Clive trudged back to Garrett's smithy, his legs leaden with exhaustion and his mind racing with images from the battle. The streets were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the chaos just moments before. A few guards patrolled in pairs, their faces grim and alert. Townspeople had barricaded themselves indoors, leaving only thin slivers of candlelight visible through shuttered windows.

  As Clive approached, he could hear the rhythmic clanging of hammer on metal. He pushed open the heavy wooden door to find the forge blazing at full heat. Garrett stood before the anvil, his massive arms bringing a hammer down on what appeared to be the beginnings of a spearhead. Sweat poured down his soot-stained face, his expression locked in concentration.

  "You're alive then," Garrett said without looking up. "Figured you'd either return or I'd hear about another fool who got himself killed."

  “And you’re working? Even after what happened?”

  Garrett snorted, plunging the red-hot metal into a water barrel. Steam hissed violently, momentarily obscuring his face. "And where would I run to? If I’m going to die in an incursion, I want it to be right by the forge." He pulled out the cooling metal, examined it, then set it aside on his workbench.

  Finally turning to face Clive fully, Garrett wiped his hands on his leather apron. "Sit before you fall." He gestured to a stool in the corner.

  Clive gratefully collapsed onto it. “I saw the Archmage. He was controlling a phoenix of fire. I've never seen anything like it, the way it moved, the heat it gave off. It was magnificent.”

  Garrett paused at his anvil.

  "Joshua Blackflame," Garrett said, the name emerging with a reverence the smith rarely showed for anything. "Man wasn't born with a silver spoon, he was born with fire in his veins." He reached for a nearby iron poker, adjusting the coals in his forge.

  "His mother was a tavern wench in the harbor district, father unknown. Story goes that when he was just five winters old, some drunk sailors tried to rough up his mother. Young Joshua called fire from the hearth without a word or gesture. Burned three men to ash while leaving his mother untouched. Not even her apron singed."

  "That level of control... even as a child?"

  "Aye. The Arcanum took him the very next day." Garrett nodded. "In raw power, some whisper he might even outmatch the Saintess herself, though you'll never hear such talk in public."

  “Is the church that sensitive?”

  “Its not that. The Arcanum and the Holy Church maintain a delicate balance. Divine magic and arcane arts are but two sides of the same coin, neither wishing to shine brighter than the other.” He spat into the forge, the saliva sizzling instantly. "Politics. Give me honest metal any day."

  "I saw Huntmaster Kell as well. He summoned... weapons. Many of them, all at once."

  Garrett nodded, reaching for a pitcher and pouring two cups of water. He handed one to Clive. "The Armiger Arsenal. One of the kingdom's oldest combat arts. He stores his weapons in another dimension and summons them when needed."

  He took a long drink from his cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Kell and I go way back. Man's blood and bone are forged from pure stubbornness. Mastered a dozen weapons before his twentieth winter."

  "I could see that," Clive said, staring into his cup. "When those monsters attacked, he didn't hesitate. Knew exactly which weapon would cut through them."

  "Aye, that's why they call him the Huntmaster," Garrett agreed, setting his cup down with a decisive thunk. "Man knows his prey. A rapier might slide between a hound's ribs, but it'd just bounce off those knight's plates. Every beast has its bane."

  Clive stared into the distance, his mind replaying Kell's fluid movements during the battle. The way the Huntmaster had shifted from weapon to weapon seamlessly. Something stirred within him—a recognition, a possibility.

  "I wonder..." Clive murmured, almost to himself. "With my Pictomancy, could I create something similar? Not just one weapon, but a collection. Each designed for specific threats." His voice quickened with excitement. "I could sketch them in advance, perfect the details, then manifest them when needed."

  Garrett studied Clive's face for a moment, then smiled. “That’s an interesting idea. With your creation magic, you could have your own mini–Armiger Arsenal. Aye, gets my blood excited just thinking about it.”

  “What weapons should I include in it?”

  “A sword, a dagger, a spear, a mace to start. That should cover the major weapon types.”

  “Sounds like the weapons we were commissioned to make.”

  “And now you know why. These are basic weapon types that should cover most weaknesses.”

  Clive straightened on his stool. "What should I do?"

  "For tonight? Rest. In fact, why don’t you take a week off while I finish this commission?”

  “I can’t leave you alone,” Clive insisted.

  “You’ve done your part, I can handle the rest. Go visit Lucia, she must be worried about you." Garrett turned back to his anvil, clearly considering the conversation over.

  As Clive made his way to the guestroom, he paused in the doorway. "Garrett?"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The smith grunted in acknowledgment without looking up from his work.

  "Thank you."

  The rhythmic hammering paused for just a moment before resuming its steady beat. Clive took that as reply enough and closed the door behind him.

  Clive returned to his room, and collapsed onto his bed. The frame creaked beneath his weight while outside, the occasional call of guards making their rounds only emphasized how different this night was from others.

  Closing his eyes brought no relief. Instead, fragmented scenes from the battle flashed across his mind.

  Clive sat up, pulling his sketchbook from his satchel. By lamplight, he began to quickly outline the weapons he had seen Huntmaster Kell wield during the battle. The twin swords that had moved like extensions of the man's body. The war axe that had cleaved through knights like butter.

  "Each weapon for each weakness," he murmured. As his pencil moved across the page, a plan crystallized in his mind. Three paths forward emerged with perfect clarity:

  First, expand his arsenal. Not just in quantity but in variety. The Huntmaster had demonstrated how critical it was to match weapon to weakness. His Pictomancy gave him a unique advantage. Any weapon he understood was his to command.

  Second, understand his magic better. [Paint] was still somewhat of an enigma to him and he had made no progress on getting to tier two spells. If it was anything like [Draw], he would need to paint a ‘higher-quality’, ‘more realistic’ fireball. But what did that even mean? There were no fireballs where he was from.

  Third, address his critical vulnerability: mana depletion. The memory of that hollow emptiness when he'd reached for power that wasn't there sent a shiver down his spine. He needed mana potions, and for that, he would need Lucia's expertise in alchemy.

  Clive studied his sketches, already imagining how he might condense them into a portable reference—a combat grimoire of sorts. The Archmage had his phoenix, the Huntmaster his Armiger Arsenal, the Saintess her divine light. He would forge his own path with pencil and paint, turning art into armament.

  "Next time," he promised himself, "I won't be caught unprepared."

  A sudden, deliberate tap-tap-tap pulled him from his thoughts.

  "How is it going, Clive?"

  The voice came from above him. Certainty sat perched atop his wardrobe, swinging her legs with childlike abandon.

  Clive's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He snatched his dagger and rolled to his feet, blade extended toward the intruder.

  "What are you doing in my bedroom?"

  "Mmhm! Such a hostile greeting." She continued swinging her legs, each impact of her heels against the wooden wardrobe producing a hollow thunk . "Can't I even visit my chosen without getting stabbed?"

  Her gaze fell on the dagger as her lips formed an exaggerated pout. "And after I've given you so many lovely gifts. Really, Clive, your manners have deteriorated since your reincarnation."

  Clive lowered the dagger. "Most people knock. Or use doors."

  "Most people aren't goddesses," she countered. "Besides, I did knock. Just now. Tap-tap-tap." She mimicked the sound with her fingertips against the wardrobe. "Not my fault you were too busy brooding to notice my first three attempts."

  A weary sigh escaped him as he returned to the edge of the bed. "I wasn't brooding. I was planning."

  "Planning, brooding, obsessing, call it what you like. The boundaries blur when you're deeply fixated on something... or someone.” Her eyes lit up as if she suddenly realized something. “Or were you thinking about me? Did you finally start to miss me yet?" She looked at him with expectant eyes.

  “Nope, not really…”

  Certainty clutched at her chest as if wounded. "So cruel!" She toppled backward in an elaborate performance, one arm draped across her forehead. "All my centuries of existence, and never have I endured such callous rejection! You might as well run me through with that dagger and be done with it. Go on. One swift strike to end my suffering."

  "I'm not sure stabbing a goddess would end well for either of us," Clive remarked dryly as he kept his dagger. His gaze remained on the goddess. "The incursion," he said. "Shadow creatures pouring through a tear in reality. And you—" he jabbed a finger toward her, "—ghosted me. Left me hanging."

  "Oh, so that's what this is about." She swung back up, sitting cross-legged. "Don't be mad, my little artist. Even goddesses have jurisdictional constraints. Something about the covenant of the Gods. Such tiresome bureaucracy in the divine spheres, you wouldn't believe." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "But I wasn't idle while you were playing hero. I had important stuff to do."

  The goddess pushed off from the wardrobe, but instead of falling, she remained suspended in midair, clasping her hands together with excitement. "Besides, I brought you gifts! Tonight calls for celebration.”

  “What’s there to celebrate?” Clive stared at her blankly. "Half the town nearly got slaughtered."

  "Oh, such a pessimist." She twirled in the air, her pink dress spinning around her legs. "I prefer to focus on the half that survived. Particularly the stubborn artist who refused to die despite being outnumbered, outmatched, and completely out of mana." She paused mid-spin to give him a pointed look. "You really should work on that last bit, by the way."

  "I'm aware," Clive muttered.

  "Good! Self-awareness is the first step toward not becoming monster food." She snapped her fingers, producing a sound like breaking glass. "Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted with your doom and gloom. I've been watching, counting, measuring every delicious moment of your progress. Remember your Certainty Points?"

  The air in the room grew thick with anticipation as pink light emanated from her skin.

  "Tonight, my dear artist, you crossed a threshold. Numerous creatures fell to your blade. You manifested weapons under pressure. You painted fire that burned shadow itself. You survived when lesser men would have perished."

  She raised her hand, and the atmosphere radiated with her aura. Threads of luminous energy began weaving themselves into existence around Clive, forming a web that pulsed with his heartbeat.

  "Behold your accumulated devotion!"

  [Certainty Points: 5]

  With a flourish of her wrist, she conjured a shimmering tableau in the air between them. Five crystalline stars materialized, each one rotating slowly on its axis while emitting a soft chime.

  "With five points earned through trial and triumph, you have proven yourself worthy of advancement." The stars began to orbit around her, growing brighter with each revolution. "From this moment forward, you are no longer a mere [Apprentice] fumbling with basic techniques."

  The orbiting stars exploded outward, surrounding Clive in a sphere of divine radiance. He felt power coursing through his veins.

  [RANK ADVANCEMENT] Apprentice → Journeyman

  [HP +5]

  [MP+5]

  [Power level+5]

  [Clive Weston]

  HP:123

  MP:35

  Power Level:35

  "Rise, Journeyman Pictomancer," Certainty declared, her voice echoing as if spoken from the heights of heaven itself. "Your art has evolved beyond mere creation. You now stand at the threshold of true mastery."

  The light gradually faded, but Clive could still feel its warmth settling into his bones..

  "And with advancement," Certainty continued, her playful tone returning as she settled back onto the wardrobe, "comes your first real upgrade."

  She leaned forward, her face illuminated from below by the ethereal light. "I give you three choices. Choose wisely, or roll a die. It’ll be entertaining either way."

  Come out, come out wherever you are. No matter how long it takes, no matter how many loops, I will certainly kill you.

  -The book of Certainty 6:2