After finishing my meal, I stepped out of the lodging house and ventured into the cobblestone streets of Dunverholm. The morning air enveloped me, crisp and refreshing, carrying with it the scent of dew-kissed earth and blooming flowers. The village bustled with life; vibrant market stalls lined the streets, and the air was filled with the cheerful hum of daily activity. As I walked, dwarves greeted me warmly, their smiles serving as a reassuring reminder of the connections I had formed in this charming community.

“Hey, Kira!” Durak, Dunverholm’s mayor, called out to me from across the street, his son Kheldor standing by his side with an infectious grin.

I offered a slight bow in acknowledgment. “Good morning, Durak-san,” I greeted him, then turned to Kheldor. “And good morning to you too, Kheldor-kun.” His eyes gleamed with gratitude, a reflection of the appreciation he had shown me since the day I rescued him from the clutches of the Saurian.

Durak clapped me on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. “Are you joining us at the tavern tonight? We’re having a celebration. Most of our women are heading to Hillstone for the annual market fair, so we can run wild.”

“I’d love to; but I’ve got plans tonight,” I replied with a grin, thinking of the special evening I had planned for once.

“Fair enough. See you around, kid!” Durak said, waving as I continued on my way, the sound of his hearty laughter lingering in the air.

Another hundred yards down the road, I arrived at the Stonehammer Forge. Its expansive open doors welcomed me inside, and immediately, I felt the difference between the cool morning air and the intense heat emanating from the smelting fires. The resounding clang of hammer on anvil filled the space, a chorus of metalwork that was both familiar and comforting to my ears.

Bromir, the village’s seasoned dwarf overseeing the forge, found himself deeply engrossed in his work at the sturdy oak workbench. His back was slightly hunched as he focused intently on shaping something intricate. Decades of dedicated practice had imbued his gnarled hands with astonishing dexterity and precision, showcasing the culmination of years of honed skill.

“Hey, Ossan!” I called out after entering the forge and slipping on my apron.

Bromir looked up, his eyes twinkling behind his bushy eyebrows. “About time you showed up, kid! What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

Among the dwarves, Bromir was the sole individual with whom I shared a close bond. He bore a striking resemblance to my own grandfather from back home, though with the added distinction of possessing massive biceps and muscles capable of effortlessly wielding a five-kilo battle ax. Moreover, he played a pivotal role in elevating my prestige within the dwarven community to an impressive ninety-five percent. With a firm certainty, I believed that no other Aoi player could attain such a remarkable level of prestige amidst the dwarf race.

Despite my reputation with the dwarves remaining unchanged after my life in the game was reset, I needed to repeat interactions and forge new bonds, as they no longer recognized me. Any projects I had started with Bromir but hadn’t finished needed to be restarted, and I had to find the materials again. Fortunately, I had only experienced death once during my two-year tenure among them. It occurred during a quest commissioned by Bromir himself: the extermination of a Kiiroi creature, Naga, within a cave in the nearby mountain range. The quest aimed at mining the rare mineral called Mithril, which was one of the essential components needed to craft my special gun.

Focusing on the positives, I realized the downsides of my unlimited resurrection through this experience. It’s one of the reasons I halted my ascent of the tower beyond the eleventh floor and rarely engaged in battles with the lizardmen tribe. I prioritized completing my gun and bullet project before leveling up my stats and pursuing further quests.

As I took my place at the workbench, Bromir glanced at me. “So, how’re those bullets coming along?”

“The casings are almost done. Just need to confirm they align with the gun’s barrel size,” I said, focusing on my work.

Bromir nodded approvingly, his hands deftly carving the finger grooves of my future weapon. “Make sure you get it right. We don’t want any mishaps.”

I watched him work, admiring the precision and care he put into every detail.

“How are you going to mass-produce those bullets, anyway?” Bromir continued, not looking up from his work.

I smirked. “Online store. But first, I need to make sure everything works perfectly.”

Bromir grunted in acknowledgment.

One thing about the Midoris was that they, too, had the option to order items from the online store, albeit through a different method. They would place orders with traveling merchants who visited their towns or villages, and the items would then be shipped over within one or a few months, depending on the quantity. When Bromir learned about my unique method of ordering things, he appointed me as his personal shopper. I agreed to his request but emphasized the importance of keeping this online shopping method of mine confidential from the other dwarves.

“Ossan, have you changed the rubber band on my SlingBam?”

“Aye, it’s stronger and more durable than the previous one, and it’s over there on your table.”

“Thanks,” I said, then made my way to the personal table and picked up my SlingBam, or more precisely, its new version. When Bromir first saw it, he was intrigued by its design and mechanism, prompting him to redo it using different materials. He elongated the barrel slightly by utilizing steel pipes instead of bamboo and reduced its diameter, resulting in a smoother pump action for the fore-hand that held the pouch mechanism. He also reinforced the pistol grip and trigger with sturdier materials and added buttplates with rubber pads for added comfort. Once Bromir completed the modifications, the new SlingBam resembled more of a shotgun than an enhanced slingshot.

The downside of this new weapon was that I did not receive any intelligence INT stats. That’s understandable since any item created with the help of a third party would not be considered my invention. On a more optimistic note, the SlingBam was classified as a gunner’s weapon, and I could use it. I wondered if the other Marksman subclasses besides mine would be able to wield it, given that I could not use theirs like the bow and crossbow. I tried it a few times, and the weapons malfunctioned; the bowstring snapped when I attempted to pull it, or the arrows broke as soon as I fired them. It felt more like a curse than a restriction placed on me.

Bromir watched me inspect the new SlingBam, his expression a mix of pride and curiosity. “What do you think, kid? Better than the old one?”

I nodded, testing the feel of the weapon in my hands. “Much better. The replacement rubber band makes a huge difference.”

“Good to hear. Just remember, the real test will be out in the field. No point in having a fancy weapon if it doesn’t perform when it matters.”

“True,” I agreed, nodding. “I’ll take it out for a spin during my next hunt.”

Tilting my head sideways, I caught sight of a ten-inch-tall female figurine on my workbench. Crafted from clay infused with a metallic element, she stood proudly, dressed in a vibrant array of meticulously painted clothes. Her face and body contours were painstakingly detailed, capturing the likeness of a real person. While I had created many similar figurines, each featuring various styles of maid uniforms, this one was special—one of a kind. Let’s just say its clothes revealed more than they should, a cheeky detail that set it apart from the rest. Commercializing these creations through the online store had proven lucrative, earning me a significant amount of gold with a ten percent profit share per sale.

Her statue, which I considered one of my greatest creations, was more than mere art; it was a cherished memory and a tribute to a classmate who had left an indelible mark on my world. The delicate craftsmanship and meticulous attention to her features captured her essence with astonishing accuracy, evoking a sense of her physical presence. Sometimes, I wished I could see her in person one more time.