Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes

Walking along the bustling streets of Lentan City's Workshop District, Ivaim felt a familiar sense of ease. The hum of machinery, the acrid tang of molten metal, and the rhythmic clanging of hammers against steel seemed to ground him in the moment.

Adjusting the strap of his bag, his gaze landed on the faded signboard hanging outside a familiar building:

Harvin's Workshop

The simplicity of the name tugged a small grin onto his face.

"Creative," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

As he pushed the heavy wooden door open, the scent of oil and grease hit him, carrying with it a wave of nostalgia.

The cluttered interior was just as he remembered—half-assembled automatons leaned precariously against shelves, blueprints were strewn across tables, and crates of spare parts spilled into every available corner. It was chaotic, but in its own way, it felt alive.

But the calm was short-lived.

"You're late."

Harvin's gruff voice carried across the workshop, stopping Ivaim in his tracks. The owner stomped out from behind a stack of gears, his thick leather apron dusted with soot and grime. His stern face, framed by a wiry beard, seemed carved from stone.

"I swear, boy, if you show up one more time looking like you just rolled out of bed, I'll—"

"Hello, Ivaim," came Maris's soft, monotone voice. She appeared from behind a towering automaton, her face expressionless and streaked with grease.

Her calm, even gaze flickered briefly to Harvin before returning to Ivaim.

"You're late."

Harvin shot her a sharp look.

"Don't just tell him he's late! He was supposed to start the hydraulic maintenance an hour ago!" Turning back to Ivaim, he jabbed a grease-stained finger toward the younger man.

"Do you think this shop runs on luck and charm? You've got work to do!"

Ivaim rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin forming.

"Good to see you too, Harvin."

"Don't start with me, kid," Harvin huffed.

"The hydraulic arms need recalibrating, the joints are squeaking, and I'll personally throttle you if I catch you tinkering with anything that doesn't need fixing."

Despite the scolding, Ivaim felt a pang in his chest, a familiar ache he rarely let surface. Harvin's gruffness, the way he barked orders, and the unspoken expectation of excellence—it all reminded him of his father back in his original world.

His dad had been the same: stern, impatient, and utterly incapable of sugarcoating his words. But beneath the rough exterior was someone who cared deeply, even if he rarely said it out loud.

"Are you listening, or have you gone deaf?" Harvin barked, snapping Ivaim out of his thoughts.

"I'm listening," Ivaim said quickly, grabbing a nearby rag to occupy his hands. He forced a smile to hide the sudden wave of emotion rising in him.

"Hydraulic arms. Got it."

"Good. And don't break anything this time," Harvin grumbled before turning and stomping back toward another workbench.

Maris, still leaning against the automaton, watched him in silence for a moment.

"You're thinking about something," she said, her tone as calm as ever.

Ivaim glanced at her, surprised by her quiet observation. "Just... Harvin reminds me of someone."

"Your father?" she asked, her gaze steady.

Ivaim paused, his fingers tightening around the rag.

"Yeah. My dad was... a lot like him. Always gruff. Always yelling. But he meant well."

Maris nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.

"Harvin means well too. Even if it doesn't sound like it."

Ivaim chuckled lightly, feeling some of the tension ease. "You think so?"

"Yes," she replied simply, before turning back to her work.

Left alone with his thoughts, Ivaim sighed, brushing a hand through his hair before rolling up his sleeves.

He moved to the workbench where the hydraulic arms lay, their joints stiff with grime and misuse. Grabbing a wrench, he set to work, his hands moving with practiced precision.

The steady rhythm of Harvin's muttering from across the room and the faint clinking of Maris's tools created a peculiar harmony.

Though no one said it aloud, there was an unspoken bond in the workshop, a quiet understanding that made the space feel oddly like home.

As Ivaim tightened the final bolt and tested the hydraulic arm's movement with a satisfying hiss of compressed air, Maris's presence suddenly loomed at his side.

Her expressionless face, as calm as always, was framed by a few stray strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail. She tapped the edge of the workbench with her knuckles, drawing his attention.

"Ivaim." Her voice was soft but carried the authority of someone used to being listened to.

"I forgot to tell you, there are private customers coming later this afternoon."

Ivaim set the wrench down and straightened up, wiping his hands on the grease-stained rag hanging from his belt.

"Customers? Since when does Harvin deal with people? He hates it."

"He doesn't," Maris replied flatly, meeting his gaze with her steady, unreadable one.

"Usually, I'm the one who handles them. But I have somewhere important to be later."

"Somewhere important? Is that code for avoiding responsibility?" he teased, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Maris didn't react, her expression remaining neutral.

"Do you mind handling them just for today? I'll show you the basics of what the workshop offers before I leave."

Ivaim blinked, caught off guard.@@novelbin@@

"Me? You want me to deal with customers? Are you sure about that?"

"You're capable," she said simply. "Besides, Harvin would just scare them away."

From the other side of the room, Harvin grumbled loudly, clearly catching the tail end of their conversation.

"I heard that! I don't scare anyone. People just don't know how to appreciate blunt honesty."

"Blunt honesty is one way to put it," Ivaim muttered under his breath, earning the faintest hint of a smirk from Maris—not that she'd ever admit to it.

"Don't overthink it," she continued, her tone as even as always.

"They'll likely ask for simple things—replacement parts, custom orders, maybe a repair or two. I'll write down the pricing sheet for you, and you can reference it if they ask about costs. Just be polite."

Ivaim laughed, folding his arms.

"Polite? You're giving me tips on customer service? That's rich coming from you."

Maris tilted her head slightly, unphased.

"I'm polite enough. Are you saying you can't manage it?"

"Challenge accepted," he said with mock bravado, tossing the rag onto the bench.

"But if they walk out confused or angry, I'm blaming you for putting me in charge."

Maris nodded once, apparently satisfied.

"You'll do fine. I'll prepare the notes." She paused for a moment, as if considering something. "Thank you."

Her words, so simple yet unexpected, left Ivaim momentarily speechless. He recovered quickly, waving her off.

"Yeah, yeah. Go do whatever important thing you need to do. I've got this."

As she walked away, Ivaim couldn't help but watch her for a moment, marveling at how she could maintain that calm, collected demeanor no matter the situation.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the hydraulic arms, muttering to himself.

"Great. First fixing these, and now playing shopkeeper. What's next? Harvin asking me to bake cookies?"

From the corner of the workshop, Harvin called out, "Stop mumbling and get back to work, boy!"