"Sean, I remember you saying your uncle Peyton... is a mercenary?"

"Yeah..."

Sean eyed the ingot on his anvil. A crack had split in from the edge. He tossed the hammer down with a defeated sigh and looked up.

"He used to work around the Black Fir Forest with a few others. Hunted monsters for money. They did pretty well for themselves..."

Hunting monsters?

Roland perked up.

From what he'd gathered, monster activity across the Golden Valley Kingdom had run wilder by the year. Short on troops, the regional lords had resorted to recruiting common folk for culling expeditions.

The rewards were rich enough to pull in adventurers and mercenaries by the crowd.

Few came back alive to collect.

If Sean's uncle made his living hunting monsters, his ability spoke for itself.

Roland regarded his friend with fresh hope.

"Did you ever learn any combat techniques from him?"

"Me?"

Sean gave a wry shake of the head.

"I wanted to, but my father never approved of Uncle Peyton's way of life. He ran away from home when I was still small."

"If he hadn't landed in some trouble lately, I might have gone my whole life without meeting that uncle of mine."

The endless arguing at home seemed to weigh on him; the tall youth's shoulders sagged.

"I see..."

Disappointment was setting in when Sean spoke again.

"What's this about, buddy? You want to learn weapons?"

"That's right."

Roland nodded.

"I hear the monsters aren't only in the Black Fir Forest anymore. There are traces in Dawnlight Territory next door too. I want something for self-defense, so I'm not helpless if trouble finds me."

"Hmm..."

Sean grunted his agreement.

"Fair enough. How about this—next month is the Heavenly Father's birthday celebration. Every year around then, the baron hosts the nearby nobles, so commoners like us definitely won't be allowed to stay on the estate."

"Come home with me for a few days. We'll ask Uncle Peyton for some pointers."

"Really? Thank you, Sean!"

Roland punched him lightly in the chest, delighted—then reined himself in.

He had never met Peyton, but he understood the type. Mercenaries and adventurers spent years walking the line between life and death.

Men like that ran on profit. No benefit, no effort.

Peyton might teach Sean, his own nephew. Roland was an outsider with no blood tie.

And he couldn't afford to wait for Sean to learn first and pass it along later.

"Just in case, I should find a way into his good graces..."

Roland slid the ingot back into the furnace to reheat. "By the way, Sean, is there anything your uncle particularly likes?"

"Well..."

Sean didn't see the point of the question, but he chewed on it anyway.

"Weapons, probably. He wanted to borrow money from my father recently to buy a new one. But you know what a decent iron sword costs. That's exactly what they keep fighting about."

"Weapons? That I can manage."

With the Blacksmith Apprentice occupation fresh under his belt, Roland liked his odds.

His forging couldn't yet touch a true blacksmith's, but there was time before the celebration.

With [Humble Apprentice] backing him, a few days of hard work on Forging should yield a passable weapon.

He fingered the dozen-odd copper coins in his pocket.

"Enough for a small ingot—a dagger's worth. Even if Sean's uncle has no use for daggers, I can sell it and find another way to combat training."

"The only question is whether Mr. Hawk will let me use the tools privately and carry the weapon off the estate."

"I'll sound him out in a few days."

Decided, Roland clamped the heated ingot back onto the anvil and went on with the lesson.

Under his patient coaching, Sean turned out a barely acceptable blank before sunset.

Clang!

The bell rang, and Sean hauled Roland off toward the dining hall.

Dinner ran a little richer than lunch: an extra palm-sized fish, plus a small bowl of fish soup.

The cooking left much to be desired. The fish carried a whiff of rot, and the soup was thin, bland, nothing fresh about it.

Roland didn't mind.

In his position, a full belly was already a win. Free made it better.

He broke the black bread and the little fish into pieces and dropped them into the soup, meaning to eat it like lamb paomo—when heavy footsteps stopped beside him.

He looked up.

Marco was approaching, several boys in tow.

Sean crammed the last of his bread into his mouth, flipped his wooden tray around like a crude shield, and planted himself in front of Roland.

"No need to be so nervous."

Marco wore a thin smile. His gaze slid past the towering Sean and settled on Roland.

"Your name is Roland, right? I assume you know who I am?"

"Of course."

Roland stood and patted Sean's rigid shoulder, eyes narrowing.

"Mr. Marco. What can I do for you?"

The deference seemed to please him.

"I don't like wasting words."

Marco raised one finger.

"Leave the estate of your own accord and give up the examination three months from now. As compensation, I'll pay you one gold coin. What do you say?"

"One gold coin!"

Sean blurted it out before Roland could answer.

In the Golden Valley Kingdom, a family of three spent perhaps three to five silver coins a year.

At an exchange of one to a hundred, a single gold coin could keep an ordinary family for decades.

Sean's father was a butcher, a respectable trade among commoners, and even Sean had never so much as touched a real gold coin.

Marco's smile widened at his shock, contempt plain beneath it.

Then the smile froze.

Roland showed none of Sean's excitement. He only frowned, and shook his head.

"One gold coin?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Marco, but I must refuse."