[DanMachi/Percy Jackson] Prytaneum

Chapter 16: Reflections part 2

"How would you rank the armor you've worn this week, boy?" Wayland asked as we walked through the streets.

"I never really thought about it," I admitted, tilting my head as I considered the odd question. "But...I guess I liked the first set, the fourth set, and the fifth sets the most. The second and third weren't bad but they broke pretty fast on the ninth floor. But they were all better than the Guild armor, I think. Really, I don't have complaints about my armor, it'd just that it has to put up with me."

Wayland grunted in seeming agreement.

"Let's see, that's Eloy, Crozzo, and Favarges," He said, musing to himself. "We'll start there, I suppose. We can try Fabbri and Faure after if we don't have any luck, but we should be able to do something with that, I think."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The Industrial District," Wayland replied, glancing my way. I'm guessing you haven't had much reason to go there, eh? It's between East and North-East Main...?"

I shook my head.

"Eh," He said with a shrug. "Well, the Hephaestus Familia owns a decent chunk of it. Each smith in the Familia has their own forge, you see."

I blinked a bit at that, trying to imagine how much money that would take. But then, considering some of the prices I'd seen in Babel, I suppose they could afford it.

"Is that normal?" I had to ask anyway. "For blacksmiths, I mean?"

"Not hardly," He said. "There are cheaper, more efficient ways than to build every single blacksmith their own forge. But Hephaestus likes it this way; for everyone to be allowed to work at their own pace, in their own time, in their own way. It keeps people from learning each other's methods for better or worse, resulting in a bunch of very different styles and results. Sharing methods and resources would probably be better from an objective stand point, but...I like it this way."

I mulled over that for a minute before shrugging and shaking my head. I really didn't know enough about blacksmithing or making stuff or anything else to say either way.

"We're going to see those Blacksmiths, then?" I asked.

"Aye," He said. "We'll look around, at least. Have you heard about contracts yet, son?"

"In what sense?" I asked.

"I'll take that as a no," He said, sighing again. "Well, it's simple enough, really. You know how all the smiths in the Familia compete with each other, right? We're all trying to get people to buy our stuff instead of someone else's. Once you reach Level 2 and gain the Blacksmith Ability, the dynamic changes somewhat, but it still exists; at that point, you're sure to be well known, of course, but so is everyone else on your Level. On the other hand, you have the unknowns, the smiths just trying to get by and get their names out. Most of the smiths at level 1 are like that and it's a constant struggle just to get by. Some of them stand out enough that they rise above the flock, but for others..."

He shrugged.

"It's hard to be a blacksmith when nothing you make sells," He said. "And it's hard to sell when you're competing against a hundred other blacksmiths. Contracts are...sort of a way of dealing with that."

"How so?" I asked.

"By getting permanent customers by making a deal," He said. "It's a mutually beneficial relationship, see. Essentially, adventurers give the drop items they find in the Dungeon to smiths to be forged into weapons and armor, while the smith sells them strong items at a reduced price."

"Ah," I said. "I think I get it. I do something like that with the Miach Familia—they make potions and stuff. I let them have some of the drops I pick up in the Dungeon and they supply me with potions and stuff."

"That's it, exactly," He said, giving me an appraising look. "And look at you, ahead of the curve. A week in and you've already got a potion supplier. Have you noticed the benefits, yet? Besides saving money, I mean?"

I nodded slowly. Miach's potions had really helped me out on the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors. The Antidotes they'd made for the Purple Moth's powder had allowed me to fight through the floor without needing to retreat to the Pantries and while I didn't use their potions quite as much since I could just use water, they'd helped me out of a pinch or two.

"I think so," I said. "Miach and his Familia do good work and it's easy to ask for specific things."

"Mm," Wayland said. "Smiths are much the same way. The stuff that we make for the stores is all general stuff, made to appeal to as many people as possible, but they can lag behind as a result. It's hard to find exactly what you want, right? Even if armor can be fitted or weapons adjusted, none of that stuff was really made for you. When we're making stuff for a specific person, though, that's when a smith really shines. Made to order armor that fits like a glove, weapons made to exact specifications, and even beyond that, we're liable to put our best work into something built for someone we actually know. And at the same time, adventurers that wear our armor and use our weapons are like walking advertisements. If they do well, odds are they'll draw attention and money our way."

"I think I get it," I said. "So we're looking for a smith who'll contract with me?"

"That's right," He said. "You should be able to save money, at least for the time being—and maybe if you have someone building things for your specific brand of insanity, you might even find some armor that'll last a day."

I nodded but then paused, looking at him hesitantly.

"Wayland...this might be impolite and if so, I'm sorry for asking, but...couldn't you be my smith, then?" I asked. "I mean, I get that you're probably too busy and high-Leveled, but...?"

Wayland's expression abruptly changed, growing more distant.

"There's a reason I'm just a store clerk these days," He said after a long moment, tone changing. "I'm not much good for anything else these days."

I frowned at him, a disagreement leaping to my tongue before I focused on something I'd noticed when he'd showed me the way to Babel.

"You've helped me a lot, Wayland," I said. "So I think you're underestimating yourself. If it's..."

I trailed off, wondering if I should really be so direct about it.

"What?" He asked gruffly. "Speak up, boy."

"Is it your legs?" I asked after taking a deep breath. "Because if it is, I don't care about stuff like that."

At that, he gave me a penetrating look and then a grim smile.

"You've got good eyes, boy," He said at last. "That's good; you'll need that as an adventurer. Always keep your guard up and your wits about yourself."

He fell silent as he looked back forward, continuing to walk. His movements were smooth and easy, but somehow unnatural—too smooth for a man of his size, almost graceful where the rest of him was stiff.

"Hephaestus got them for me," He said at last. "She's a kind goddess, that one—but I think the fact that she had to is the worst part. I couldn't even make them for myself, once it was all over."

"What happened?" I asked. "A monster?"

This time, Wayland remained silent long enough that I'd almost decided he wanted to ignore the question when he finally answered with a shake of his head.

"No," He said. "It was, uh...a boring story from about six years ago. It's nothing you need to worry about anymore, but if you ever hear about a group called Evilus, be on your guard."

I stopped right there in the street and stared at him.

"Evilus?" I asked. "There's actually an organization that calls themselves Evilus? Really?"

A moment after the words were out of my mouth I shut it as fast as I could, realizing how insensitive I was probably being.

"I mean..." I tried to figure out what else to say, but Wayland's shoulders had already started shaking, back bending until he finally started laughing out loud. When he glanced back at me, he flashed me an approving grin.

"Damn right, boy," He said. "Bunch of goddamn, cliché assholes. Oh, sure, so many people what to talk about them in dark tones and whispers because they're fucking monsters, but the truth is? They deserved to be laughed at. That's what I fucking did when they kidnapped me and tried to get me to make weapons for them."

He turned his head and spat in the middle of the street.

"Fuck 'em," He said, flexing the fingers of his gloved hands in odd, jerky movements. "I told them I'd rather never make anything again then provide 'em with a rusty dagger and I don't regret it. I paid off the Dian Chect Familia a few years back and fixed things up the best I could. The rest...I'll manage eventually. It's just a matter of time. Nothing little kids like you need to worry about."

I nodded at him, remaining silent.

"Enough history lessons," He said. "We're almost there. Let's see how lucky you are, boy."

Wayland led me off East Main, taking my through a winding labyrinth of side streets until we reached a one story building I swear I'd seen a hundred of. He pounded on the door for five minutes, muttered to himself, and then led me away without explanation. A few minutes later, he brought me to a another, but this time someone answered, a young man at most a few years older than me, with ruddy brown hair.

"Favarges," He greeted.

"Wayland," The boy answered respectfully, wiping soot-stained hands on his apron. "Sir. You need me for something?"

"Need to talk," Wayland answered curtly. "Inside?"

"Sure," Favarges replied, moving out of the way. He glanced at me curiously, raising an eyebrow as Wayland looked at me over his shoulder.

"Wait out here," He told me, walking into the forge and closing the door.

I heard the two of them talking, but I didn't try to listen too closely. Whatever they were saying, Wayland didn't want me to hear, so I did my best not too. Instead, I took a seat on the curb and stared at the sky for ten boring minutes until Wayland opened the door and stepped out.

"Sorry, sir," Favarges said, bowing slightly at the door.

"Don't worry about it, boy," Wayland replied with a snort. "Just try not to work yourself into an early grave."

Favarges nodded slightly and stepped back inside, at which point Wayland sighed.

"No luck?" I guessed.

"He can't," Wayland said. "Boy went and made himself three contracts already and two of them look like they might hit Level 2 in another year or so. It's keeping him in pretty good business, but on top of the regular demand..."

He shook his head.

"And the first guy wasn't there?"

"Eloy," He said. "And no. I'd don't know him half as well as Favarges so I didn't really care at the time, but we might need to swing by later. Thing is, if Favarges has three contracts, Eloy probably has at least one. It's still worth a try, but..."

"What about the others you mentioned?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"We'll give them a shot, but Eloy and Favarges are close to leveling up," He told me. "I was hoping that if you contracted one of them, you'd benefit from that. I think we both know that you need better equipment one way or another."

"Can't I just go to higher level smiths?" I wondered.

"Same problem as with the banks," He said. "I think anyone that knows you will see that you have potential, but it's a question of getting through the door first. I figured if we showed some smiths how many items you can get in a day, we'd catch their eyes—but that only applies to Level 1 smiths. Above that, all the Kobold Nails and Orc Hides in the world aren't going to draw their attention; it's a good haul, but they can get better materials. If I talk things out, made some recommendations and demonstrations, then maybe, but...you might not like the attention that'll get you, son. Competition gets pretty fierce, both in the Familia and outside it. If you made a big enough show to get attention or some high Level smith took an interest in you, expect people to notice. That's the whole point, after all; people recognize the stuff adventurer's use. And monsters aren't the only things you have to look out for."

I nodded slowly, pursing my lips.

"We'll call that plan B, then," I said. "What about the other three smiths you mentioned?"

"Fabbri and Faure are good smiths," He said. "Very good smiths for how little time they've been with the Familia. But it's still gonna take them a year or two to level up, even if their lucky. If you were patient, odds are that both of them will go far, but..."

"And the third?"

"Crozzo," Wayland said, making a face.

"Something wrong with him?" I asked.

"As a person? Not really," He replied. "As a smith? He's wasted potential incarnate. That boy could go very, very far, but he just doesn't. But then, I guess I'm not in any position to talk about wastes. What'd you think of his armor?"

"He was the fourth one?" I asked to make sure, continuing when Wayland nodded. "I thought it was pretty good. It was lighter armor than I normally favor, but I'll give it this—I wore it in and out of the Dungeon. I had to ditch it afterwards because of what the ninth floor did to it, but..."

I shrugged and Wayland sighed, looking up at the sky.

"Fine," He said, but I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself. "It's worth a shot, right? Right."

He lowered his gaze back to the streets, furrowed his brow, and slowly began walking.

"It's this way," He said. "I think. It's been a few years since I came over here."

I nodded, a part of me wondering where Wayland's forge was, but I figured asking would just bring back bad memories. Instead, I followed him in silence as he led me further and further into the Industrial District. Either the way to Crozzo's forge was weird and twisted or Wayland got lost a few times. Given that all the forges we saw seemed to look about the same, I wouldn't blame him. Eventually, however, he stopped and knocked on a door lightly. Very lightly. As in, I could barely hear it, especially over the noise coming from inside.

Wayland waited about half a millisecond for a reply and then started hammering on the door and shouting.

"Crozzo!" He bellowed. "What the hell are you doing keeping me waiting out here!? Get to the goddamn door before I kick it off its damn hinges! Crozzo!"

There was a sudden clanging from inside, like something had fallen, and it was followed by shuffling and what I assumed to be curse words before the door was flung open.

"Are you out of your mind, old man?" Crozzo shouted right in Wayland's face, looking enraged. "I'm trying to work here! Go away!"

"I went out of my damn way to bring your fool ass a customer and this is how you repay me?" Wayland shouted right back, glaring at him. "You have any idea how long I've been out here waiting? Is that any way to treat your elders, boy!? I should have just left your ass out in the cold!"

"Yeah, well," Crozzo began to reply before abruptly stopping. "Wait, what?"

Wayland snorted and looked at me, shaking his head.

"Can you believe this punk?" He said, all hints of self-depreciation gone. "No respect. He should be honored to get visited by Wayland the Smith, but no—he's too busy being a whiny asshole. Maybe we should just fucking leave."

"You're...a customer?" Crozzo asked, ignoring Wayland as he stared at me. He blinked once and seemed to come to his senses, straightening and wiping at his face, which did nothing but smear even more soot on it. "Come in, come in! Please!"

Then he paused and squinted at Wayland.

"Not you," He said.

Wayland sneered and gave him the finger.