In the middle of the wide field that had now become the center of attention, Ren—or Nico Mustang—stood surrounded by stacks of wooden crates and metal containers. The palace servants and stationed guards occasionally stole glances his way, curiosity plainly written on their faces, as if they were waiting for the next miracle he might create.
Alfred and Bella, along with their three cubs, calmly shifted to the edge of the field. Though their bodies were massive and their strength unmatched, their instincts told them it was best to give this human his space—the man now radiating the presence of a blacksmith from the realm of gods.
Ren bent down, opening each crate one by one to inspect the contents. There were gleaming silver ores, chunks of bronze, sheets of aged iron, pitch-black coal, even tungsten ore—but most striking of all was a pure block of mithril, shining like a fallen star from the heavens.
