Iron woke up to a strange warmth between his thighs, and dryness on his lips.
The place still pulsed with the late breath of night, and the smell of oil and leather—but Selina was no longer there.
Only the traces: a ruffled pillow, a dark hair, and an empty bottle tilted as if it staggered from longing.
Then…
Ding!
[Side Quest: Dismantling the Taboo of Pleasure – Phase One Complete]
"The First Touch" has been successfully executed
Rewards:
Unlocked: Selina's Dashboard
Obtained: "The Third Eye" – Activated
[System recommends rest… or a second round, if you have enough stamina.]
Iron smiled.
But it wasn't a smile of triumph.
It was something deeper, more chaotic… a mix of the slyness of a man who knew he had played with fire, was dazzled by its glow… and didn't burn.
He sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
A sigh escaped him like it was dusting off ancient ashes from within.
He hadn't used any skill.
He didn't activate any "Seduction Call", didn't press any button in the system.
Just words… a touch… and eyes.
"So this is how it is?" he muttered, looking at his hands.
This is what a woman is like when you don't buy her, don't enchant her, but strip her from herself until she trembles?
He shook his head, laughing quietly.
A dark delight surged in his chest.
"First time… like this."
No prostitute moaning beneath him, no spell forcing the mouth to crave.
Selina did it herself.
And despite everything…
He still remembered the taste of her lips.
He stood up, wore a shirt still torn at the shoulder, pulled his hair back with his hand, and opened the door.
The house was silent.
All doors closed.
His footsteps on the stairs sounded jarring… as if he were walking in a house he didn't know.
He passed by the kitchen, found nothing but an empty cup, and the remains of a bitten apple.
"Garon didn't come back?" he thought, then chuckled sarcastically:
"Or he did… and decided to kill me in my sleep but couldn't figure out how."
But he didn't care.
He passed by Selina's door and didn't knock.
He could've.
He could've gone back, snuck in, pulled her by the waist, told her "It's not over yet."
But he… didn't.
Not because he regretted it.
But because he felt full.
And for the first time… the fullness wasn't physical.
He opened the outer door.
The sun had begun to pull out its first threads from the mouth of the clouds.
"Old Mork's Forge… good idea."
He didn't want a sword.
But he needed something to be hammered, refined, reshaped.
Something like his heart… or his pride… or his neck, which would be cut off if Garon found out what happened last night.
He kept walking.
The dirt under his feet was damp, as if the earth itself had witnessed what happened last night… and chose silence.
The dwarf's forge wasn't far.
The claw in his hand gleamed with a cold shine, as if the rabbit he'd torn it from still screamed from the depths of hell.
"Alright… filthy little dwarf… let's make this morning unforgettable."
He stopped in front of the shop's door.
Same battered door, same brass sign crying from embarrassment, and the same smell… of iron, sweat, and regrettable decisions.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
The third time…
"Did you bring the semen?"
The voice came out immediately.
No greeting, no checking, not even opening the door.
Just a question… like the echo of a dirty sexual dream.
Iron smiled. The smile of a man who knows he won't be treated with dignity but decided to try anyway.
"Good morning, tender dwarf… I'm not here for my balls this time, but…"
He raised the claw, a serious glint in his eyes:
"…for this."
The door opened slowly.
The dwarf, with a face like a dragon's regretful butt, appeared at the entrance.
His one eye stared.
Then he pursed his lips and gasped like an old dog seeing its mistress try to train it again.
"First Gylos' sword, and now a rabbit's claw… what next? Should I jerk your dick while I work too?"
Iron didn't smile.
He placed the claw before him, like presenting evidence in a filthy courtroom.
"Listen… this isn't just a personal request. This is tied to the quest. The fate. And to… my infertile semen, if you still care."
Silence.
Then he continued, pointing at the claw:
"If you make this weapon for me… I'll be able to progress. And that progress will lead me to that desperate stud of a man you want."
He sighed.
"In short… make the dagger, get the semen."
The dwarf snorted.
A deep snort, like his chest filled with the smoke of a thousand blacksmiths before choking and deciding to cough.
"Damn… of course! My balls now function under an incentive deal: craft a dagger – get sperm."
He groaned.
Then opened the door wider, gesturing with his hand that reeked of oil and frustration:
"Give me the claw… let's see how much shit I can turn into something sharp."
The dwarf took the claw.
He turned it in his hand like a magician spinning the heart of his ex-lover after killing her with bad poetry.
Then he hummed.
"Hmm…"
He leaned in, raised it before his single eye, then spat on the ground as a habit that never dies, and said:
"Hot blood scent… this is fresh."
He pulled a small metal piece from his pocket. It looked like a severed, mummified human eye, but it began to shine.
He placed it on his empty socket.
"Fifth Sight Eye – Grade C… don't disappoint me this time."
He whispered it like summoning a sleeping demon.
Then…
His eyelid contracted. The pupil expanded. The muscles beneath his eye tensed like he saw something between the thighs worth standing up for.
"Hah!"
He whispered in rare awe—even his testicles seemed to stiffen.
"Vital Essence at… 17.3%?! What rare shit… this claw was slaughtered in the last 6 hours!"
Iron raised an eyebrow:
"Is… that good?"
The dwarf didn't reply immediately. He yanked the magical eye from his socket and sighed like someone who just learned something dangerous.
Then turned to him slowly and said in a lower voice:
"The vital essence, you idiot, is what separates a good weapon from junk that cries under its pillow. Every living being contains energy… magical, raw, unstable. That's what we call essence. After death, this energy begins to evaporate."
He stepped closer:
"Most claws I get are at 2%, 4% if I'm lucky. But 17.3%?! That means the claw is still 'alive'… in a way."
Then he added with a sticky sarcasm:
"Means the weapon I make for you will retain its pulse… its hunger… its ability to bite."
He paused for a moment, then smiled a crooked smile:
"And you're even luckier, because most blacksmiths on this continent love steel, iron, and kissing noble asses. But me?"
He beat his chest. His voice came out like metallic breath:
"I specialize in organic weapons. Something alive… something bleeding… something that moans when you strike with it. That's… that's my passion, son of a ghoul."
He pulled his hammer from behind the door.
Its size didn't fit his dwarf frame, but it buzzed like it whispered to the system itself.
Then he pulled out a small black bottle. Inside… blood.
"Enhanced blood from a 'Silence Spreader' beast… will keep the pulse in the weapon. A kind of magical frenzy. Perfect for killing… or violent love."
He smiled. The kind of smile that preferred the latter.
Then…
The process began.
Magic circles were drawn on the ground quickly, his fingers dripping with soot, and the blue aura trembling like a girl's body on a winter night with no desire.
The hammer began to descend.
Buzz. Sparks. A hoarse metallic sound.
But no fire.
The weapon wasn't melted.
Instead… it began to form.
As if the claw itself moaned, writhed, accepted its new fate.
Four minutes.
Only.
Then…
Silence.
The dwarf raised the dagger.
It was dark in color, relatively long, curved as if made to slit, not to swing.
Its edge gleamed… not like a shine, but like a deadly wink.
"One thing left…" the dwarf muttered.
"Binding skill… name selection."
He raised his hand, his split finger touched the dagger, and he began to chant in a strange language.
He looked at Iron and said:
"Pick a name."
Iron blinked. Rubbed his chin. Frowned.
"…Ummm. Alright… how about 'Nutcracker'? Or 'The Claw That Wanted to Be a Finger'? Or 'The Fourth Desire's Blade'?"
The dwarf snorted a snort that echoed inside his metallic chest.
"I'll throw you out if you don't shut up."
Then he muttered, like explaining to a mentally-challenged human child:
"Organic weapons aren't complete without a name. The name is what closes the loop. What gives it identity in the system. Without it, the weapon remains unstable. Might collapse… might explode… or simply decide to only work when you suck it."
"The right name links properties… binds the soul into the metal or flesh. A rare skill, only possessed by fools who spent centuries talking to knives."
But before he could continue his nonsense…
Ding!
The system opened a window inside Iron's mind, whispering in a strange, sharp, and offbeat voice:
[Weapon Naming Suggestion: "Silva's Fang"]
Description: The name evokes the legacy of the old huntress – a symbol of speed, betrayal, and fresh blood.
Iron, without thinking, said it:
"Silva's Fang."
The dwarf froze.
Stared at him like a man staring at his lover after she said his ex's name in bed.
"…You didn't choose that yourself."
"Who said I choose anything? My balls choose my fate more than I do."
A moment of silence.
Then…
The dwarf nodded, touched the dagger again.
The circles began to glow.
And slowly, the name burned itself onto the weapon's blade in an unknown language.
Skill Activated: Name Binding.
The dagger trembled briefly.
Then… calmed.
The dwarf pulled it out, handed it to Iron, and said:
"Congrats. You have a weapon."
Iron held it.
Felt a pulse. No, not just a feeling.
Literally—as if the dagger had a heart.
"This… is real?"
The dwarf nodded, then sat on his broken wooden stool like all his years collapsed on top of him.
"I'm a magical blacksmith. I'm four hundred years old. I've seen swords, sharpened blades, and crafted death tools for people who forgot their names."
"But why stay in a village like this?"
He looked at him with one eye, and a smile tired of life:
"That's none of your business."
Then pointed at the door, with a finger that could no longer bear words:
"Go. Don't come back unless you have… the semen."
The door slammed in his face.
Hard.
As if the dwarf hadn't just given him a weapon, but kissed his mother then spat in his face.
"Screw you too…" Iron muttered, staring at the rotting wood like he expected it to apologize.
Then—
Ding!
A transparent window popped open suddenly in front of him, like your zipper opening at the worst possible time:
[Forging Complete]
Type: Light Dagger – Organic / Magical
Name: Silva's Fang
Rarity: Rare
Grade: B+
Unlocked Skill: Adrenaline Rush
"Every successful stab increases the user's strength by 3% temporarily (stacks up to 30%).
Side effect: Accelerated heartbeat – may cause fatigue or temporary loss of focus."
Iron blinked.
"Great… like a whore you have to pay for her services."
He spun the dagger between his fingers, felt a prick. It wasn't pain.
It was a promise.
"Everything in this world gives you something… for something."
Then exhaled, looked toward the gray sky, and said:
"Alright… now to the alchemy."
He took the first step on the stone path, the mud clinging to his boots, and the dagger whispering at his side.
"Time for the potion… and maybe some answers."