Mirac observed Blake carefully.

The word "disappeared" echoed with a familiar resonance. It wasn't the first time Blake had hinted at a loss, at something unresolved.

The death of his mother, the mysterious disappearance of his father… and now Derek.

'Yes, I remember well. He mentioned it last night…' Mirac thought.

Then, with a measured tone, choosing his words carefully, he said: "I'm sorry for your loss…"

Blake nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the sign.

The reddish light filtering from inside the building danced across his face, accentuating the shadow of melancholy in his eyes.

The two stood for a moment in front of the workshop, enveloped by the glow of the sunset that painted the alley in shades of gold and crimson.

"Who runs the workshop now?" Mirac asked, breaking the silence.

Blake shook his head, as if shaking off the weight of memories.

"His son," he replied, his voice lighter but still tinged with nostalgia. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Blake gestured with his head, inviting Mirac to follow him toward the entrance of the workshop.

The door, a sturdy wooden panel reinforced with iron bands, was slightly ajar, letting the warmth and glow of the forges seep through.

The rhythmic sound of a hammer striking an anvil resonated like a heartbeat, steady and reassuring, while the smell of glowing metal and charcoal filled the air.

As they entered, Mirac was immediately enveloped by a wave of heat.

The interior of the workshop was an organized chaos: tools hung on the walls, stacks of metal ingots in one corner, and a majestic dragon-shaped forge embedded in the back wall.

Flames erupted from its open jaws, dancing with controlled fury, fueled by an intricate system of pipes and Mana Crystals embedded in the iron scales.

Those tongues of fire, alive and pulsing, seemed like the very breath of the creature, illuminating the figure of a man hunched over an anvil.

He was young, about 24 years old, with broad shoulders and muscular arms marked by testamentscars from old burns.

His brown hair, tied in a messy ponytail, was drenched in sweat, and his face, focused on his work, reflected fierce determination.

The young blacksmith was working on a glowing blade, freshly pulled from the dragon forge's jaws.

With precise, rhythmic strikes, the hammer shaped the red-hot metal, each impact sending sparks flying like tiny falling stars.

The blade, still rough and far from complete, was held with long iron tongs.

Next to the anvil, two other unfinished blades awaited their turn, a sign that the man had several commissions in progress.

"Hey, Thomas!" Blake called, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the forge's flames.

The man looked up, setting the hammer down with a decisive gesture.

His intense gray eyes scanned Blake first, then Mirac, with a mix of curiosity and caution.

He wiped his hands on a blackened leather apron and approached, drying his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Blake," he said, his voice deep but not hostile. "Haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here?"

Blake smiled, but Mirac noticed his enthusiasm was more restrained than usual. "I got back last night from a long week of exploration and wanted to show the workshop to a friend I met yesterday. Isaac, this is Thomas, Derek's son. Thomas, this is Isaac, a newcomer in town."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised by the enigmatic appearance of the masked boy.

'A friend?' he wondered, momentarily at a loss for words, his gaze fixed on Mirac's mask.

However, after a moment, his face softened into a more welcoming expression.

"Isaac, huh?" Thomas said, extending a calloused hand toward Mirac. "Welcome to the Dragon's Jaws."

Mirac shook Thomas's hand firmly, feeling the rough, calloused strength of his grip, a testament to years spent working with molten metal.

"Thanks," he replied in a calm voice, his tone muffled by the mask concealing his face. "I noticed that the weapons lent by the Association for the Physical Test bore the mark carved on the sign out there. I used a sword and a dagger, and I must say they were really well made."

Thomas chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to echo the crackling of the forge behind him.

"I see you've got a good eye, kid. And a good grip, I must say…" he said, squeezing Mirac's hand for a moment longer before letting go. "Indeed, that's right. The weapons you're talking about were forged by my father, and the emblem you saw is his," he clarified, his tone betraying a mix of respect and pain. "He was a truly incredible blacksmith…"

Mirac nodded, withdrawing his hand with a measured gesture. "Blake already told me about him. I'm very sorry for what happened to your father…"

Thomas lowered his gaze for a moment, his face marked by a shadow of pain that mingled with the flickering light of the dragon forge.

The mention of his father, Derek, seemed to strike a deep chord, but he quickly composed himself, as if accustomed to hiding the weight of his emotions behind the strength of his craft.

"Thanks, Isaac," he said, his voice quieter but steady. "It's tough, but… life goes on." With a nod, he gestured toward the dragon-shaped forge behind him, where the flames pulsed like the breath of a living creature. "My father taught me everything I know. Now it's up to me to carry on his name."

Blake, who had remained silent until then, cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well said, Thomas! That's exactly why I brought you a potential customer…" he said, pointing at the masked boy with his thumb.

Mirac blinked under his mask, caught off guard. "Huh? A customer?" he repeated, his voice tinged with surprise.

He hadn't expected Blake to drag him into a situation like this without warning.

Blake, meanwhile, flashed him a sly grin, as if he'd planned it all from the start.

He took a step closer, placing a hand on Mirac's shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Exactly! Yesterday, when we got into trouble with those beasts, you handled those daggers like you were born with them in your hands. But today, at the Physical Test, you and Ananya seemed more at ease with swords. Am I right?"

Mirac tilted his head slightly, reflecting.

It was true: against the Rogthars, the daggers provided by Carmen had proven agile and precise, perfect for quick movements.

Having trained for years in swordsmanship with the Great Knight Leonard, he had developed a certain affinity for the weapon.

At the Physical Test, even Blake had noticed the difference: the sword Mirac had wielded seemed like a natural extension of his body.

Almost an arm to compensate for the one he was missing…

"I suppose so," Mirac admitted, his voice calm but thoughtful.

Blake chuckled, crossing his arms with a satisfied look. "Good. If that's the case, for what lies ahead, you'll need to equip yourselves properly. And what better place than this?" He spread his arms, sweeping his arms toward the workshop. "Trust me, here in Raerno, 'The Dragon's Jaws' is the best workshop for getting quality weapons. Derek was a legend, but Thomas's no slouch either."

Mirac nodded slowly, catching the implication.

Blake hadn't said it outright, but it was clear he was referring to the upcoming Raid on the Rogthar Dungeon.

The prospect of embarking on such a dangerous mission with a suitable sword was comforting: having the right equipment could truly make the difference between life and death.

"You're right," Mirac said finally, turning to the blacksmith. "But right now, I'm short on money. Could I take a look at your weapons and, if I find something I like, reserve it and pay for it another day?"

Thomas, who had been listening silently, leaned against the anvil behind him, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "No problem, Isaac. By the way, I also accept monthly or weekly installment payments. And if you don't find anything that suits you, we can always forge something custom-made for you."

Mirac tilted his head, intrigued by Thomas's offer. 'A custom-made weapon?'

The idea piqued his interest.

He had never owned a weapon forged especially for him, and the prospect of bringing to life a sword perfectly suited to his fighting style—especially considering his physical condition—was enticing.

"A custom-made weapon…" Mirac repeated, his voice thoughtful, filtered through the mask. "Sounds interesting. How long would it take to forge one?"

Thomas rubbed his chin, his gaze fixed on Mirac as if evaluating not just his request but his very essence.

"Depends," the blacksmith replied with the confidence of someone who knows their craft. "I need to consider the material, the balance, and, of course, your fighting style. Are you more about precise thrusts or broad strikes? And then…" he paused, his eyes lingering for a moment on Mirac's missing arm, "I assume you need something to compensate for your… disadvantage, right? Taking all that into account, and considering I already have a ton of commissions to finish this week, I'd say it'd take about ten days to forge you a sword."

Mirac didn't flinch.

'As I thought… I don't have time for a custom weapon!'

From the start, Mirac had been aware that the main issue wasn't so much money or payment methods, but time.

According to his estimates, the Raid on the Rogthar Dungeon was set to happen that very week, so there wasn't enough time to have a weapon custom-forged.

"I see…" Mirac said, his voice calm but resolute, filtered through the mask. "Do you have anything ready that might suit me? Something lightweight, balanced, suitable for quick movements and precise thrusts, but also sturdy enough to hold up in prolonged combat."

Thomas nodded, a glint of appreciation in his gray eyes as he listened to Mirac's precise request. "A lightweight, balanced weapon for precise thrusts and durable… I see you know what you want. Follow me, I'll take you downstairs. That's where I keep everything ready for sale."

With a decisive gesture, Thomas turned, heading toward a stone staircase descending from a corner of the workshop.

The staircase, carved directly into the rock and illuminated by torches fixed to the walls, gave off a faint smell of metal and burnt wax.

The clangor of the dragon forge faded as the three—Mirac, Blake, and Thomas—descended the steps, replaced by a heavier silence, broken only by the crackling of the torch flames.

As they descended to the lower level, Mirac's passive abilities cataloged every detail instantly, as always: there were exactly 22 steps ("Instant Counting"), each 18 centimeters high and 30 centimeters deep ("Instant Knowledge of Dimensions").

At the bottom, Thomas pushed open a heavy iron door, which swung open with a low, deep creak.

"Welcome to the heart of 'The Dragon's Jaws,'" the blacksmith said, a hint of pride in his voice.

Mirac and Blake entered a spacious, well-lit room, different from the chaotic atmosphere of the upper floor.

Here, order reigned supreme.

The gray stone walls were lined with racks of dark wood and polished steel, displaying dozens of weapons: swords, daggers, axes, halberds, maces, and even a few more exotic weapons, like a pair of sai or a spiked chain.

Each weapon was carefully positioned, its blade or tip gleaming under the light of oil lamps hanging from the ceiling.

Some racks were dedicated to shields and pieces of armor—breastplates, bracers, helmets—all adorned with the emblem of 'The Dragon's Jaws.'

On the opposite side of the room, a series of carved wooden display cases held smaller items: daggers, throwing knives, knuckle-dusters, and scramasaxes, while a long oak table, uncovered, showcased a selection of swords, laid out on red velvet cloths to highlight their craftsmanship.

As Mirac surveyed the room, his passive abilities, united by the common essence of "Instant Knowledge," worked tirelessly, like a natural extension of his senses.

"Instant Counting" allowed him to immediately catalog the number of items present: 51 weapons on the racks, 26 daggers and knives in the display cases, 18 pieces of armor on wooden stands, and 11 swords on the table.

"Instant Knowledge of Dimensions" provided a precise picture of the room's proportions: 13 meters long, 9 meters wide, with a ceiling 3.5 meters high.

"Instant Knowledge of Weight" revealed that the weapons ranged from 700 grams for a lightweight dagger to 4.2 kilograms for a two-handed mace resting in a corner.

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To the right of the entrance, a long oak table displayed a selection of swords, laid out on red velvet cloths to emphasize their craftsmanship.

Mirac approached the oak table, his gaze methodically scanning the swords.

Each sword had something unique: some had hilts decorated with bronze inlays, others had blades with steel veins that seemed to pulse with energy.

He noted that each sword on the table had an average length of 95 centimeters, with variations of just a few millimeters between them.

Thomas stopped beside him, crossing his arms.

"This is what I've got to offer," he said, gesturing to the swords on the table. "I'm swamped with commissions this week, so I can't stop to show you each sword one by one. But take your time looking, and feel free to pick them up to see which one feels right. When you've decided, come back upstairs. I'll be there working."

With that, Thomas disappeared up the steps, leaving Mirac and Blake alone in the room.

Meanwhile, the tall, slim boy approached the stairs and paused on the first step.

"Unfortunately, I'm no sword expert, so I won't be much help either," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "But like Thomas said, take all the time you need. I'll be upstairs waiting."

Mirac gave a slight nod, watching Blake walk away, but his mind was already elsewhere.

He knew that some blacksmiths, especially those of Derek's caliber, used Mana Metals to forge extraordinary weapons.

These various metal alloys, infused with magical energy, extracted from the depths of the earth where the flow of Mana ran like a divine river, were a gift from Gneiss, Goddess of Earth and Mountains.

Swords forged with Mana Metals were lighter than others and, when empowered by the wielder's Mana, incredibly durable and lethal.

Driven by this awareness, he decided to activate his Magical Perception to probe for traces of Mana in the blades of the displayed swords.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm his mind. With a mental gesture, he allowed Mana to flow toward his eyes—a delicate yet powerful stream, like a brook winding through rocks.

It wasn't an overly dangerous technique, but if performed incorrectly—for instance, hastily or without focus—it could exact a terrible price, such as blindness.

For Mirac, however, it was a piece of cake, as it was a technique he had practiced daily until it became second nature, as easy to execute as moving a limb.

Within moments, a slight tingling brushed across his eyelids, like a breeze charged with energy.

When he opened his eyes, the world around him transformed: his Magical Perception had successfully activated.

Threads of Mana, thin as glowing cobwebs, wove through the air, revealing the magical energy that filled the room.

The weapons on the racks and in the display cases emitted a faint aura, a sign they were forged with traditional techniques, but some stood out with a more intense light.

Mirac focused on the oak table, letting his Magical Perception analyze each blade.

He picked up the first, with a hilt wrapped in black leather interwoven with silver thread, testing its balance with a quick thrust: its 900-gram weight felt perfect in his hand, and Magical Perception revealed a decent Mana aura, a bluish glow pulsing with contained strength.

He tried another, with a curved guard adorned with leaf-shaped engravings: 94 centimeters long, it responded nimbly to his movements, and its Mana shimmered in luminous threads, promising resilience and power.

He tested a third, with a smooth iron hilt: its 870-gram weight was ideal for precise strikes, and its Mana aura was equally intense, a steady flow that vibrated at his touch.

Almost all the swords possessed a significant amount of Mana, making them more than just high-quality steel craftsmanship.

Each was finely forged, with hilts that fit comfortably in his grip and a balance capable of satisfying any swordsman.

But in the end, one sword, positioned near the center of the table, caught Mirac's attention more than the others.

It was a one-handed sword, with a 70-centimeter blade and a 22-centimeter hilt, similar to the swords he had trained with under Great Knight Leonard.

The blade, however, was unique: its steel wove veins of silvery gray, while the hilt, wrapped in matte black leather, ended in a guard shaped like stylized wings, elegantly curved to offer protection without sacrificing agility.

The silvery-gray veins seemed to pulse faintly, as if responding to the Mana flowing through Mirac.

Next to the sword, a hand-engraved tag displayed the price:

'O-One hundred twenty Quorins?!' Mirac exclaimed to himself, only then realizing the cost.

It was undoubtedly a high price, even for a finely crafted blade.

But this very fact confirmed that it wasn't an ordinary weapon.

And so, Mirac was willing to pay that sum in the future.

In the meantime, Magical Perception revealed that the blade emitted a magical aura superior to that of the other swords, a bluish glow that betrayed the presence of a high-quality Mana Metal alloy, capable of making it lighter and more durable than the other weapons on display.

Without hesitation, the masked boy gripped the sword, its weight of about 800 grams fitting perfectly in his single hand.

With a fluid motion, Mirac executed a thrust, then an arc, feeling impeccable balance and a lightness that didn't compromise sturdiness.

'It's more than good, I'd say!' Mirac thought.

Satisfied, he deactivated his Magical Perception, the world returning to its natural colors, and ascended the stone steps to the upper floor, firmly gripping the chosen sword.

Reaching the ground floor, the roar of the dragon forge greeted him again, more intense now that Thomas had returned to work.

The blacksmith was hammering a red-hot blade, the metal radiating a vivid orange glow under the precise strikes of the hammer as it took shape.

On the workbench, two other rough blades awaited forging, proof that Thomas was truly immersed in a heavy load of commissions.

Nearby, Blake was seated on a stool, his gaze fixed on the blacksmith's work.

A certain melancholy veiled his eyes, as if the scene brought back memories of days spent watching the legendary blacksmith work with the same dedication at the forge…

Aware of this, Mirac paused, his own gaze drawn to the forge and the blacksmith intent on shaping the blade.

However, while waiting for Thomas to take a moment's break between hammer strikes to announce his choice, his attention was immediately captured by an unusual detail…

Thanks to "Instant Knowledge of Temperature," Mirac noticed that the flames maintained a constant temperature of 1,500 °C, free of the fluctuations typical of a traditional forge.

He realized he had overlooked this detail the first time he entered the workshop, overwhelmed by the incessant flow of information his passive abilities provided about every single object in his field of vision.

'Something's not right…' he thought, narrowing his eyes beneath the mask.

Driven by a hunch, he reactivated Magic Perception.

The world was once again tinged with glowing threads, and the forge became a vortex of Mana.

The Mana Crystals embedded in the structure pulsed faintly, channeling energy into the forge, which in turn generated Mana-infused flames.

Those same flames danced as if alive, animated by a force beyond mere fuel.

Mirac took a step closer, the heat prickling his skin.

'The Mana Crystals embedded in the forge act as the primary energy source, channeling their magical power to fuel the flames. But they aren't the ones generating them,' Mirac reflected, his eyes scrutinizing every detail of the dragon-shaped structure. 'Without a doubt, a more sophisticated mechanism governs the combustion: perhaps an Elemental Artifact inscribed with Fire Runes, capable of summoning magical flames with uniform intensity. That would explain the constant temperature of the fire. And come to think of it, it wouldn't surprise me at all if that were the case, given Derek's legendary reputation. After all, the unique design of the forge makes it almost certain that he was the one who conceived it and designed its complex integrated power system…'

* * *

After a few minutes spent delivering a series of strikes, Thomas placed the rough blade on a stand beside the forge, still far from complete.

He turned to Mirac, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "So, Isaac, found something that catches your interest?" he asked, his tone casual but with a spark of curiosity in his gray eyes.

Mirac nodded, raising the sword he had chosen from the oak table. "This one," he said, his voice calm but resolute.

Thomas approached, closely inspecting the blade that gleamed under the flickering light of the forge.

A faint smile curved his lips as he nodded in approval.

"Excellent choice. It's one of my finest works, forged with a rare, pure Mana Metal alloy, lighter and more durable than any other sword in the shop downstairs."

But before Mirac could respond or say anything, Thomas interrupted him, raising a calloused hand.

"And don't worry about the payment," he said, his tone surprisingly light. "Blake told me all about you, especially how you and your companion saved him from those cave beasts yesterday. So, to thank you for protecting my friend and to celebrate your promotion to Rectified Blade rank, I want to make you a gift…"

With a gesture of his still-raised hand, Thomas pointed to the sword Mirac was firmly holding.

"Take the sword, Isaac. Payment can wait until you have the money. No rush."

Mirac remained silent for a moment, processing the blacksmith's words.

He cast a quick glance at Blake, who had risen from the stool and was watching him with a sly smile, as if—once again—he had orchestrated everything from the start.

'I see…' Mirac thought, a faint smile touching his lips beneath the mask.

"Thank you, Thomas," he said then, his voice filled with sincere gratitude. "I don't know how to thank you. This is truly generous of you."

Thomas shrugged, his face marked by a gruff expression that masked an evident satisfaction, as if it were no big deal.

Then, he gestured toward a sturdy workbench in a corner of the workshop. "Come, let's sign an agreement to formalize the purchase. Don't worry, it's just a formality. No tricks or extra costs."

Mirac chuckled to himself before following Thomas to the table, where the blacksmith pulled out a simple but well-drafted parchment, a "transfer contract" that formalized the sword's transfer and the deferred payment agreement.

While reading the document, however, Mirac paused, noticing an inconsistency.

The contract listed the sword's price as 60 Quorins, half of what was indicated on the tag downstairs.

He furrowed his brows beneath the mask and looked up at Thomas. "Wait a moment… it says here the sword costs 60 Quorins, but the tag downstairs said 120. Is that a mistake?"

Thomas let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"No, no mistake," he replied. "While you were examining the swords downstairs, Blake offered to cover half the cost, no matter which sword you chose. He said it was the least he could do to repay you and Ananya."

Mirac turned sharply toward Blake, who was leaning against the workbench with a smug grin plastered across his face.

The tall, lanky boy looked far too pleased, as if he were enjoying every moment of the situation.

"Blake…" Mirac began, his voice uncertain, filtered through the mask. "I can't accept this. Ananya and I are already in your debt for everything you've done for us. This… it's too much."

Blake raised a hand, interrupting him with a smile that wavered between sincerity and amusement.

"Relax. I'm not keeping track of this expense. Consider it more of a gift…"

He pronounced the last word with a tone that seemed on the verge of turning into a laugh, but he held back, settling for a grin.

Mirac, however, too focused on the generosity of the offer, didn't catch the boy's veiled humor.

"A gift…" Mirac repeated, still hesitant, but the warmth in Blake's voice and his sincere smile convinced him not to press further. "If that's the case, I suppose I can't refuse… Thank you, Blake."

The tall, lanky boy shrugged, his smile widening.

Mirac returned the smile and turned back to the contract. With a quick, decisive stroke, he signed with his assumed name: Isaac Belgram.

Thomas then explained that no weapons permit would be issued: Mirac's Association Identity Document, along with his Rectified Blade rank badge, already served as authorization to possess weapons purchased from public workshops like "The Dragon's Jaws."

"One moment," Thomas said, setting the parchment down. "I'll go get the scabbard and belt for the sword."

With that, he disappeared down the stone staircase, returning moments later with a black leather scabbard, adorned with subtle engravings that echoed the stylized wings of the sword's guard, and a sturdy yet lightweight belt.

"Here you go. Try it on," the blacksmith said. "And don't worry: the belt and scabbard are on the house."

Mirac took the scabbard and fastened it to the belt, then slid the sword into it with a fluid motion.

He positioned it on his left hip, where he could easily draw it with his right hand.

The sword's weight felt perfectly balanced by the belt, resting naturally against his side.

As Mirac carefully adjusted the belt, Blake approached Thomas, pulling a small leather wallet from his pocket.

"Here's the 60 Quorins," he said, his voice low but firm, handing over three green bills bearing the symbol of Mother Nature.

"You could've given them to me another day, you know that, right?" Thomas replied, taking the money without further comment.

Blake, however, paused, as if struck by a sudden thought.

"Uhm…" He scratched the back of his neck, an embarrassed smile spreading across his face. "Actually, Thomas… I think I need a sword too. Mine broke yesterday during the exploration I told you about. I barely managed to escape from those strange creatures by a miracle."

Thomas let out a low, raspy laugh, shaking his head as if he'd heard this story one too many times.

"Blake, Blake… always the same story! Every time you come back from a mission with a sword reduced to shards. I've lost count of how many we've given you!" he said, his tone amused but with a hint of exasperation. "When are you going to learn to treat them like swords and not clubs?"

Blake chuckled, shrugging with a feigned innocent air. "I'll be more careful next time, I promise!"

Then, with a quick gesture, he pulled two 20-Quorins bills from his wallet and handed them to the blacksmith with a smirk.

"Ahem!" Blake coughed, trying to divert Thomas's attention from yet another broken sword. "Anyway, I'll take the usual, thanks."

Thomas let out a long sigh, but one corner of his mouth curled into a resigned smile.

After pocketing the bills, he headed toward a rack near the workbench, where several swords ready for sale were hung.

With a decisive gesture, he picked up a one-handed sword, simple and functional: a straight 75-centimeter blade, with a hilt wrapped in dark brown leather and a plain steel guard.

No engravings, no unnecessary details.

"Here you go," Thomas said, handing it to Blake.

Blake took the sword, weighing it with a clumsy wrist movement.

He made a test thrust, a bit awkward but deliberate, nodding with satisfaction.

"Well, this should do for the next mission…" he muttered to himself, already anticipating the inevitable fate of that poor blade.

Meanwhile, after getting accustomed to the new belt, Mirac turned to the blacksmith.

"It's perfect," he murmured. "Thanks again."

Thomas nodded with a smile, slowly heading back to his forge. "You're welcome."

Blake approached Mirac and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"I told you this was the right place," he said, with a satisfied smile. "Let's go now, it's getting late."

After Mirac offered one final thank you to the blacksmith, he headed toward the exit alongside Blake.

The glow of the forge faded behind them, while the twilight painted the alley in shades of purple and blue.

* * *

It was around 7:30 PM when the two arrived in front of Blake's house.

Mirac noticed that the lights inside were still off, a sign that Carmen hadn't yet returned from her long day of work, likely still busy selling Rogthar organs somewhere.

At the same time, the duo stopped in front of the main entrance.

Blake bent down and removed a slightly protruding brick from the wall near the door, revealing a hidden set of keys behind it.

"These are the spare keys," he explained, showing them to Mirac with a smile. "So, if I lose the ones I always carry, I'm not screwed. You never know, hehehe…"

He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door with a faint creak.

The interior of the house was shrouded in darkness, the dim light from the streetlamps outside barely filtering through the windows, barely illuminating the entrance.

Mirac stepped inside without hesitation, bending down to untie his shoes and slip on the house slippers he'd left near the door that morning.

Mirac's visual memory and the faint light coming from the street lamps were enough for him to move easily through that familiar space, while his passive abilities cataloged every minute detail of the visible surroundings.

'It's been a long day,' the masked boy thought. 'I can't wait to lie down in bed and-!'

Suddenly, a shiver ran down Mirac's spine, abruptly cutting off his train of thought.

He didn't know exactly how—perhaps the same instinct that years ago had saved him from Klark's surprise attack—but he sensed a presence at the far end of the house.

It wasn't just a vague feeling: his senses, honed by years of training and enhanced by his abilities, detected something, an almost imperceptible movement in the air, like a shadow silently shifting beyond the dark corridor.

Mirac shot to his feet, his right hand went to the hilt of his new sword, now secured on his left hip.

The silvery-gray veins of the blade pulsed faintly under his touch, as if responding to his tension.

Blake, who was closing the door, froze for a moment, his face barely visible in the dim light.

Mirac turned slightly toward Blake, who was still near the door, and whispered, his voice low and tense, filtered through the mask:

"Blake, there's someone inside…" Mirac whispered, without taking his eyes off the darkness ahead. "I don't know who it is, but we need to stay alert. It could be someone dangerous, so the best thing to do is-!"

Before he could continue, a sharp noise interrupted Mirac: the click of the door closing completely behind him.

In the pitch-black darkness, Blake's voice rang out, low and amused, catching Mirac completely off guard:

"Damn it… so you noticed, huh?"

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