Chapter 6: Daggers and Disguises

Chapter 6: Daggers and Disguises

The moon hung like a judgmental coin in the sky—silver, cold, and silently watching.

Leon sat cross-legged on the worn wooden floor of his rented inn room, treasures arrayed around him like a broke dragon with weird taste. The Cloak of Mild Invisibility was folded neatly beside the bed. The Orb of All-Elemental Affinity pulsed with muted energy, while the sealed Blade of Convenient Sharpness rested nearby, radiating silent disdain. The Boots of Slight Comfort remained snug on his feet, and the Ring of Minor Regeneration worked quietly, mending faint bruises and cuts without complaint.

The rest? Dead weight. For now, anyway.

"Alright, let’s see if this soul-inventory hack works again," he muttered.

He reached inward, flexing that strange metaphysical muscle he’d only recently learned to control—part instinct, part willpower, part ’please don’t explode.’

One by one, the unused treasures shimmered and vanished into his vault: the cloak, the orb, the blade. Even sealed, the sword resisted slightly, vibrating with a presence that didn’t appreciate being shelved like some common tool.

All gone. Neatly filed in whatever IKEA shelving system his soul had built.

Leon grinned. "Inventory management? Actual RPG energy. This is peak reincarnation."

He had four silver coins to his name and a streak of confidence in his blood. After soup sales and surviving muggings, it felt earned.

And now, it was time to get himself a real weapon. One he could actually lift—unlike that moody anime sword.

Grayridge Market at night was quieter but no less sketchy. The shouting drunks were gone, replaced by silent watchers hidden behind crates and corners. Leon moved with intent, hood up, boots whispering against cracked stone.

He passed rusted barrels, mangy dogs sleeping near gutter streams, and meat carts selling cuts of meat he didn’t trust even with the Ring of Regeneration.

Eventually, he reached a squat stone building with a crooked iron anvil sign swinging overhead.

Forge & Flame.

The only blacksmith in town.

As he stepped inside, the heavy scent of burnt charcoal, oil, and metal slapped him across the face. The glow of the forge lit up the cluttered interior with warm, flickering hues. Behind a scarred wooden counter stood an old man with a tattered leather apron and permanent soot smudged into his beard.

The blacksmith looked up—and immediately narrowed his eyes.

Leon ignored the scrutiny and strolled in like he belonged there, hands clasped behind his back like a noble’s bored child on a museum tour.

"You lost, boy?" the smith grunted.

Leon arched a brow. "No. I’m shopping."

A pause.

Then a rough snort. "That right? Little early for sword dreams."

Leon didn’t answer. He bypassed the racks of heavy swords and axes—stuff he couldn’t use even with two hands—and headed toward the back, where a smaller rack of daggers glinted faintly in the forge light.

The smith started to walk over, grumbling—until Leon flicked a silver coin into the air.

Clink.

"I’m not broke," Leon said smoothly. "Just efficient."

That changed the air.

The smith took a longer look. Clean clothes. Hair strangely white for his age. Silver-white eyes with a gleam that didn’t match the dirt-town orphan profile.

He muttered, "...You’re not from around here."

Leon smiled faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m a noble on vacation from my tragic backstory."

The smith stiffened up a bit.

The smith didn’t know if it was a joke. Leon didn’t clarify.

Instead, he pointed at a pair of twin daggers on the top rack. Simple hilts. Steel blades, no ornament. Balanced. Functional.

"These. How much?"

"Ten silver," the smith replied without blinking.

Leon coughed. "You say that like it’s not a crime."

"Good steel costs."

"Sure, but this?" Leon squinted at the blade. "Looks like something a goblin would sell after losing a fight."

The man’s brow twitched. "You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone with short arms."

"I compensate with long grudges," Leon said sweetly. "I’ve seen soup ladles more intimidating."

"Forged with mountain-hardened iron. Quenched in Bristleback oil. Balanced by hand."

"So are ceremonial spoons in the capital."

"Three-day tempering process."

"Still looks like it would lose to a loaf of bread."

"Can gut a boar in one strike."

Leon tilted his head. "So can I—if the boar’s already dead and emotionally unprepared."

The smith exhaled hard through his nose. "You want quality, you pay for it."

Leon picked up one dagger, tested the weight. It felt... right. His fingers adjusted around the hilt naturally. He didn’t show that.

"No enchantments. No runes. Not even a fake brand name. Ten silver is delusional."

The smith folded his arms. "Then go find worse steel."

"You’re the only blacksmith in this place. You’re basically a monopoly. Doesn’t mean you get to cosplay as a noble."

"Eight silver."

"Three."

He choked. "That won’t even cover the material cost!"

"Then stop pricing it like you’re funding a kingdom."

"Six. Final offer."

Leon flipped a coin, watching it spin. "Three—and I’ll spare you from the rumor that your shop sells ’bread-killers.’"

A long, hard stare followed.

Leon didn’t blink.

"...Three silver," the smith muttered, rubbing his temples. "And if you break ’em—"

"I complain professionally. I don’t cry."

He dropped the coins into the man’s hand and holstered the daggers on either side of his belt.

The smith muttered as Leon left, "Kid like that’s either cursed, possessed, or dangerously clever."

Leon called back, "Or all three."

Back at the inn, Leon quietly entered his dimly lit room. He turned the old brass key in the lock until he heard a reassuring click, then slid the deadbolt with a deliberate motion, as if warding off an imaginary assault.

Click. Clack. Slide. Lock. Chair under the knob.

He didn’t bother pretending to sleep. Instead, he reached into his soul inventory.

The Dimensional Hourglass pulsed into his hands with familiar starlight.

"Alright," he muttered. "Time to stop being a soup tycoon. Time to get sharp."

He placed the hourglass on the floor and twisted the top.

Reality blinked.

And just like that, he was inside.

The time dimension unfurled before him, stretching into an expanse of endless gray, a realm without boundaries. It was devoid of life, sound, or movement, as if the world had paused in an eternal stillness.

His personal training ground.

Leon drew the twin daggers. Their weight settled evenly in his grip.

He looked at his own hands—thin, small, not weak... but not enough.

Not yet.

He remembered the thug’s stink. The way fear had crawled up his back. He had survived that day because of quick thinking and the sheer stubbornness not to act afraid. Luck had helped too.

"I’m not doing that again," he whispered.

No more trembling. No more hoping. No more leaving it to chance.

He dropped into a stance. Awkward. Half-remembered from anime and street scraps. But it was a start.

His shoulders burned. His arms ached after five swings.

But he didn’t stop.

Not once.

"I’ve got all the time in the world," he whispered. "And I’m done being scared."

In the hush of a realm that knew no clocks, no pity, no audience—Leon moved, again and again. Cutting. Stepping. Falling. Rising.

And slowly, inch by inch, the fear was carved away.

[Author’s Note: Drop a comment if you enjoyed! It seriously fuels my soul and the story’s momentum. <3]