I know the owner of this rundown, half-forgotten forge.

The Exile of Wind Cliff.

Grundar.

Once, he was a legendary craftsman—one whose name alone carried enough weight to make even kings bow their heads. Weapons that reshaped battlefields. Armor that turned heroes into living fortresses. Many of the Empire's most famous relics traced their origins back to his hammer.

And then, one day, he vanished.

No announcements. No farewell. Just rumors—of an incident, of betrayal, of disgust toward the so-called "civilized world." In the end, all that remained was this shabby forge at the edge of nowhere, and a dwarf who lived by no one's rules but his own.

In the webtoon, Grundar doesn't appear until much later.

A late-game supporting character.

The one who forges the protagonist's true weapon.

And yet—here I am, standing in front of his door far earlier than I'm supposed to.

Bang! Bang!

"Grun! Are you in there?"

Vermut slammed his fist against the warped wooden door, the sound echoing sharply through the quiet mountainside.

"…."

No response.

Bang!

"Come out! You lazy bum!"

The door rattled violently under the assault. A moment passed. Then another.

"Ah…! So noisy! Really."

With an irritated creak, the door finally swung open.

A short, broad-shouldered figure stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in clear annoyance. His beard was wild and unkempt, streaked with ash and soot, and his hair—once neatly braided—now stuck out in all directions. Despite that, his eyes were sharp. Too sharp for an ordinary hermit.

"What's with the sudden visit and all this commotion?" Grundar grumbled.

Vermut broke into a wide grin. "You're alive, after all."

"Tch. Unfortunately," Grundar clicked his tongue. His gaze shifted past Vermut—and landed on me.

Then he gaze once again landed back to Vermut.

The dwarf glared at Vermut the moment he saw him.

He scratched at his disheveled head, fingers disappearing into a bushy, unkempt beard that looked like it hadn't seen proper grooming in years.

Ugh—alcohol.

As the door creaked open, a heavy stench poured out, so thick it almost felt visible. The sharp, sour smell burned my nose. He must have been drinking until just moments ago.

Sure enough, a half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his hand.

"It's been a while, Grun," Vermut said casually, as if he were greeting an old neighbor.

Grun snorted. "What do you mean, 'a while'? We met not long ago."

"Hahaha. Not long ago?" Vermut laughed heartily. "The last time I saw your face was ten years ago."

"That's not long at all," Grun shot back without hesitation.

"Ten years is quite a long time for humans," Vermut replied, shrugging.

The same span of time—ten years.

Yet, because they were of different races, they interpreted it in completely opposite ways.

"I still find it hard to understand long-lived races," Vermut muttered, shaking his head.

Grun scoffed. "Humans are the strange ones."

The two of them shook their heads almost in sync, each clearly convinced the other made no sense.

Watching them, I couldn't help but think they looked oddly… comfortable together.

Despite the grumbling and sharp words, there was no real hostility in the air. If anything, it felt like an old habit—two people repeating the same argument they'd had countless times before.

From my perspective, they were obviously close.

After all, the fact that Grun hadn't already swung his hammer at us for showing up unannounced said everything. For a dwarf—especially this dwarf—that level of restraint was practically a miracle.

Either that…

Or Grun was being lenient because Vermut was someone he simply couldn't deal with head-on.

Grun took another swig from his bottle and scowled. "So," he grumbled, eyes narrowing as he finally looked past Vermut and noticed me, "you didn't come all this way just to reminisce, did you?"

Vermut's smile widened slightly. "Of course not."

That smile told me one thing clearly.

Whatever Vermut had come here for, it was bound to be troublesome—for everyone involved.

"So what is it this time?"

"I have a favor to ask."

"A favor?"

"Yes. Could you shelter us for a while? Our house was destroyed."

Grundar's thick brows twitched. "And just what did you do to get your house destroyed?"

"Haha. Nothing worth mentioning. There was just… a small commotion."

"Always stirring up trouble," Grundar muttered, shaking his head.

From the way he reacted, it was clear Vermut had quite the history here—far removed from the calm, dependable image I had formed of him.

Then again, that image was based on memories from ten years ago.

Grundar's sharp gaze shifted past Vermut and landed on us. "You're not alone?"

"Just for a day," Vermut said casually. "They're all people with nowhere else to go."

"Hmph! Ridiculous," Grundar snorted. "I might've considered it if it was just you, but this many people? What do you take this place for—a roadside inn? Get lost."

So much for optimism.

The blunt refusal matched his portrayal in the comic perfectly. Stubborn, prideful, and about as welcoming as a locked iron door.

I was already preparing myself to leave when Vermut spoke again, completely unbothered.

"Don't you owe me one?"

"…What nonsense are you talking about?" Grundar replied instantly. "I don't recall owing you anything."

He crossed his arms, feigning ignorance, but Vermut's gaze sharpened just slightly.

"You said it yourself," Vermut continued calmly. "Dwarves are a race that always keeps their promises."

"Ahem. That is true," Grundar admitted, clearing his throat.

"But watching you now," Vermut went on, tilting his head, "I'm starting to wonder whether you're really a dwarf anymore."

"…What?"

"That pride you used to boast about—where did it go? Living among humans for so long… perhaps you've abandoned your own beliefs?"

The words landed like hammer blows.

Grundar's jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a thin line. The air between them grew heavy, thick with tension.

For a moment, I thought he might actually explode.

Then—

"Alright! Alright!"

Grundar threw his hands up with a growl, as if surrendering to an invisible enemy.

"Damn it all… you're still as sharp-tongued as ever," he grumbled. "You always knew exactly where to stab."

Vermut smiled faintly, victorious.

"Tch. Fine. One day," Grundar said, pointing a thick finger at Vermut. "One day only. And don't you dare wreck my house."

"Of course," Vermut replied smoothly. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Grundar glanced at the rest of us once more, his hard expression easing—if only by a hair's breadth.

"…Just shut up and come in."

"Heh. Thanks."

"Don't thank me after blackmailing me, you bastard."

"If you hadn't thought about breaking your promise in the first place, none of this would've happened, right?"

"You really never stop talking. And you're younger than me, too."

Cornered, Grundar finally pulled out the age card.

It was a pretty pathetic argument, especially coming from a long-lived race like his. Still, it was clear he'd already given up on winning this exchange. With a rough click of his tongue, he stepped aside and jerked his chin toward the interior.

"Just for one night. Don't get any funny ideas."

"Of course," I replied lightly. "We'll be model guests."

He snorted, clearly not buying it, and turned on his heel. We followed him inside the forge.

The moment we crossed the threshold—

"Ugh…!"

I reflexively covered my nose. The stench hit me like a physical blow.

Alcohol.

No—alcohol didn't even begin to describe it. This was an overwhelming, eye-watering mixture of stale liquor, fermented grain, smoke, and hot metal. It clung to the air so thickly it felt like I could taste it.

"What in the world…?" I muttered, my eyes watering.

The smell inside was far stronger than what I'd sensed when Grundar first cracked the door open. That had only been a warning. This was the real thing.

"By the gods," Viola behind me groaned. "How much did you drink?"

Grundar shot us an annoyed look. "What are you staring at? This is a forge. A dwarf's forge."

"That doesn't explain why it smells like a tavern exploded in here," I said.

"Hmph. You outsiders don't understand anything." He waved a hand dismissively. "Alcohol sharpens the spirit. Keeps the hands steady. Helps with inspiration."

"Pretty sure it dulls the senses," I replied.

"That's because you're human."

I had no comeback to that.

The forge itself was… impressive, in its own chaotic way. Half-finished weapons lay scattered across heavy worktables. Hammers of all sizes hung from the walls, some so large I couldn't imagine lifting them. The furnace at the back still glowed faintly, embers pulsing like a sleeping beast.

Empty bottles, however, were everywhere. On shelves. On the floor. Even balanced precariously on an anvil. Some were intact, others shattered, their contents long since soaked into the stone.

"So," I said slowly, looking around, "this is how the great craftsman Grundar lives."

"Watch your mouth," he growled, though there was less bite to it than before. "You're lucky I even let you in."

"I know, I know. Truly honored."

He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

Thankfully he didn't kicked us out.

...But before we rest we have to do something about this nasty smell of alcohol.

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