Tristan and the blind woman walked out of the cathedral, yet as they descended the steps, he quickly realized something was amiss. She moved with an ease that defied her supposed condition—no walking stick guided her path, no hesitation marked her steps. She avoided obstacles with uncanny precision and greeted passersby by name without ever seeing their faces. A quiet suspicion began to take root in Tristan's mind: was she truly blind, or was it all an elaborate façade?
Before he could press further, a young girl came running toward her, a bright smile lighting up her face as she called out, "Mrs. Claire! I found a four-leaf clover today!"
Claire knelt gracefully, placing a gentle hand upon the child's head, her touch soft and reassuring. "That is wonderful, little one," she said warmly. "It will surely bring you great fortune."
The girl beamed, laughing as she skipped away, her joy echoing faintly through the streets. From Tristan's perspective, the people of this underground city seemed content—peaceful, even. It clashed sharply with everything he had been led to believe.
"The people here seem… happy," Tristan remarked, his tone laced with uncertainty.
Claire tilted her head slightly. "You mistake happiness for safety," she replied. "These people once lived in filth and fear, uncertain of when they would eat or whether they would survive the night. Here, they are safe. Here, they are fed. Stability, even in darkness, can feel like joy."
Her words lingered in Tristan's mind. There was truth in them—a quiet, undeniable truth. There was a certain peace that came with survival after prolonged suffering. Though he could not fully grasp what these people had endured, the fragments he had seen—the beasts, the ruin—were enough to understand that this life, however grim, was still a blessing.
They continued walking through the winding streets, their conversation threading through the hum of the underground city.
"I wanted to ask you something," Tristan said abruptly. "Are you truly blind?"
Claire let out a soft laugh. "You are quite direct, aren't you? No hesitation, no courtesy—straight to the point. I respect that." She paused briefly before continuing. "Yes, I am blind. Though I suspect you are more interested in how than in whether."
Tristan shrugged slightly. He was not one to pry into the lives of others, yet the journey ahead seemed long, and silence would only sharpen his thoughts.
"Go on," he said.
Claire's expression grew distant, her voice quieter, heavier. "I once served a nobleman. I worked tirelessly to please him, to meet every expectation without fail. But all it took was one mistake—one insignificant error." Slowly, she lifted the cloth that covered her eyes.
What lay beneath was horrifying.
Both of her eyes were gone, the flesh around them scarred and burned beyond recognition.
"He did this to me," she said calmly. "Burned my eyes… and cast me aside like refuse."
Tristan instinctively turned away, his stomach tightening in revulsion—not at her, but at the cruelty of the man who had done such a thing.
"Do not look away," Claire said firmly. "I am not ashamed. My blindness did not weaken me. If anything, it sharpened me. In losing my sight, I gained everything else." She lowered the cloth back into place. "Come. We have wasted enough time. You need a weapon."
"I already have one," Tristan replied quickly.
Claire gave a faint, knowing smile. "Oh? Then where is it?"
Tristan's gaze drifted to the side, awkwardness settling over him. He had forgotten, if only for a moment, that the Star Divider was no longer with him. And even if it were… he could not simply replace it. That blade was more than steel—it was a promise, one he had yet to fulfill.
"I… don't have it with me," he admitted.
Claire sighed lightly. "Then do you intend to fight barehanded until you retrieve it?"
Tristan fell silent, weighing his options. He did not wish to abandon the Star Divider—not until its purpose had been realized—but reality pressed against his pride. He could not afford to fight unarmed.
"…Fine," he muttered at last. "Where do we go?"
"It will not be a simple replacement," Claire said. "You will have a weapon forged—one suited specifically to you, to your style, your strength."
Their path soon led them to a modest building. Above its door hung a weathered sign, the bold lettering reading: Hanker's Blacksmithing.
Claire pushed the door open, a bell chiming softly to announce their arrival. Inside, Tristan was met with a sight that momentarily stilled him—rows upon rows of weapons lined the walls. Swords, spears, axes, even an odachi rested in careful arrangement. The rhythmic clang of metal echoed from the back of the shop.
They moved toward the sound and found the source—a man with a receding hairline, goggles shielding his eyes as sparks danced around him. His hammer rose and fell in steady rhythm, shaping glowing metal with practiced precision.
"Hello, Hanker," Claire called.
The man glanced over, a grin spreading across his face. He set down his hammer and removed his gloves. "Claire! What brings you here?" he asked, lifting his goggles.
He looked worn—dark circles shadowed his eyes—but there was an unmistakable energy about him. His gaze shifted to Tristan, curiosity flickering within it.
"Boy," he said, stepping closer, "how old are you?"
Tristan glanced briefly at Claire before answering, "Sixteen."
Hanker raised a brow, impressed. He stepped forward and gripped Tristan's bicep firmly. "Built like that at sixteen? You've been wielding something heavy. A longsword, perhaps—or something even larger."
Though slightly uncomfortable with the contact, Tristan was surprised by the accuracy of the man's observation.
"What's your name?"
"Tristan Merigold."
Hanker's grin widened as he extended a hand. "Hanker Sullivan. Blacksmith of the Clockwork Path."
Tristan shook his hand, immediately noticing the grime and soot coating it. As he let go, he subtly wiped his palm against his clothes. Hanker returned to his workstation, lifting the heated metal and plunging it into a bucket of water. Steam hissed as the blade cooled, its surface gleaming.
Tristan watched intently. He knew little of smithing, but even he could tell—this man was no amateur.
"So," Hanker said, setting the blade aside, "I take it you're here for a weapon."
Claire answered before Tristan could speak, making their intent clear.
Hanker nodded thoughtfully. "An obsidian blade, then?"
Claire gave a small nod, though Tristan's curiosity immediately surfaced.
"What's an obsidian blade?"
Hanker's face lit up at the question. He clapped his hands together and moved to a chest nearby, opening it to reveal a dark, gleaming material. He held it out.
"This," he said, "is obsidian. Stronger than most metals, yet remarkably light. Nearly unbreakable—but incredibly difficult to forge. Only the most skilled can shape it properly." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "It comes from the northern continent. Rare. Valuable. Dangerous in the wrong hands."
Tristan studied the material closely, its dark surface reflecting faint glimmers of light. There was something captivating about it—something almost alive.
Hanker closed the chest and turned back to him, his expression sharpening with interest.
"So then," he asked, "what kind of weapon shall I forge for you?"