The Legend of the Meta-Defying Smith Who Saved the Kingdom

James found himself with nothing to do but think.

When had he last had nothing to do but think?

Ever since he had arrived in Cordova, all his waking thoughts had been spent on developing either his Smithing or his Enchanting, or scanning for danger, or some other chore or task.

Before that was the journey from Corto, when he had still been on edge around the Steward and the Knight.

He had thought plenty the night before his trial, but that had been thinking about a very immediate problem.

And before that was the Dungeon.

Here, there was very little to worry about. He was currently the only one in the holding cell; the assassin had been taken to an interrogation room which, ironically, was better suited to medical care than anywhere else at the precinct guard station.

Only enough healing magic had been applied to his shoulder to stop the bleeding and any risk of permanent damage. It still hurt, more than enough to keep him from sleeping. The cut under his eye they didn't treat at all. He had torn a bit of cloth from his shirt and was pressing it there now, holding it closed.

His hammers were confiscated but his armor was left to him. Other than that, he carried nothing, and if he never got the hammers back it would only be a minor setback. As soon as he'd learned enough in the enchanting course to design a [Rapid Blow] enchantment suitable for hammers, he'd had the Steward purchase the materials he needed and reserve a forge in the Knight's Order Headquarters for him to use early one morning.

Grade A steel, minor essence contamination he'd beaten out of the steel during the forging, and a suitable if basic enchantment design.

[Appraisal] Small Steel War Hammer, Quality: High, Durability: 40, Enchantment: Rapid Blow (60)

Enchanter Class Skill [Etching] has been acquired.

Synergy Skill [Etching] has been acquired.

Later in the class they had learned the formula for determining the maximum theoretical effect an enchantment could have on a given object. It wasn't perfect. There was a lot of wiggle room, especially for non-standard designs like his small war hammer. But he did the calculation, and the theoretical maximum for this piece?

Eighty.

He had done it. The Legendary Smith had utterly smashed the common wisdom than an enchanted piece could at most have an effect half of the theoretical maximum, and he'd left Enchanter Meridox's ten percent in the dust.

It felt… almost hollow. It had only been a basic level enchantment. The materials he used were good, but not perfect. There were still flaws in his Smithing, and flaws in his Enchanting.

He knew he could go further.

But… then what?

That was what occupied his thoughts as he sat alone in a cell on the shortest night of the year.

He had, broadly speaking, three big goals he was working towards, and they were all somewhat intertwined.

First, his original goal: to make it home, back to his parents, and sister, and his home village.

Second, to repay his life-debt to the Knight who had saved his life. The total had been determined during pipe season, when the auctions completed. He owed $39,652.10 Iberterian gold dollars. An utterly impossible sum.

Normally.

Though he personally didn't value his confiscated war hammers very highly, that was because he knew he could easily make more. In the market, they would sell for a very hefty sum. Possibly even a hundred dollars.

At least, for the first one. Maybe even the second. But the market wasn't that deep, as he had learned from the Merchant's Guild. He'd make more money doing custom commissions, but he couldn't: he was retainer to one Knight, and couldn't work for others without permission. Permission he was certain he wouldn't receive.

The third goal was Isabella. Beautiful, lovely, smart, slightly-abrasive-but-in-a-cute-way, and guilelessly kind Isabella.

He wanted to marry her.

But did he want to marry her more than anything?

He was of suitable station to court her, but only because he was the Aspirant Knight's retainer. Without the Knight's backing, he would be on roughly the same level as Ewan, a lower class commoner. Or worse, given that he was from a foreign kingdom.

And supposing he did marry her, then what?

Would he live here forevermore in Cordova, and never see his family again? Or would he drag his wife away from her family, to the small village of his parents? And even if he did decide to do that, would he even be able to do it safely?

He had gotten terribly lucky during the fight that night.

None of the assassins were particularly good fighters. And they had made the mistake of revealing themselves rather than striking silently.

If they had simply thrown a knife from the shadows, or come up behind him and slit his throat…

It was time to reconsider wearing a helmet at all times.

Instead, they had announced themselves, and then attacked him with plenty of forewarning.

And it had all come down to chance in the end.

If the leader had been slightly more accurate with his thrown knives, or if James hadn't gotten lucky with one of this thrown hammers, either James would be dead or the assassin would have gotten away.

There would have been no chance of James catching up to him as he ran, and the assassin would have had the initiative from then on, always able to choose when to strike. And next time, the assassin probably would have just killed James before he even knew he was under attack.

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Such had been James' thinking when he threw his hammers. Letting the assassin get away would have been certain death.

Now he wasn't so worried. He trusted the Aspirant Knight to get to the bottom of this, and he had a feeling the Steward wouldn't let the assassin just go free to continue plotting against his Lord.

The Steward was scary like that.

Still, helmets…

No, wait, goals.

James sighed heavily.

He still didn't know where his home village even was. The maps he had access too were inaccurate if he was being charitable, and nearly worthless if he was being honest.

He could probably make headway towards repaying his debt, but then what? Right now, he was actually benefiting from being the Knight's retainer more than the Knight was.

Though that would change after James created the armor and weapons he wanted.

Again, his thoughts turned to his beloved Isabella, but this time, he was worried.

So worried he could barely breathe.

What if she decided not to take a Combat Class?

What if she decided to be a Merchant and Enchanter?

Would her family protect her? Would she try to hide it, to live normally like he had? If he warned them, would they listen? If he tried to warn them, would Isabella hate him?

Did Isabella hate him now?

James paced around the cell. Back and forth, back and forth.

Groans and the faint clinking of chain mail and footsteps.

As time passed and his thoughts organized themselves he realized there was an underlying drive underneath all this other goals.

The drive to create.

To create the best enchanted metal goods he could, that the world had ever seen.

It was always there, under everything else. It was the core of his being. It was what his soul yearned to do.

Even as he worried about Isabella, he was thinking of armor, amulets, and weapons he could make that she could use to protect herself.

He was thinking of enchantments he could design to protect her.

He thought more, and realized that the Knight's backing would be valuable protection for his wife, should he take one.

Being the Knight's retainer wasn't that bad. Or, rather, looking at it now, it was actually an incredible boon to the Smith and Enchanter.

He had a place in society.

He had allies.

Certainly, the Smith loved his family. He missed his parents and his siblings deeply. He missed his home village.

But…

He could make a life here.

With Isabella.

It was less a decision than it was a conclusion.

James would still try to send word to his parents that he lived, and was as safe as he could imagine.

But if he couldn't make the journey home…

He would prioritize the life he had here.

Especially if Isabella forgave him, and accepted his courtship. He would try to gauge her feelings tomorrow, and then on the last day of class, he would formally ask.

Thus it was that James, the Smith and Enchanter, the son of two Brawlers, set aside the desires of his childhood to return to safety and comfort and familiarity, and instead took up the mantle of adulthood and decided to build a life for himself where he was.

There were still several hours to go until dawn, and the Steward had yet to arrive, when the guards opened the door and brought two men, one young and one old, to James' holding cell.

The guard sneered at them before he left, slamming the door at the end of the hall rather loudly. James gazed at his new cell mates with undisguised interest.

He had never seen purple and green hair before.

The older man had light, faded purple hair, and pale skin. Even more pale than James' own. He kept his eyes down, looking at the floor, away from James. The younger had green hair, slightly brighter than the old man's but still faded-looking, close to the color of limes. He appeared to be roughly James' age, and his skin showed signs of sunburn.

The green-haired young man drew himself up to his full height, still several inches shorter than James, and puffed out his chest.

"What're you looking at— oh!"

His eyes had landed on James' blonde hair. And then he squinted.

"Never seen that color before. Which colony are you from?"

"Huh?" James replied articulately.

"Co-lo-ny," the man repeated, stressing each syllable. "Which one are you from? Or were you born here in this sun-blasted heap of—"

"Ivan!"

The older man spoke up, sharply, interrupting his younger companion. He looked up, now, and James saw that his eyes were orange, and filled with anger.

Ivan whirled back and faced the angry old man.

"Nikolai! It is, though!"

"I won't hear it, Ivan. The people of this land opened their arms to us—"

"That was the least they could do! They're the ones who sent our grandfathers and grandmothers—"

"That is the past, Ivan. I've told you, we live in the present—"

"They owe us! We're kin, and yet they treat us like outsiders, even after all we did for them, and what did it get us?"

"What it got us, you impudent whelp, is a safe refuge. Be thankful we got away when we did."

"Don't use that word!" The boy shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "Next you'll be saying we really are—"

"KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE, REFUGEES!"

The guard from earlier yelled down the hall, and the men with strangely colored hair quieted down.

The green-haired one, Ivan, ground his teeth and stomped over to an empty corner, and kicked the wall.

The purple-haired one, Nikolai, turned his orange eyes to James, curiosity having replaced his anger. He squinted, and seemed confused, then asked, "Are… are you from the colonies? Or are you from somewhere else. Your hair isn't exactly yellow, now is it…"

"Er, no, I'm not from any colony. I'm from a barony in another kingdom, though I couldn't tell you where, exactly…"

"But, your hair!" Ivan exclaimed from his corner.

"It's blonde," James said, reaching up with shackled hands to finger it. "Nearly everyone where I grew up has hair like this."

"Not a colonist, then. Fascinating." Nikolai continued to stare at James' hair, and Ivan snorted derisively.

"Unlucky you, then. Do they treat you like crap, too? Call you names and label you a refugee?"

James furrowed his brow. "Er, no, I'm a Knight's retainer…"

Ivan and Nikolai both stared at him with wide eyes.

"I hate this place so much…" Ivan grumbled.

"Ivan!"

Before they could start bickering again, James interrupted.

"Hey, what exactly is a colonist anyway? And what does refugee mean, exactly?"

And so James learned about the true underclass of Cordova, the refugees of the failed colonies.