Jon Steinke
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Chapter 33: Hammer and Scalpel
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 11:25:02 +0000 UTCCaleb's legs trembled as he lowered his practice spear, muscles screaming from the morning's drills. The garrison yard felt different after Captain Hatch's dismissal—quieter, heavy with the lingering ache of pushed limits. His breath misted in the dawn air as he rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the knots.
"I don't get it."
Corinne's voice cut through his fatigue. She stood a few paces away, her head tilted in genuine confusion.
"How did you do it?" She gestured vaguely toward the village. "Everyone at the inn was talking about Thalorin the Proven, but you can barely keep up with the warm-ups."
Great. A reputation I don't want based on a fight I barely survived. I didn't need to ham it up so hard last night, but I was just so sick of Branson… Caleb wiped sweat from his forehead, noting how her eyes searched his face for some hidden secret. At least the news hadn't spread to the trainees yet. Hatch seemed normal.
"I got lucky," he said, voice flat with exhaustion. "It was an ugly fight. Nothing like what people are probably saying."
But Corinne's eyes lit up instead of dimming. "Lucky? You killed a dozen goblins! And that thing at the end—"
"Was trying to kill me," Caleb interrupted. "The whole time."
She waved his words away, practically bouncing on her toes. "But you did it! You actually did it!" Her voice climbed with excitement. "I've been thinking... maybe I should try to join the Guild and take a contract soon. Nothing too dangerous, just something to get started. If you can handle goblins, then—"
Crumb. Abort, abort!
The sudden realization wiped away his fatigue as adrenaline spiked. His casual mention of the hunt, his visible success—he'd turned a nightmare into inspiration for recklessness.
"No." The word came out fiercer than he intended. "Absolutely not."
Corinne flinched at his tone.
"Corinne, I nearly died. Multiple times." Caleb moved closer, meeting her eyes. "One wrong step, one moment of bad luck, and you'd be scraping what's left of me off the cave floor. Don't mistake survival for skill."
Her enthusiasm faltered, uncertainty replacing the bright excitement. She looked down at her feet, suddenly very young.
The silence stretched between them as Caleb watched her deflate. But even as she nodded and murmured something about being careful, he could see it in the set of her shoulders—the stubborn fire still burning beneath the surface.
Caleb sighed. She's going to do something stupid no matter what I say.
As Corinne walked away, he felt new responsibilities take root. It wasn't enough to survive anymore. Others were watching, learning, following his example.
He needed to be better. Starting with proper gear.
After departing the training yard, his first stop was Yorrin’s Forge. Heat rolling from its open front was a welcome shock against the morning chill. The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel was the village’s heartbeat, a sound of creation and purpose. The forge’s interior was purely functional, a workshop built for production over presentation. Raw iron bars lay stacked near the entrance, awaiting their turn in the fire. Heavy-bladed short swords and bearded axes hung from hooks on the walls, their edges gleaming and unadorned, meant for cleaving hide and bone. Piles of newly forged axe heads and shovel blades waited in a corner, ready for the hands of loggers and farmers. Yorrin worked at his anvil, shaping a glowing piece of metal with methodical strikes. Caleb waited, knowing better than to interrupt a craftsman at work.
Finally, Yorrin plunged the piece into a quenching barrel with a furious hiss. He turned, wiping sweat from his brow, forearm grimy. His light brown eyes settled on Caleb in typical disinterest.
“Yeah?”
Caleb un-shouldered the spear, laying it on the scarred wooden counter. The sheared-off tip and the spiderweb of stress fractures along the shaft told their own story. Yorrin picked it up, his thick fingers tracking the damage. He brought the ruined tip close to his eye, dismissal gave way to a spark of professional curiosity in his expression.
“What did you hit with this?” Yorrin’s voice was a low rumble. “Looks like you tried to parry a falling mountain.”
“Something hard.”
The blacksmith grunted, his thumb rubbing at a spot where the wood had splintered under immense pressure. “This isn’t battle damage. This is power overload from the wielder. You put too much force through it too fast. The iron couldn’t handle the kickback, and the shockwave tore the wood apart from the inside.” He tossed the weapon back onto the counter. “I don't know how you managed it, but this spear is scrap. Cheaper to make a new one.”
“I need it repaired,” Caleb said, his voice quiet but firm. “It saved my life.”
The blacksmith let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh. “Then hang it on your wall as a trophy. Don’t bring it into a fight.” He gestured dismissively at the ruined weapon. “To make this functional, I’d have to forge a new, heavier head and reinforce the wood with iron bands. It’ll cost you three gold for a clumsy, unbalanced stick with a grip like a bag of rocks. You’d be better off with a sharpened fence post.”
Yorrin’s words landed with the finality of a hammer strike. The image of a heavier, awkward weapon was clear. He's right.
Caleb frowned, but nodded. “I’ll think on it. Thank you.”
Yorrin just grunted, already turning back to the heat of his forge, the conversation forgotten.
Caleb left the forge with his glorified walking stick and headed for The Golden Mortar. The sterile, silent shop was quite different from the forge’s functional chaos. A single bell chimed his arrival. Selara stood behind the counter, sorting a basket of what looked like dried roots. She looked up, her grey eyes assessing.
He said nothing. He simply rested the broken spear against the polished granite countertop between them.
Selara’s eyes dropped to the ruined weapon, frowning. "Trouble?"
"The contract is fulfilled," Caleb said. He produced the heavy glass jar containing the matriarch’s pheromone gland, setting it down next to the spear. "And then some."
A muscle twitched at the corner of her eye as she took in the fist-sized gland floating in preservation fluid. She looked from the gland to the broken spear, and then back to Caleb, her expression shifting from professional assessment to something more complex. Respect, perhaps, colored with disbelief.
"The deal was to kill a single goblin." Selara's tone was level. "You killed a feral goblin matriarch?" She tapped a finger on the counter, her stare fixed on him. "You've met the terms. But this... this is not the work of a novice fumbling through his first contract. I'll need to see your skills for myself before we proceed. Competence can't be faked."
From the back room, Aurelian emerged, an expression of annoyance on his face. He stopped short, his regard landing on Caleb with distaste.
"Selara, must you allow street boys to simply wander in here? He's tracking the grime of the common thoroughfare all over my clean floors." He then glanced at the jar. "And bringing his... trophies... with him. How utterly pedestrian."
Caleb ignored him, turning to face the alchemist directly. He pointed to the jar. “This is proof of my potential. I’m here to again request an apprenticeship.”
Aurelian’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose. He circled the jar, examining its contents with a disdainful air. “You think killing a feral goblin matriarch is something to impress me with.” It was a statement, not a question.
“In its own den. After it ambushed me.” Caleb’s voice was steady, recounting the events strategically. “The pack was intelligent. They used flanking tactics, suppressing my movements with rocks from the quarry rim to herd me. I managed to use the cave entrance to thin their numbers, and when the matriarch emerged, I realized my spear couldn’t penetrate its hide. Standard Legion forms were useless against it.”
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air before delivering his solution. “So I adapted. I created a new Ability on the spot. I overloaded the spear with every bit of Stamina I had left. The thrust worked, but the force of it destroyed the weapon and shattered my arm.”
“Fascinating. A perfect specimen of a fundamentally useless category.” He tapped the glass jar. “Feral goblin parts are F-Tier refuse. This is simply a larger piece of refuse.” He then waved a dismissive hand at Caleb. “And you. Your methods are brutish. The work of a thug, not an alchemist.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, condescending stage whisper. “I cannot teach a hammer to be a scalpel.” He muttered under his breath, "And I certainly have no time for strays with delusions of adequacy."
He met Aurelian’s stare, his expression unyielding. “That’s not just brute force. That’s analyzing a problem and inventing a solution under fire. An alchemist needs that kind of creative thinking." Caleb leaned in. "But I can be a scalpel. I worked at the Hearthsong kitchen for weeks. Ask Gareth about my knife work. I possess the finesse required for delicate work.”
Aurelian laughed again, an unpleasant sound. “Comparing dicing onions to distilling the essence of a natural treasure? The sheer audacity. You’re amusing, I’ll grant you that.”
Caleb let the alchemist’s laughter fade, leaving only the shop’s clinical quiet. He met the man’s mocking eyes with a calm that seemed to unnerve Aurelian more than any outburst would have. Without a word, he reached into his pack and produced another small, cloth-wrapped bundle, placing it on the counter beside the matriarch’s gland.
“Would a simple brute have recognized this?” Caleb unwrapped the cloth, revealing a cluster of pale, fleshy lichen buds. “And would he have had the presence of mind to harvest a sample while on a contract?”
Selara stepped closer, her earlier amusement gone. She looked from the lichen to Caleb with a new intensity.
Aurelian’s smirk vanished. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with an alchemist’s clinical attention. “Impossible," he declared, a denial aimed at the world itself. He picked up the sample with a pair of delicate tongs, bringing it closer to his face. “Carrion bloom. E-Tier. It doesn’t grow in this region.” He breathed the words, a stream of calculations and disbelief. “The conditions would have to be perfect… decades of decay…
He looked up, his grey eyes as cutting as shards of glass. “Where did you find this?”
“That information is part of my apprenticeship,” Caleb stated simply.
Aurelian placed the sample down with a reverence he hadn’t shown the gland. He straightened, the mask of superiority slipping back into place, but the cracks were visible.
“Fine.” The word was clipped, forced. “You’ve proven a modicum of competence. But that doesn’t qualify you to be my apprentice, only to be a supplier.” He turned to his sister, his tone dismissive. “Selara, this diversion has run its course.”
The alchemist started for the back room, then paused. His eyes darted to the carrion bloom sample on the counter, a flicker of undisguised avarice in his countenance before he masked it with impatience.
Caleb saw the look and made a quick calculation. “Keep it as a deposit on our future business relationship.” He turned to Selara, knowing he had more work to do before he could truly win the alchemist over.
Selara looked Caleb up and down, noting his lack of a proper weapon. “You can’t go into the forest armed with that.” She disappeared into the back room with her brother and his prize, returning with a simple, well-maintained spear. The wood was dark and seasoned, the iron tip sharp. “A loaner. Don’t lose it.”
She led him from the shop, and as the heavy door closed behind them, the mental strain of the conversation with Aurelian shifted towards the expectations of his sister. They walked toward the forest’s edge, Selara setting a brisk, purposeful pace.
“You’re a clever boy,” she said without looking at him. “Using his own arrogance against him. I almost enjoyed that. Now it's time to see what you're made of.”
He’d progressed with the alchemist, but the real challenge was just beginning. Selara led him out the southern gate and under the wild curtain, the sounds of the village quickly fading behind them. She stopped beneath a large evergreen. “To start, you need to learn how to truly see what’s around you. Have you learned to use your [Spiritual Perception] yet?”
Caleb nodded and swept the area, but the forest floor seemed barren of any significant spiritual signatures.
“The easy ground’s been stripped bare,” she said, her tone all business. “This is the Delver’s Trace. Dungeon teams cut due south of Deadfall, straight through the forest to the dungeon, so the path is usually clear of major threats. That makes it safer, which means it’s also been picked clean.” She ducked under a low hanging branch. “Add the Reaping festival to the mix, and you have every forager in Deadfall competing for scraps.”
Reaping festival? Another local event. Another set of rules he didn't know. He pushed the thought aside. Right now, the only priority is pretending I know what I'm doing long enough to impress my suspicious new mentor.
As they walked, Caleb’s perception picked up a faint, earthy aura. A memory from Thal surfaced—Meriel’s gentle hands pointing to a similar plant. “Rustroot,” he said aloud. “Good for stamina potions.” He met her eyes. “My mother was a Mycari herbalist. She taught me a few things before she passed away.”
Selara's eyes widened slightly and nodded once. "Good, that should save us some time. But we didn't come out here for such simple fare today." They continued deeper into the Virethane.
Caleb followed, his mind having catalogued the details of the rustroot for future reference. The trees grew thicker, the light dimmer. He expected to hear Selara's voice, another quiet instruction on a different plant, but there was only the drip of water from mossy branches. He looked up. The path ahead was empty. The sudden silence of the woods pressed in around him.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He tightened his grip on the spear shaft.
He swept his perception in a wide circle. There. A blink of an aura, low to the ground, thirty feet away and circling. It was stalking him. The aura felt crimson-black, its taste a bitter sap, its texture like splintered bark. His spatial mapping painted a vague picture of a four-legged, canine shape, its form blending almost perfectly with the surrounding undergrowth to his eyes when he caught flashes through the foliage.
It burst from a thicket of ferns, a blur of bark-like hide and needle-sharp fur. Caleb didn’t hesitate. He met its charge with controlled aggression. The spear she'd given him became an extension of his will. He used [Turning the Point] to deflect its initial lunge, the beast’s claws scraping harmlessly against the wooden shaft.
The prowler spun, faster than he expected, its tail whipping around in a low sweep. He used a short [Flicker Step] to dodge back, then [Dash] to get behind it. The creature was momentarily exposed. He didn’t waste the opening. A clean [Breaching Thrust] found a soft spot just behind its foreleg.
His spear punched through hide and muscle, lancing deep into its chest. The prowler convulsed once and fell silent. The entire fight had lasted less than ten seconds.
He stood over the corpse, breathing steadily. The kill had been clean, controlled. A world away from the panicked, ruthless bludgeoning of the goblin in the quarry. A dark satisfaction settled over him, followed by a shiver. This was becoming easier. Too easy.
Selara reappeared from the trees as if she’d never left. “Impressive, you move well for someone so young.”
Adrenaline still sang in his veins. “That was your test? You could have gotten me killed!”
Her expression was flat, her grey eyes cold. “If a lone hemlock prowler could kill you, you were of no use to me as an apprentice. The forest filters out the weak. I just provided the opportunity." She crossed her arms, leaning back. "And I needed to know that matriarch's pheromone gland was something you earned yourself.” She kicked lightly at the dead beast. “Now, stop complaining. The risk was calculated, and that prowler carried a reward. I knew it had a spirit stone.”
The anger remained, a hot coal in his breast. He wanted to argue, to protest the cruel logic of her methods. But the mention of a spirit stone stymied his rage. He took a slow breath, forcing the fury down.
“You can feel them?”
“With a tier advantage or enough skill, you can feel the reverberation of a stone within a living creature. A useful trick for prioritizing targets.”
He moved to the corpse to begin the harvest, then paused. He'd returned the deboning knife back to Gareth. Crumb. I'm an amateur.
Selara let out an exasperated sigh. “You came on a foraging trial without a harvesting knife? What did you plan to do, chew the parts off?” She tossed him her own knife, the blade a piece of steel that gleamed so brightly it almost glowed. “Do as I say.”
She guided him through the process with brisk, practical instructions. How to make the initial cuts to preserve the pelt. Where to find the valuable canines. And finally, how to locate and extract the F-Tier spirit stone from its sternum. He worked under her critical watch, his hands sure and steady, his time in the kitchen and with the goblins showing its worth. The butchery was a gory, messy education in the true economy of this world. But he was already a student.
[Your proficiency with Harvesting (F) has increased to Practiced.]
After the harvest was complete, Selara looked from her knife in Caleb’s hand to the borrowed spear at his feet, then to his battered cuirass.
“Now that you’re my apprentice, this won’t do,” she said, her tone shifting from mentor back to pragmatist. “You’re representing my name from here out. Come on. It’s time we got you properly outfitted.”
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