Walking out of the castle, Neil was even more confused than before. He at least understood what the quest was, and it was even more dangerous than he expected. They told him they were looking for city-wiping explosives and fighting orcs who are relatively weak but have the potential to harm elder horrors... The risk range is all over the place. This quest could be a boring, cozy trip to the woods, or could turn into a horrific and nightmarish trip where nothing but blood and guts would be spilled.

He walked down the castle’s gate and found himself back on the city’s busy streets, quietly fading into the background. Even though he was both tall and wide, he could easily disappear among the crowd, and so he did just that, fading into obscurity to prepare for the trip.

First, he had to hit the blacksmith and get his weapons repaired and sharpened. He mainly used two handaxes, which he had used for more than thirty years. They didn’t define his fighting style, but they fit it the best besides his bare hands.

As he walked into the workshop, the man inside gave him one look, and his eyes opened wide. "Nnnn Neil! It’s been five years since I saw you last! I thought you died somewhere!" As the man rushed toward. Neil masterfully dodged the hug. "Stay away from me; you’re covered in soot." He then looked at him with a smile. "I’m still alive, Alfred."

"Listen! You’re already pushing a hundred! It isn’t strange for old people to die, and you’re an adventurer on top of that. Do you know how much I worried about you? At least pay me a visit." He sighed and gave Neil a long stare.

"What brought you here today? You can do basic maintenance on your weapons, and I know you’re good at it. Don’t tell me you broke one of those axes or the gloves." He gave the two handaxes on Neil’s hips a look and smiled.

"They look fine to me." He scratched his chin.

Neil tapped the axes. "Those two beauties are as good as the day your father made them, but I’m going on a mission that requires perfection. I want them tended to by a professional." He took them off and handed them to the blacksmith, and the man looked at the axes with a worried face.

"What level of perfection are we talking about?" He asked, and Neil smiled. "Down to the gram, the weight of the blades, the color, the feel, the axe’s eye, and even the shaft... just get them back as good as new." He pulled one of the extra chairs in the workshop.

"One mistake, one failure, and I’ll probably be dead before I get the chance to curse you for the sloppy job."

Alfred threw axes back to the table and pulled a second chair to sit facing Neil. "Let’s put the repair on hold, Neil; you’re old. What kind of quest are you going on that you need such perfection? Is it really that dangerous?"

"Usually," Neil crossed his arms, "I won’t say anything, but I’ve told you about so many quests before, and you’ve proven yourself able to keep secrets. Do you remember the explosion of yesterday?" He leaned forward. "We’re on an investigation to make sure there are no more bombs like that. The catch is that we’re almost certain there is more, so we have to prevent them from detonating. The culprit, as you expect, is the orcs."

The blacksmith Alfred frowned. "Those damned orcs I knew they had something to do with that." He growled, and Neil shook his head. "Not really, they are just soldiers fighting to survive. Their world is starving, and they just want to eat." Neil could remember the old days when he was an orphan starving in the cold snow. The orcs must’ve had it as bad as he did, if not worse.

"We’ll track the bombs, make sure they are safe, and kick the orcs back to their world. The rest doesn’t have anything to do with me." Neil smiled, "For once, I’m not expected to fight. I’m just their guide, and the guys with me are absolute nightmares."

The blacksmith smiled, "For you, Neil Bjorn, to call them absolute nightmares... just how powerful are we talking about? Elite S-rankers?" As he leaned back and gave the axes a second look, Neil grinned.

"I can’t tell you about them all, but one of them is far too famous. Alcott Demorian himself, the Dragon Slayer." Alfred froze the moment he heard that name, and his eyes opened wide like a terrified cockroach. All of the hair on his body stood, and for a second, he looked like he was about to drop dead.

Alcott wasn’t just famous; he was feared. Everyone knew how terrifying and powerful the dragons were. How just one dragon could easily burn an entire city down, the thunderous rumble of their wings flapping faster than sound, or the silent, stealth attacks in the dead of night. Dragons weren’t just your average horrifying monsters; many saw them as more dangerous than devils and demons combined, and that was because they weren’t driven by malice but by pride and greed.

But humans had a special spot of fear reserved for the one thing those horrifying dragons fear, Alcott the Dragon Slayer. He was a man, a man unlike all other men. No one understood what drives him, or what got him to such a level of power, but humans were far too smart to not fear the man those lizards are horrified of.

If a man, for example, saw a vicious lion shits itself in terror upon witnessing a cute white bunny, the man wouldn’t think for a second that the bunny is harmless or cute. He will only see the lion’s fear as a burning warning sign of danger.

But there was a slight bride attached to that, to the fact that a human is standing above the dragons. "If Alcott is with you, then everything should be fine." As the blacksmith sighed, Neil chuckled, "Guess what..."

Alfred looked at him with a worried face. "Don’t tell me he is coming here to fix his weapons. I doubt I can work on any sacred treasure that man has stored."

Neil shook his head. "That isn’t it. Alcott is... believe it or not, the weakest of the group besides me. The others are much, much more powerful and more horrifying than anything I’ve ever seen in my entire life."

Alfred laughed, "Are you joking? Stronger than that monster? I won’t believe it until I see it with my own eyes." He stood to start working on the axes, but then could hear someone talking with his daughter, who stood in the reception room. While he manned the forge and only spoke with select clients, she handled the sales of all the mundane weapons he made, and the tools like wood axes and knives.

He walked to check on her and see who is this one that is talking too much, but he had never expected to see what he saw. Inside the shop, Gojo was sitting on the desk, and the blacksmith’s daughter was sitting on his lap, feeding him as Alcott checked on the weapons in the displays.