Omake - Diomedes 19- Money, smithing And a broom.
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Year 302-Dawn fortress.
It was a warm, sunlit day, with golden rays filtering through the hazy air above the bustling street. The scent of fresh bread, leather, and a faint tang of smoke filled the atmosphere, drifting from the various shops and stalls that lined the road. Merchants hawked their wares, and the steady murmur of conversations blended with the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone as carts and carriages rolled by.
Nestled amidst the lively market street, just a short distance from the towering ramparts of Dawn Fortress, stood a sturdy old smithy. The building's walls, darkened with soot and age, seemed to absorb the sunlight, making the hot air that rolled out from its interior shimmer even more fiercely. A large anvil sat just outside, catching the light on its polished surface, while the constant
clang of bronze on steel rang through the open door like the heartbeat of the city.
Inside, the forge crackled, the heat from the flames casting a warm, orange glow over the various tools hanging from the walls—hammers, tongs, and chisels all worn with use but well cared for. Half-finished swords and shields of bronze leaned against workbenches, their metal gleaming, while a collection of nails and crabshoes lay scattered nearby, waiting to be bundled and sold. The blacksmith himself, a burly man with soot-streaked arms and a sweat-soaked brow, swung his fist down with precision, sparks flying as he shaped a new blade.
Outside, the steady hum of life continued unabated, with the occasional passerby pausing to admire the craftsmanship displayed outside the smithy. Despite the flurry of movement, there was a calm to the scene—a sense of order, of work being done and routines followed.
Until the shout broke through the air Disturbing the peace and causing heads to swivel.
"HOW MUCH!?!"
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"One thousand seven hundred thirty-five middle-grade spirit stones," the aged clerk repeated, his voice calm and unbothered despite the fact that Diomedes, towering and clearly agitated, loomed over him. The faint glow of spirit formations flickered across the walls as if mocking the tension in the air.
"That number is absurd!" Diomedes roared, his deep voice reverberating through the small shop. "You could outfit an entire century with custom-made artifacts at that price and still have some left over!" His frustration was punctuated by a heavy step forward—one that unintentionally splintered the fragile wooden desk the clerk had been standing behind moments ago.
The clerk, however, remained unfazed, merely glancing at the ruined furniture. "That is the price, sir," he said in a monotone, brushing off dust from his robes. "And it is non-negotiable."
Diomedes opened his mouth, about to protest further, when a deep, gravelly voice from the back of the shop cut him off.
"Oh, quit your yapping, you oaf!" A figure emerged from the shadows of the forge in the back, the heat of molten metal shimmering behind him and clinging to his arms ,droplets falling to the floor. The blacksmith, a stocky man with a well-maintained, salt-and-pepper mustache, walked slowly into the room, wiping soot from his hands with a rag. "The price is more than fair."
He stopped in front of the mess that was once the desk, glanced at the clerk with an amused grin, then shot a glare at Diomedes. "And it's one thousand seven hundred thirty-six now," he added with a raised brow, gesturing to the pile of shattered wood on the floor. "That desk didn't destroy itself."
Diomedes glanced down at the wreckage, and a look of embarrassed realization crossed his face. His imposing demeanor deflated a little. "Oh… uh… sorry about that," he muttered to the clerk before turning back to the blacksmith. "Surely you can give me some sort of discount," he said, his tone shifting from demanding to imploring. "Considering, you know, I kind of helped stop the Trials. I mean, we all did, but still—"
His plea hung in the air, hopeful.
For a moment, silence engulfed the shop. The sound of hammering from the forge had quieted, leaving only the soft hum of spirit formations. The blacksmith's mustache twitched slightly, his face unreadable, before breaking into a wide, toothy grin.
"That
is the discounted price, you idiot!" the blacksmith barked, then threw his arms wide and clasped Diomedes by the forearm in a hearty grip, pulling him into a bear hug with surprising strength. "You've always been a reckless brute, haven't you?" He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. "It's damn good to see you, my friend."
Diomedes, still somewhat sheepish, returned the hug with a chuckle, patting the blacksmith's back. "Yeah, well, I can't argue with that."
The clerk, still standing by the remains of the desk, sighed as he started writing down the adjusted price. "You'll still be paying for the desk, I assume?" he asked dryly.
Diomedes winced but waved him off with a smile. "Yeah, yeah… Add it to the tab."
"But really, how did it get so high?" Diomedes questioned, frowning down at the blacksmith, his brows furrowed in frustration and curiosity.
The blacksmith wiped his hands on a rag, shaking his head with a sigh. "Gravebronze is expensive, my friend. Always has been. Normally, I can reforge it easily enough, but whatever place you've been fighting in seems to have done a number on it. The metal you brought me? It's as brittle as dried clay. I wouldn't trust it to cover a sewer grate, let alone reforge it into your weapons or armor!"
He tossed the rag onto a nearby bench, his eyes narrowing at Diomedes as he sized him up. "And speaking of armor… add in the ridiculous amount of size you put on," he gestured to Diomedes' massive frame with a wave of his hand, "and we've got one hell of a bill on our hands. I'm telling you, I had to cut my own labor costs down to zero just to keep it
this low. I'm actually losing money here, Diomedes." His voice was firm, but there was no anger in it—just the weary frustration of a man trying to balance fairness with the reality of business.
Diomedes winced at the mention of his size. It wasn't the first time he'd been reminded that his larger-than-life stature, which was so beneficial on the battlefield, often came with its own set of complications. The price wasn't impossible for him to manage, but it
would take a significant chunk out of the funds he had carefully accumulated over the years. And unlike some of his more resourceful peers, he didn't have many alternative income sources to fall back on besides dangerous missions.
Slumping his broad shoulders, Diomedes let out a resigned sigh. "Alright, I'll pay you two thousand middle-grade spirit stones." He raised a hand to stop the blacksmith before he could protest, seeing the look of outrage that flashed across his friend's face.
"Don't worry," Diomedes said, managing a sheepish smile. "I can afford it. No need for you to take a loss, my friend."
The blacksmith's frown deepened, but his eyes softened as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Two thousand is more than fair, but you didn't have to do that. We've been through a lot, you and I. I wouldn't feel right bleeding you dry over some gear."
Diomedes chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You've always been good to me, but I'm not about to let you lose money on my account. Besides," he added with a grin, "if you ever need someone to smash a few skulls or clear out a troublesome mine full of spirit beasts, you know who to call."
The blacksmith grunted, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You've always been too damn noble for your own good."
"Well, someone's got to be," Diomedes shot back with a smirk, lightening the mood.
The blacksmith clapped Diomedes on the shoulder, his eyes glinting with a hint of admiration. "Fine. Two thousand it is. But don't think I won't hold you to that offer to beat some heads if the need arises."
"I'd expect nothing less," Diomedes replied with a grin, already feeling the weight of the price on his wallet but not regretting the decision for a moment.
"Now get out of here!" the blacksmith barked, waving his hand dismissively. "I've got work to do, and you've got better places to be. Some of our old comrades are waiting for you at the bar. Word is, they're planning to drink you under the table as payback for that crazy stunt you and your lot pulled off."
With a grin, he gave Diomedes a firm shove toward the door, his boot giving a playful kick to Diomedes' heel.
Diomedes stumbled forward, laughing as he caught his balance. "Oh, is that so? I doubt they've got enough ale to manage that," he called back, his smile widening at the thought of reuniting with his old friends.
"I guess we'll find out soon enough," the blacksmith said, already turning back to his workbench with a muttered curse about troublesome soldiers.
Diomedes shook his head, still chuckling to himself as he stepped out of the shop and into the bustling street. The warm sunlight hit his face, and the noise of the busy marketplace surrounded him.
Scratching the back of his neck Diomedes looked around "Now where was that bar again? I swear this place switches around everything every few decades" He muttered as he began the arduous task of trying to wade through the crowds without crushing anyone.
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As night settled over Dawn Fortress like a well-worn cloak, the shadows wrapped the city in a familiar embrace. Unlike in other places where darkness might inspire fear, here it brought comfort. The very essence of the Archgetes' Dao infused the night, making it feel like a protective veil rather than a threatening unknown. Beneath this peaceful cover, the city's nightlife awoke, buzzing with the quiet energy of those who had business among those hours.
Down a narrow side street, tucked away from the main thoroughfares, stood a building quite unlike the others. Where most structures in Dawn Fortress were kept in pristine condition, their stonework smooth and maintained by steady hands, this one had clearly seen better days. Its walls bore the scars of time—patched unevenly and fractured in places, as if they had been broken and repaired repeatedly. The air around it smelled faintly of stale wood and old plaster.
A sign, once bright and bold, now hung askew above the weathered door. Time had worn away much of its lettering, leaving only fragments of its former self visible:
L_quid Go_d. Whatever the name had once been was lost to the ages, but it didn't seem to matter to those inside.
The raucous sound of cheering echoed through the walls, making the shaky building seem more alive than its dilapidated exterior suggested. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with energy, a stark contrast to the worn and faded surroundings.
"
CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
Dozens of cultivators, most in Foundation Establishment, stood in a circle around the center of attention—Diomedes, towering above them all. With one hand, he lifted a barrel as if it were a mere mug, downing its contents with ease. The crowd roared as he finished, punctuating the moment with a thunderous belch that reverberated through the room. A ripple of cheers followed, while a few of the onlookers groaned in defeat, begrudgingly handing over spirit stones to their grinning companions. The winners counted their spoils, smug satisfaction on their faces.
Diomedes, grinning, inspected the empty barrel. He flipped it over and noticed a familiar emblem on its side. "Ah, no wonder that was good—Magnus' brew," he remarked with a satisfied nod, giving the barrel an approving pat. Turning his attention toward the bar, he spotted the ancient figure behind it, who was glaring daggers at him.
"Oi! Old Feng, you sly bastard! Since when do you serve Magnus' good stuff instead of that diluted piss you usually call beer?" Diomedes' voice boomed with mock accusation, his grin wide as he jeered at the bartender.
Old Feng, the prune-like man behind the counter, narrowed his eyes in response, his wrinkled face contorting into a fierce scowl. He had the look of someone who had outlived his era, a figure from the past who stubbornly clung to the present. Diomedes had known him for centuries, ever since he'd served a punishment detail under the old man. Back then, Feng had already looked ancient, as though he'd been forged from the very bones of the city itself.
"Bah! I don't need to justify myself to you!" Old Feng spat back, waving his hand dismissively. The man's voice was surprisingly strong for someone who seemed older than the mountains themselves.
Diomedes chuckled, shaking his head. How was Old Feng still alive? The man had been decrepit even when Diomedes was fresh-faced centuries ago. Now, even after all these years, Feng seemed more or less the same, his wrinkles deeper, his bitterness sharper.
A Core Elder? That was a reasonable guess, though Feng hid it well. Either that or he had used his massive rumored pile of blackmail to gain underhanded access to a treasure trove of life-extending artifacts, though those were far too rare to hoard. It seemed more likely the former, but with Old Feng, Diomedes couldn't be sure of anything.
Still, the old man had earned the respect of everyone in the room, even if he seemed to subsist entirely on scowls and sour remarks.
The room vibrated with the energy of celebration as Diomedes rejoined the group of centurions, all of whom shared the same history, the same brotherhood. These were the ones who had stood beside him when he first joined the legions two centuries ago—men and women forged in the same crucible of discipline and battle. Some had grown stronger, while others aged like fine wine, gaining wisdom rather than raw strength. And now, those who remained had survived two centuries of endless trials, wars, and betrayals.
The camaraderie in the room was palpable. Diomedes moved among the crowd, greeted by hearty slaps on the back and raised mugs. Each cheer, each laugh, carried the weight of shared history. The air was thick with the scent of strong ale, sweat, and the faint tang of spirit energy. Here, within these battered walls, the centuries they had endured together—and the memories of those who didn't survive—were celebrated, not mourned.
"To Diomedes!" A stout centurion with a shaved head raised his mug high, his voice loud enough to shake the beams of the building. "The man who helped stop the cursed Tempering Trials! If it weren't for him, half of us might not even be here!"
A chorus of agreements followed, the centurions roaring their approval. Diomedes waved them off, a proud grin spreading across his face as he took a mug from one of his comrades.
A woman's voice cut through the noise. "Oh, shut up, Fang! Unlike you weaklings, the rest of us would've been just fine!" she teased, her grin sharp and playful.
Laughter erupted from the crowd, the memory still fresh and vivid. The Tempering Trials had been a brutal ordeal, a century-old nightmare that hardened those who survived into warriors, while others were lost to death or madness. But this time, thanks to Diomedes and his comrades, the clan had been spared from tragedy—for at least another century.
As the night wore on, Diomedes grew progressively more intoxicated. His giant frame swayed slightly with each step, and the once subtle slur in his words had become undeniable. At this point, he was less "drinking" and more "stumbling through the tavern, shouting half-formed thoughts."
He plopped down at a corner table, a mug of ale in one hand, the other resting on an object across from him. "Y'know," he slurred, staring down the "companion" in front of him—a worn-out broom propped up against the wall. "Y-you wouldn't believe... the cost o' fixin' my armor. One thousand, seven hundred thirty-six middle-grade spirit stones!" He shook his head in disbelief, not noticing the broom's absolute silence.
"I mean... it's jus' metal and... and magic, right?" Diomedes gesticulated wildly , spilling some ale. "But they—they charge me like I'm... made of spirit stones myself or somethin'! That damn gravebronze..." His voice trailed off as he tapped the broomstick for emphasis, as if it had just delivered sage advice.
The broom didn't budge.
"And y'know wha's even worse?" Diomedes continued, ignoring the total lack of response. "I... I could do it. I mean, how hard can blacksmithin' be, huh? Just... heat the metal, bang it 'round a bit, stick some qi in it—easy! I could make me own armor... an' weapons. Maybe even get rich while I'm at it!"
The broom, still as inanimate as ever, clearly didn't object to his logic.
"I could be... a a five star, no is it six stars? , never mind a master forger!" Diomedes declared with a hiccup, slapping the broom in drunken excitement, as if the inanimate object was his new business partner. "Yeah, we'll do it! You and me! Forge stuff, make spirit stones... an' I won't need t' pay anyone else!"
The broom remained unmoved by Diomedes' sudden career aspirations, but that didn't stop him. He kept rambling on about his new plan, completely unaware that he was passionately discussing his future as a blacksmith with a cleaning tool.
At one point, one of his comrades wandered by, looking at Diomedes talking to the broom with a mix of confusion and amusement. They exchanged glances with another centurion, quietly gesturing to leave Diomedes to his drunken epiphany.
"I'm gonna... forge everything..." Diomedes murmured, his head now resting against the table, his arm draped over the broom like a trusted companion. "Gonna be... so rich..."
The broom, naturally, remained silent.
But Diomedes wasn't having any of that. "Oh, don't give me that!" He gestured wildly. "I know what yer thinkin'! 'Diomedes, you big fool, you can't be a blacksmith!' Well, I say... you're wrong! If they can do it, I can do it! We'll start tonight!"
His mind made up, Diomedes, in all his drunken wisdom, reached over and grabbed the broom with a triumphant yell. "Aha! Yer coming with me!" He staggered to his feet, clutching the broom like it was a legendary weapon he had just pulled from an ancient forge.
His comrades, noticing his intent to leave, exchanged bewildered glances. "Uh, Diomedes, where... where are you going with that?" one of them asked, stifling a laugh.
"To the streets!" Diomedes roared, his voice filled with newfound purpose. "I've got... things to forge! Destiny waits for no man!"
Before anyone could stop him, Diomedes lurched toward the door, his massive frame knocking over a few stools as he went. The crowd parted, unsure whether to stop him or let him follow his drunken mission. In moments, the door shattered behind him, leaving the tavern erupting in laughter.
Out in the streets, the cool night air hit him like a hammer. Diomedes took a deep breath, still clutching the broom like a weapon, a lopsided grin on his face. "Right," he muttered to himself, "Let's go make some... some money! We'll start a forge... make weapons... armor... the whole lot!"
Staggering through the streets, Diomedes charged ahead with all the grace of a drunken ox, broom held high like a banner. A few late-night passersby stared, baffled by the sight of a giant of a man waving a broom around and muttering about forging legendary weapons.
"First we need... metal," he slurred to the broom, as if it had become his closest confidant. "Then a forge. Yeah, yeah... gotta find the materials. You know where we can find some, right?"
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Gonna be the best blacksmith, Diomedes muttered from his sleep as he curled around a sword on the nice and toasty stone floor. The warmth enveloped him like a comforting blanket, a stark contrast to the chaotic memories of the previous night.
Splash! A sudden wave of icy cold water jolted him into consciousness. He sputtered, eyes flying open to find himself sprawled on the forge's floor, the remnants of a half-forged broom-sword lying beside him. A face loomed above him— his blacksmith friend, grinning like a wolf.
The booming voice of his blacksmith friend filled the room. "Oi, wake up, Cestus!" the blacksmith repeated, grinning down at him, a bucket in hand—the source of the rude awakening. "I aint running an inn here."
"Huh... what am I doing here?" Diomedes mumbled as he pushed himself up on one elbow, rubbing his face. "The last thing I remember was drinking at Old Feng's place."
The blacksmith crossed his arms and gave Diomedes an unimpressed stare. "You don't remember? You barged in here last night, completely smashed, yelling that you were going to become the best blacksmith. Then, you dragged me out of bed, forced me to teach you the basics, and promptly wrecked half my forge in the process."
Diomedes winced, feeling the fragments of his memory reluctantly resurfacing. "Oh... no," he groaned, remembering flashes of himself stumbling around the forge, the broom, and—he looked down—the sword. His eyes widened as he realized it looked
suspiciously like the broom he had proudly taken from Old Feng's tavern.
The blacksmith let out a low chuckle. "You were obsessed with turning that broom into a sword for some reason. It might just be the shittiest sword I've ever seen, but... technically, it qualifies as a 1-star treasure." He pointed at the broom-sword with a smirk. "So, congratulations. You're now a 1-star smith."
Diomedes stared down at the broom-sword in disbelief. The crude weapon was jagged and uneven, with chunks of wood still visible at the hilt where the broom had been hastily chopped down. The blade shimmered faintly, imbued with just enough qi to meet the minimum requirements for a treasure. But the craftsmanship... Diomedes shook his head in embarrassment.
As Diomedes got to his feet, the blacksmith tossed a jade slip to him. Diomedes caught it, blinking in confusion. "What's this? Some sort of certificate?" Hope flickered in his chest for a moment. Could his drunken blacksmithing adventure actually have some merit?
The blacksmith's mustache twitched, and a grin spread across his face. "Oh, it's something important, all right. Go ahead, take a look."
Excitement bubbling up, Diomedes sent his will into the jade slip, expecting some sort of commendation for his new "skills." Instead, what he saw was... a number. A very specific number:
373 middle-grade spirit stones.
Diomedes blinked, uncomprehending. He looked back at the blacksmith, whose grin had grown wider. "What... is this?"
The blacksmith leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. "That's your bill for the materials you used up last night, genius.
Congratulations on your first star, but you're going to have to pay for the mess you made."
Diomedes stared in despair as the full weight of his actions crashed down on him. The broom-sword felt impossibly heavy in his hand now, the symbol of a costly—and deeply regrettable—night. The blacksmith's chuckle turned into full laughter as he watched Diomedes' expression shift from confusion to horror.
"Maybe next time, stick to punching things," the blacksmith said, clapping him on the back with a grin that only deepened Diomedes' sinking feeling.
."I am never drinking again"Diomedes muttered in despair.
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Another 4k words down , just 2.6 k more to go for this turn goal.
@no.
