Chapter 527 – From Rags To Riches.

“Waaaaa…”

“Haha, what is it my little Thordrin? Are you hungry? Or perhaps is it…”

A stocky looking man held a crying baby up with his arms, his fingers thick from years of working in the smithy. His hair was red and his beard was long and bushy. The child in his hand continued to wail despite his attempts to soothe it. Bernir cradled the baby awkwardly, his large hands trying to be gentle as he rocked his son back and forth. His eyes darted toward the door, half-hoping his wife, Dyana, would appear to rescue him from this predicament.

“Waaaaa!”

“By the old dwarven gods… What do you need now, little one?”

Bernir muttered, while sniffing at the air wondering if he needed to change his diaper. The baby, Thordrin, was red-faced and inconsolable. Bernir tried humming a lullaby his human mother used to sing, but his deep baritone seemed to startle the child more than calm him. He was just about to try feeding him again when the door creaked open, and Dyana stepped in, her expression clearly indicating frustration.

“Give him here, Bernir”

She said, reaching for the baby.

“You’re holding him like he’s a sack of ore.”

The woman was much taller than her half-dwarven husband, with prominent horns protruding from her head. Her bullish features were unmistakable, yet the baby didn’t appear to have inherited any of them. Thordin mostly resembled an ordinary human, sharing his father’s hair color. Only time would reveal whether he would develop any beastman or dwarven traits from his parents.

“He’s louder than a forge hammer today. Maybe he’s already got a smith’s lungs on him?”

Bernir laughed while handing over his son to his wife who chuckled as well. Her touch immediately calmed down the infant. She kissed the baby’s forehead, her maternal instincts working wonders.

“He just needed his mama, that’s all. You’ve done well, though.”

Bernir rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He didn’t consider himself particularly skilled at caring for small children, and his son didn’t seem especially fond of his presence either. After his extended stay at the institute, Bernir had been trying to make amends by spending more time with his child, but things weren’t going as well as he’d hoped.

“Aye, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m not sure how you manage it so effortlessly.”

“It’s not effortless, trust me. But you’ll get the hang of it. For now, though, there is a message for you on that new magical device, our favorite runesmith wants something from you.”

“Oh? The boss does?”

Bernir sighed, grateful for the break as he stepped away from the infant’s cries. He moved over to the magical messaging device – a simplistic adaptation of Roland’s runic mail system and activated it with a touch. The runes glowed faintly, and a small screen displayed Roland’s message.

“Bernir, I’ve got some new schematics and materials I’ll need your help assembling. Stop by as soon as you can.”

“I wonder what grand invention it is this time?”

While reflecting on the message, Bernir glanced at his mechanized arm. Even now, after so much time had passed, he still marveled at its craftsmanship. It felt so natural, as though it were truly his own arm – the one he had lost during the cult’s attack. What truly set it apart, though, was how it allowed him to channel his blacksmithing skills seamlessly, a feat no other golemic arm could replicate.

“Aye, time to get back to work.”

Bernir nodded, his gaze shifting back to the message on the screen. He was one of the few individuals privileged to possess such a device, and he still questioned what he had done to earn this honor. His eyes wandered to his own status screen, revealing plain skills and unremarkable classes. At present, he was simply a weaponsmith – though the speed at which he had reached his current level for someone his age was, at least, a small point of pride.

“Working on all those tier 3 inventions really makes the levels go up!”

This was one of the main reasons craftsmen like him sought the tutelage of high-level masters. Instead of being confined to crafting simple items like iron nails and daggers, Bernir was working on intricate enchanted weaponry and advanced golemic components. The more complex the creation and the rarer the materials, the more experience points he earned. Though there were limits, his progress was double that of his peers – a success he owed entirely to his boss, Roland.

“…Alright, let’s get moving but first!”

Bernir stretched, his mechanical arm buzzing softly with the motion. He tiptoed toward the runic cold box his boss had helped install and opened it. Inside were several glass containers, some filled with food and others with drinks. His eyes scanned the contents, but his smile quickly faded – his cold brew from the previous night was nowhere to be found.

“Ah, dammit…”

He immediately suspected his wife. For reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, she had a strict rule against ale being in the house with the baby. As a part-dwarf, this was a frustrating matter, but he was far too intimidated by his missus to argue. Resigned, he pulled out some leftover chicken legs, placing them on a plate. The food was cold, but that was easily remedied with another runic invention in the house: a cooking furnace designed to heat food quickly.

Unlike traditional ovens, it required no fuel, running instead on a specialized socket. It was one of the many new conveniences spreading through Albrook, rapidly transforming the district where Bernir and his family lived. These modern appliances brought warm water, plumbing, and efficient heating systems into every home.

“The boss said that one day we’ll be able to heat things up without flames. What did he mean by that?”

Bernir muttered to himself as he watched the flame runes glow, steadily warming the chicken leg. Unaware of the concept of microwaves, he could only wonder at his boss’s innovative plans. Once the meat was warm, he devoured it quickly and prepared to start his day. The baby’s cries had woken him early, giving him the rare chance to greet shopkeepers as they prepared to open their stores.

As Bernir strolled through the streets, passersby nodded and greeted him warmly.

“Morning, Mr. Bernir!”

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A baker called out, holding a tray of freshly baked bread rolls.

“Here, have some!”

“I, uh, thank you.”

Bernir hesitated, wishing to refuse the offer, but he knew better. If he declined, the persistent baker would only insist until he relented. Once the roll was in his hand, the baker gave a low bow, as though Bernir were a wealthy merchant or noble.