The Trash King's System

The Blacksmith's Query

Chapter 5: The Blacksmith's Query

The metal shutters of Qorven’s workshop rattled in the wind, a jagged, discordant rhythm that mirrored the state of Deyvok’s nerves. He stood before the heavy, soot-stained door, his satchel weighing down his shoulder like a leaden anchor. Inside the bag, the refined alloy—the first batch he had successfully pushed through the Recycle process—felt like a live wire.

He didn't wait for an invitation. He shoved the door open, the bell above the frame letting out a pathetic, stifled ring.

"I’m here, Qorven," Deyvok called out, his voice sounding thin in the cavernous, heat-blasted room.

Qorven Hal looked up from an anvil, his apron scorched with the history of a thousand hammer strikes. He wiped his hands on a filthy rag, his gaze narrowing immediately. "You’re early, kid. And you smell like the deep vents. What, did you crawl through the sludge to get here?"

Deyvok dropped the satchel onto the workbench with a heavy, metallic thud. "I had to move fast. There’s heat in the sector, Qorven. I need this processed and moved before the Enforcers decide to sweep the block again."

Qorven huffed, walking over to the bench. He reached for the bag, his calloused fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before pulling out a slab of the alloy. Even in the dim, flickering amber light of the furnace, the metal possessed an unnatural, satin-smooth finish that seemed to absorb the shadows.

"What is this?" Qorven whispered, his voice losing its usual gravelly edge. He held the slab up, turning it under the light. "Deyvok, look at the grain. It’s too uniform. It’s too dense. This isn't something you find in the piles, and it isn't something you smelt in a standard kiln. Where are you getting this?"

Deyvok leaned back, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands were shaking. "Does it matter? It’s high-grade. It’ll pass the muster for any industrial contract, won't it?"

Qorven slammed the metal back onto the wood, his eyes burning with suspicion. "Don't play games with me. This material is impossible for this region. You’re talking about molecular density that requires a high-pressure stabilizer, not a rusted scrap-pile and a prayer. Who’s backing you? Is it the Syndicate? Did you sell your soul to those suits?"

"I’m not selling anything to anyone except you, for now," Deyvok countered, his voice sharpening. "I bring the product, you refine it, we split the coin. That was the arrangement. You start asking questions, and the arrangement becomes a liability."

Qorven stepped closer, his shadow looming over the boy. "Liability? Kid, you’re the one walking around with a death warrant in your pocket. If this stuff is stolen, or if it’s 'experimental' as I suspect, the people coming for it aren't going to care about a fair split. They’re going to burn this shop down with us inside it."

"Then we make it worth your while," Deyvok said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "Look at the quality. You can charge triple the standard rate for this alloy. You’ll be the only smith in the district with a supply that actually meets the military’s demands. You want to stay a bottom-feeder, or do you want to be the guy who keeps the lights on for the whole sector?"

Qorven stared at him, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "You’ve got a dangerous tongue for someone who barely knows how to hold a hammer."

"I know how to get results," Deyvok said. "That’s all that matters."

Before Qorven could respond, the front door swung open with a violence that made the frames groan. The air in the workshop instantly turned foul—not just from the soot, but from the arrival of three men who moved with the arrogant, predatory gait of those who owned the streets.

At their head was Zarek Solm. He wore a coat of thick, synthetic leather, a heavy sidearm holstered prominently at his hip. He didn't look at the smith; his eyes were glued to the workbench.

"Well, well," Zarek drawled, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet. "I step out for a drink, and the air starts smelling like money. Rare, refined money."

Qorven’s posture shifted, his shoulders hunching slightly, though his hands remained near his tools. "Zarek. We’re busy. Come back when the shop is open to the public."

Zarek didn't bother to answer. He walked straight to the table, his fingers tracing the edge of the alloy slab Deyvok had produced. "Public? Is that what we’re calling this, Qorven? I’ve heard whispers from the Under-City. Rumors about a new supply chain. They say the quality is 'impossibly pure.' I couldn't imagine a rusted old relic like you suddenly learning to forge gold."

He glanced at Deyvok, his eyes lingering on the boy’s face with a predatory smirk. "But then, I heard the rat was seen hanging around with the scraps again. You’re the source, aren't you, Rhamelis?"

Deyvok stood his ground, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I’m just a scavenger, Zarek. I find what I can. Qorven is just a customer."

"A customer," Zarek repeated, laughing softly. He picked up the slab, his grip tight. "You’re an interesting kid. First, you get kicked out of the Assessment Hall. Then, you start pulling things out of the dump that should be impossible to find. Now, you’re supplying the best smith in the district."

"You want a cut, Zarek? Just say it," Qorven growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed anger. "You don't need to circle like a vulture. We’re doing business. It’s legal."

"Legal?" Zarek stepped into Qorven’s space, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Nothing in this district is legal, Qorven. Everything here is either mine or being taxed by me. You’re moving high-grade alloy without paying the tithe. That’s a grave insult to my hospitality."

Deyvok felt the System ping, a dull, warning thrum of mana-depletion in his veins. He looked at the two men—the desperate smith and the ruthless gang leader—and realized he had a choice. He could fight, which would leave him dead, or he could grease the wheels.

"Wait," Deyvok said, stepping forward. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a smaller, secondary piece of metal—a pure, unshaped nodule of the same alloy. He tossed it onto the table between them.

Zarek’s eyes flickered to the piece, his greed momentarily overriding his aggression.

"Take it," Deyvok said, his voice steady. "It’s a sample. Consider it the 'tithe' for the first batch. We’re just getting started, Zarek. If you keep the peace, there’s plenty more where that came from. If you cause a scene and bring the Enforcers down on us, the supply chain dies. And if the supply dies, you don't get your share of the fortune."

Zarek looked at the nodule, then back at Deyvok. He picked up the sample, weighing it in his palm. The sheer weight and density of the metal clearly impressed him.

"You’ve got guts, Rhamelis," Zarek said, his smirk returning. "Most kids would be wetting their boots right about now."

"I’m too tired to be afraid," Deyvok said, leaning against the anvil. "So, are we done here? Or do you want to keep breathing all the soot?"

Zarek laughed, tucking the sample into his pocket. "We’re done for now. But don't think this makes you an associate. I’m just waiting for the next shipment."

He turned to his men, gesturing toward the door. "Let’s go. It sounds like there’s going to be a lot of 'scavenging' to do, and I wouldn't want to get in the way of our little friend’s productivity."

As Zarek passed, he paused, his hand brushing Deyvok’s shoulder. The touch felt like ice. "I’ll be watching, Rhamelis. Don't go missing. I’d hate to have to come digging for you."

The shop fell into a heavy, suffocating silence once the door clicked shut. Qorven looked at the remaining alloy, his face pale.

"You’ve just signed your own death warrant," Qorven whispered. "He’s not going to wait for a fair cut. He’s going to follow you, find the source, and then he’s going to kill us both."

"He won't find it," Deyvok said, turning toward the door. "Because I don't store it here. And I don't process it where anyone can see."

"Where are you going?" Qorven asked, his voice cracking.

"To get more," Deyvok said, not looking back. "We have a quota to meet, Qorven. And if we don't meet it, we’re dead anyway. Might as well make it worth the price."

He stepped out into the night, the cool air biting at his skin. He didn't look back to see if he was being followed, but he could feel the eyes of the city—watching, waiting, hungry. He pulled his hood up and disappeared into the labyrinth of the alleyways, his path forward paved with the cold, hard logic of survival.

The climb was only beginning, and the slope was getting steeper by the second.