 5: Confirmation

Ruvian knelt by the doorway, fingers deftly slipping his feet into the plain shoes by the mat. At first, he was more bewildered than panicked. These were the circumstances which he never expected to be in.

However, handling it with a calm mind was always the right approach, that was why he decided to get some fresh air and confirm a few things.

“I’m going out to the plaza for a bit,” he called over his shoulder, voice just loud enough to reach the kitchen.

From the other room, the rhythmic sound of a knife against the cutting board didn’t stutter.

“Don’t go picking fights or girls… or worse, both!”

“Anyway, just be back before sunset!” The voice came from his mother, Avina Castelor.

Ruvian blinked repeatedly.

‘Huh? I’ve got no time for that and… not that I’m going to, of course.’

The very idea sounded exhausting. Pointlessly chaotic and probably expensive.

‘Whatever.’

He finished tying his shoes and walked out, ignoring the absurdity of it all. Without further comment, he stepped outside.

The moment he crossed out of the door, the breeze greets him, carrying the scent of freshness. Afternoon light stretched lazily across the stone path.

“This world really doesn’t feel like it’s on the verge of collapse.”

This peaceful feeling is a beautiful, almost believable lie. A pleasant, convincing one, but a lie nonetheless. He knew it better, sooner or later, everything would break.

His home wasn’t extravagant by any measure. A modest house nestled at the edge of the Valtheris District. Evidence of a home, not a fancy building.

The Valtheris District was the outermost ring of Averenthia’s capital, comfortably far from the polished political games of the inner city, yet still close that ambition could drift on the wind.

A neighborhood of tradesmen, retired adventurers, and a few gossiping aunties to form a shadow intelligence network.

But Ruvian wasn't planning on testing the aunties’ reach though. Today’s goal was deceptively simple. He was leaving and on his way to his first destination in this damnable world.

Evermere Plaza.

He’d proofread about it countless times.

Descriptions scattered across a dozen chapters, each one painting it as the bustling, beating heart of Valtheris.

Ruvian’s footsteps echoed softly against the cobbled path as the road began to widen.

Ahead, at the corner of a road, a bard’s fingers swept over the strings of a lute, weaving a gentle tune that tangled itself with overlapping conversation.

As Ruvian turned the final corner, the space before him opened, and he stopped without meaning to. The sight that greeted him was something out of a fever dream. As if a painting comes to life with too many stories moving all at once.

Stalls stretched across the square, tucked so closely together. Cloth canopies flapped gently in the breeze, and merchants called out in a few different accents, selling everything from spice-dusted fruits to tiny bottled storms sealed with wax and thread.

It was chaotic but structured, like an orchestra tuning all at once. Ruvian calmly reacted, he let his gaze move slowly, capturing detail without committing emotion.

‘So this was it. Her worldbuilding.’

He’d known about the plaza, memorized its map, and annotated the footnotes. He knew where each key location was, and where the narrative-relevant people would gather.

But knowledge on paper had nothing on this.

This wasn’t a page but a world in motion.

Overflowing with detail the author might not even bother to describe. It was overwhelming in the best, most exhausting way.

Still, he didn’t let it keep him.

The pause was brief and the awe filed neatly into a back corner of his mind for later analysis.

“Get it together. You're not here for sightseeing.”

There were three things—three very specific flags from the early chapters that had brought him here. The plaza, a person, and a modest shop tucked between two larger stalls, mentioned so briefly in the novel.

His objective today was deceptively straightforward. Verify those three elements: confirm their existence, determine their placement, and test their alignment with the original narrative.

If they lined up with the novel, he could start preparing better. If not… Well. He’d cross that narrative disaster bridge when he got to it.

The crowd swelled around him, bodies pressing and shifting but somehow parting just enough for him to pass without effort.

Then a voice pierced through the noise.

“Here! A special offer, today only!” The words reached him first, sharp and bright.

Then came the impact.

A crumpled piece of parchment struck his chest with unceremonious urgency, delivered by a blur of motion that vanished into the crowd before he could so much as lift a brow in protest.

The flyer itself was a sorry thing.

The ink had bled in places, smudged into clouds of gray. The handwriting was enthusiastic but desperate. Bold letters screamed across the top with confidence:

“LIMITED TIME MAGICAL DEAL”.

Near the bottom, a rough sketch of what might’ve been an animal doll figure or a stone with a stamp of “40% OFF!” in bright red ink.

Ruvian folded the flyer and slid it into the inner lining of his coat.

“Oh well, I’ve seen worse flyers before.”

His attention returned to the plaza. Ruvian’s gaze flicked across the familiar landmarks.

“If memory serves, then the blacksmith’s shop should be just beyond the row of talisman vendors.”

Then, just as his eyes were adjusting to the midday blur of color and motion of the crowds, his gaze instinctively locked toward a figure.

The figure appeared white from head to toe, cloaked in a pale robe that flowed unnaturally without wind, standing still among the moving crowd.

At first, he thought it was merely some priest or a performer in ceremonial garb… but the way the crowd parted around the figure yet refused to acknowledge her at all made his stomach tighten.

The figure wore a blindfold, and there was no mistaking the curve of her lips. A sinister smile, stretched too wide and held too long, belonged to someone who knew something he didn’t.

Her figure was obscured by the shifting distance, tension pulled between them. He didn’t know why a subtle dread had bloomed in his chest.

Just as instinct began to pull something from the depths of his memory, a group of townsfolk passed in front of him, laughing, bartering, and in that second, the connection snapped.

When the path cleared again, the figure was gone.

“...”

Ruvian blinked a few times, slowly letting the moment pass over him. He did not ask if what he saw was real since some things just don’t explain themselves and trying to figure them out only wastes your time.

He exhaled through his nose.

‘The fuck… was that?’

In any webnovels he used to read, the mystery always offered a hand first… then dragged them by the throat. He wasn’t about to let this world do the same to him. So, he turned away without hesitation, posture as relaxed as before, expression neutral.

‘Huh? Who am I staring at again?’

Suddenly, he felt a void in his memories.

‘Ah, yeah. I need to go to the blacksmith.’

He adjusted his coat and resumed his path through the plaza. But before going to that blacksmith’s shop, he stopped before a modest stall that gleamed with a soft menace.

The knives gleamed, dozens of them, each one aligned in the military formation. Paring knives, cleavers, long blades that whispered of expert craftsmanship.

The merchant was hunched behind the display, eyes like a hawk’s, polishing a curved blade that reflected the sunlight.

Ruvian tilted his head slightly, studying the set. He wasn’t here to buy them for combat but only for the context, taking note of a few things before meeting that person.

‘I need to learn a few things about knife crafting… a good first impression is very important.’

…

After a minor detour, Ruvian finally returned to his original path. Nestled shyly between two oversized buildings, stood the place.

It was easy to miss.

A small, unimposing structure slouched in the shadows of its grander neighbors. The wooden sign above the door swung gently with each breeze, creaking.

Ruvian stopped in front of it and gave it a long, unimpressed look.

‘This should be the place.’

Ruvian pushed open the door. The hinges voiced their protest in a long, dramatic groan. Inside, the light dimmed, and the light outside faded behind him. Ruvian took one step forward and that’s when he heard it.

CLANG! CLANG!

The sharp, intermittent rhythm of a hammer striking iron echoed from within the heart of the shop, slicing through the silence with an almost ritualistic weight.

‘That sounded like real work.’

He let the moment breathe, standing by the entrance as the clangs rang through the air.

Casually, he asked.

“Is anyone here?”

The hammering stopped instantly.

A few seconds passed.

Finally, the curtain behind the counter rustled. A figure stepped through. It was a boy. No, a young man would’ve been more accurate, but his face still carried the lingering sharpness of youth. He was taller than Ruvian by a few fingers, with a frame that had already begun to solidify into muscle.

Ruvian’s gaze narrowed, just a little.

‘He’s got quite the build… Even so, Ruvian definitely won in terms of looks.’

The novel had mentioned the blacksmith’s son, but it hadn’t bothered to give him a clear description.

Dain Forgewell wasn’t a name that found itself etched into the margins of history books. He didn’t forge mythical blades destined for chosen heroes, nor did he bless his work with starlight-infused metal.

In a world obsessed with creation, Dain Forgewell specialized in something most smiths considered mundane.

‘Dain Forgewell didn’t make weapons. He saved them.’

Rust-eaten swords, cracked shields, shattered breastplates or pieces others discarded, Dain restored them determinedly. It wasn’t glamorous, but adventurers, mercenaries, knights on shoestring budgets—they all came to him when their gear was broken.

A man that wasn't known as the hero of the forge but as the unsung healer of steel. And now, standing before him, was most likely his heir…

Gared Forgewell.

The young man watched him with a composed stare that was just a shade too cold to be welcoming.

His stance was confident but not boastful, posture upright. He looked like he belonged here, as if the forge wasn’t just a workplace but was part of his spine.

Then, Gared spoke:

“What business do you have here?”

A long silence stretched between them.

“I’ve come to make a request…”

Ruvian put up a benevolent smile.

“A custom-made craft, so tell me, this is the place for such a thing, isn't it?”