I’m a man of honor. That’s a fancy way of saying I’ve never committed a crime, never lied on my taxes, and never, not once in seventy years, accidentally brushed a woman’s hand in a grocery store line.I’ve lived alone since God knows when. I was an orphan, you know the usual, a blank slate dropped into a world where life was harsh. To eat, I broke my back. To get through grade school to high school, I worked three part-time jobs simultaneously. I was the kid who smelled like deep-fryer grease and instant coffee, the favorite punching bag for every bully from the playground to the breakroom. It was tiring. But here’s the kicker, the cosmic joke of my existence: I was allergic to women.Literally. One touch and my skin would erupt in hives so violent you’d think I’d wrestled a jellyfish or a giant bee. A single brush of a shoulder could send me into anaphylactic shock. Not only that, my life was a perpetual game of "the floor is lava," except the lava wore flower scented perfume, mini

Several minutes later.The inner city of Athens was a direct assault on my senses. If the village I woke up in was a grayscale photo of a landfill, this place was a high-definition, neon-lit fever dream. Everything screamed "Woman." The architecture had curves where Earth had corners; the mana lamps didn't just glow, they shimmered with a soft, rose-tinted light that made everyone look like they were filtered for Instagr*m.And the people? The women? My old soul was currently having a heart attack. I was seventy years old on the inside, but seeing women dressed in gowns that seemed held together by nothing but magic and sheer willpower was doing things to my blood pressure. Every noblewoman walking by looked like a supermodel with a PhD in Fireballs. They had this effortless grace, their chests puffed out with the pride of a gender that had never known the words "glass ceiling.""Stay close, boy," Mistress Helga grunted, snapping me out of my hormone-induced trance. "Don't go gawking

By 4:45 AM, the shop was already humming. Herbert started barking orders, rattling off the inventory of "Helga’s Weapon Shop.""Listen close, Arthur. Iron longswords are three silvers. Bronze daggers are eight coppers. Magic-infused maces are ten gold, and don't you dare touch 'em. We got twenty-two axes in the rack, fifteen bucklers in the cellar, and..."He went on for ten minutes, a dizzying list of prices and items. He stopped, looking at me with a smug grin. "Well? You going to write that down, or just stare at me with those big, empty eyes?""No need," I said, crossing my arms. I tapped my temple. "Longswords: 3 silver. Daggers: 8 copper. Maces: 10 gold. You’ve got fifteen bucklers, but three of them have rusted rivets in the back-left corner of the cellar. Anything else?"Herbert’s jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the anvil. He blinked at me, his eyes flickering with a reluctant spark of admiration. In a world where men were mostly used for heavy lifting, a guy who coul

"Where did you get this?" Helga demanded, her voice low and dangerous. She stepped toward me, her massive "assets" practically vibrating with suspicion. "A beggar boy from the slums does not carry a tool that makes the Royal Smiths look like toddlers."I put on my best "innocent orphan" face, though my heart was doing 120 beats per minute. "I... I made it, Mistress. Back in the slums. I found some strange scrap metal in a meteor crater and spent weeks filing it down with a stone. I didn't know it was a 'relic.' It’s just how I fix things.""You made this?" Varis breathed, looking at me like I was a reincarnated god of the forge. "Young man, do you have any idea what this is worth? A tool that can manipulate the smallest mechanisms of enchanted weaponry without breaking?""I'd imagine... a few silver?" I guessed, playing dumb."Silver?!" Varis laughed manically. "I would give you a hundred gold pieces right now just for the right to borrow it for a week!"My brain short-circuited. A hu

I squared my shoulders, put on my best 'innocent peasant' face, and opened the door to the kitchen.When I walked into the kitchen, my jaw hit the floor. This wasn't a meal; it was a feast. Sizzling sausages, poached eggs, creamy oatmeal, and a steaming pot of herbal tea. But sitting at the head of the table was the real shocker.She was an Elf. But not just any elf. Her hair was a cascading waterfall of rainbow hues that shifted as she moved, and her eyes were a green so vibrant they looked like polished emeralds. She smelled like a forest right after a rainstorm—damp earth, lemon, and pine."I am Elsa," she said, her voice like wind chimes. "Mistress Helga sent me to escort you to the Great Smithy for supplies. But before we break bread... may I see it?"I knew what she meant. I pulled out the Leatherman. She didn't just look at it; she studied it with a terrifying intensity. Her fingers hovered over the steel, her elven mana reacting to the industrial purity of the metal. "It has n