Chapter 258: Twelve

“No,” the Armory said.

Arwin blinked. He looked from the shield to the whorls of red mist rising up across from him. His head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, no? Why not?”

“Do you recall feeding me a training dummy?”

“Well, no. Can’t you just smack me or something?”

“And take the damage myself?” Irritation tinged the Armory’s voice. “No. If you desire a training partner, then either feed me something that I can use to replicate a training partner or find someone else. I am not your beating block. I am more than a mere tool. I am the Infernal Armory.”

Humble, are we? I suppose that’s fair enough, though. No sword is going to want to be used like a butter knife.

“Point taken,” Arwin said. He looked down at the shield in his hands, then dismissed it with a thought. “I’ll look into finding a training dummy to feed you. Do you happen to know what time it is?”

“It is evening.”

“More than enough time to get a little more work in,” Arwin mused. He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “You have enough energy to get one more quick piece of work in?”

“Your definition of quick and mine do not align.” Red mist swirled past Arwin and forced him to turn to track the footsteps tracking through it. “Nor do our desires. I do not enjoy driving my resourses down to the bone.”

“Don’t be lazy. Do you have enough energy or not? I’m not trying to kill you here, but I’d like to try and make a kitchen knife for Lillia now that I know Cursed items aren’t completely evil.”

“Why would you ever take a class if you believed that there was a chance it would be completely detrimental?”

“I was unaware that my own forge was going to start getting judgy.” Arwin’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It was a calculated risk.”

“You thought Cursed items sounded strong and took the class because it was more unique than normal Dwarven Smithing.”

“I may have done that, yes. But it wasn’t just because it sounded cool. I need to take risks to get ahead.”

“But it also sounded... cool.” There was something disconcerting about the way the infernal Armory said the word cool, as if it were a child testing out a new word for the first time.

“Just tell me if you can help make the knife or not,” Arwin grumbled. “But it did sound cool. Are you telling me Cursed items don’t sound at least a little cool? Especially now that we know they’re more like gambling rather than just evil?”

“Which of those questions do you want me to answer? You said to just answer if I could make the knife, but then added a second request afterward.”

Arwin’s eye twitched. “When did you become a sarcastic teenager?”

Tironal swallowed. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good,” the assassin said.

Then he was gone.

Tironal slumped in his desk and ran his hands through his hair, letting out a groan. This wasn’t how he’d planned the move into Milten to go at all. Things had gone completely wrong at every single turn, but he couldn’t stop now. There was too much invested on their success.

If he wanted to keep the momentum the Ardent Guild had picked up and ensure they properly established themselves in Milten, had to find the Dungeon Heart — or someone who he could pin its loss on.

***

Twelve slipped into a dark alleyway, leaving the Ardent guild behind him as he strode to his next meeting. Tironal was worthless. Anyone with a spymaster of any true worth would have already located the Dungeon Heart.

The item was hardly lacking in power. If Twelve had been present with his true body, then it would have taken him mere minutes to track it down. Unfortunately, he had nowhere near the amount of time to spare sending his true form for what was, in the end, nothing more than a side mission.

Losing the Dungeon Heart was infuriating, but there were worse fates that could come to pass if he failed in his other duties. He had a duty to more than himself. The rest of the Setting Sun had tasks far more important than a magical item, even one as strong as this one.

Fortunately, Tironal is far from the only one with an active information network in Milten. His time has already come to an end.

Twelve came to a stop at the end of the alley. A woman clad in rags looked up at him through a mat of ragged, dirty hair. She held out a mug with a few small coins resting at its base.

“Alms?”

“You are not a church,” Twelve said. “Where is your puppet master?”

The old woman’s lips split apart in a toothless grin and she lowered the mug. “You don’t look like a beggar to me. He did say he’s lookin’ to keep expanding and that he’d give bonuses for ‘ferrals, or something like that. That what you are?”

“A referral? Perhaps. I seek audience with him. Where can I find him?”

“He’s got contacts at the Devil’s Den,” the old woman replied. She clambered to her feet. “I’ll take you.”

“No, you will not. The name is sufficient.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. She took one look into Twelve’s eyes, then swallowed and wisely sank back into her spot on the floor. “Just tell ‘im that Magda sent you, yeah? I want my bonus.”

Twelve didn’t respond. He was already gone.