Shirou followed the old man deeper into the workshop, his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. The vibrant glow of the front room faded behind him, replaced by a more subdued warmth. Enchantment lanterns, suspended by thin chains from wooden beams, cast flickering golden light over rows of shelves packed with relics, scrolls, and exotic weapons.
The air was different here—denser, thicker with energy. It clung to his skin like a second layer. He could feel mana swirling in invisible threads, whispering through the old wood and cold iron, like ghosts echoing from a time long past.
"This is the vault," the shopkeeper murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. "Where the forgotten reside. Each weapon here has a story. Some too dangerous, others too precious... or simply waiting for the right hands."
Shirou nodded silently, his eyes scanning the rows. There were polearms with elemental cores, swords that shimmered with illusion runes, and even a bow carved from a single piece of moonlight wood—faintly translucent under the lanterns. But none of them called to him.
Until the old man stopped.
They stood before a modest pedestal. Resting atop it was a small wooden chest, polished but plain—unadorned, no carvings, no runes. It was the most unremarkable object in the room.
And yet, Shirou felt a faint pull. Subtle. Almost like a whisper brushing against his soul.
The old man knelt down, unfastened the latch, and slowly opened the chest.
Inside, nestled within a velvet-lined interior, was a dagger.
No—calling it a dagger felt almost reductive. It was longer than most, nearly the length of a short sword, but slim and balanced. The blade shimmered a deep, molten crimson, as though fire had been frozen mid-flicker and forged into steel. Subtle spiral engravings ran along its length, converging at the tip. Its hilt was wrapped in dark leather, aged and worn smooth, while the guard curled outward like twin tongues of flame.
"This," the old man said softly, lifting it with both hands, "is Inferno Fang."
The name struck something in Shirou's chest. A heat that wasn't his own stirred within him, answering the weapon's presence. He stepped forward, almost unconsciously, his gaze fixed on the blade as if nothing else existed.
"It was forged over twenty years ago," the shopkeeper continued, "by a wandering fire-smith from the South. He tempered it in volcanic springs and infused it with pure fire mana during the final strike. The result—a weapon that doesn't just respond to fire... it hungers for it."
The dagger pulsed faintly in the old man's grip.
"Lightweight, durable beyond reason, and attuned to heat. It channels flame like an extension of the soul. It doesn't just accept your mana—it dances with it."
He held the dagger out.
Shirou hesitated for only a second before reaching out. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a jolt surged through him. Not painful—just sudden, intense. Like two puzzle pieces locking into place.
A rhythmic pulse echoed through his arm. The blade glowed faintly, the crimson metal brightening as if stirred from slumber.
Shirou's breath caught. "It's... reacting."
The old man nodded, smiling faintly. "A perfect match. I had a feeling it would be."
Shirou ran his thumb along the edge. It was razor-sharp, yet it didn't bite unless commanded. He could feel its energy now—warm, steady, alive.
"It's incredibly sharp."
"It'll slice through steel with barely a nudge when fed mana," the shopkeeper said. "But more importantly, it conserves your energy. Every swing is efficient. For someone like you, still growing... that might mean survival."
Shirou looked up, eyes serious. "How much?"
The old man tilted his head. "Eight gold aether. But…"
Shirou's heart sank. That was too much.
"…I said I had the perfect one for your budget, didn't I?" the old man finished with a rare, wry smile. "It's old stock. Dusty. Been here for years. No one worthy showed up. But you're different."
He paused.
"Six gold and thirty silver. That's my offer."
Shirou blinked. "Seriously?"
"I'm not running a charity," the old man said gruffly. "But I do believe in giving weapons to those who will truly wield them. Inferno Fang deserves to see the world again. You'll give it purpose."
Shirou felt warmth in his chest—not from the blade, but something deeper. He nodded. "Then I accept."
The shopkeeper carefully rewrapped the dagger in an enchanted cloth that shimmered with protective runes.
"Minor warding enchantment," he said. "Prevents weathering and damage. Still—sharpen it. Respect it."
Shirou took the bundle and bowed slightly. "Thank you."
"One last thing," the shopkeeper added, his voice suddenly grave. "This dagger isn't just a tool. It's an extension of your will. Learn its rhythm. Its breath. The way it dances and waits. Treat it like a partner, not a possession... and it will never betray you."
"I will," Shirou promised.
---
As he stepped out into the fading sunlight, the sky was already bleeding orange into violet. He could feel Inferno fang at his side, like a heartbeat against his thigh. The air tasted clearer. Crisper.
For the first time in a long while, Shirou felt... ready.
---
Later that evening…
Shirou sat alone on a grassy hill at the edge of town, where the buildings gave way to wind and wilderness. The sounds of merchants and laughter had faded. The horizon blazed with twilight fire.
He unwrapped the dagger slowly, placing it on his lap.
"Inferno Fang," he whispered as if greeting an old friend.
Then he reached toward the space in front of him with his thoughts and spoke mentally:
> Store: Inferno Fang.
The blade vanished in a blink of light.
[System Notification]
[You have acquired: Inferno Fang]
[System updating...]
[Update Complete]
[You have learned: Intermediate-Level Dagger Mastery]
A sharp pressure formed behind his eyes, and then—
Knowledge surged.
Stances. Angles. Grip techniques. Counters. Parries. The exact arc needed to deflect a strike, the rhythm of feints, and how to angle a blade for maximum penetration without a rebound.
It wasn't just data—he was understanding the dagger itself.
Shirou gasped softly. When he opened his eyes, the world felt... different.
He summoned the dagger.
White sparks gathered in his hand, flickering into existence, and with a hiss of flame and light—Inferno fang reformed.
He gripped it again.
This time, it fit differently. Not just physically, but spiritually. It felt like shaking hands with a piece of himself.
He took a breath and channelled his fire mana.
The blade responded instantly, glowing with deep crimson energy. The spiral runes blazed, casting flickering shadows on the grass.
With a swift movement, Shirou slashed at the air in front of him.
A thin arc of flame burst forward, slicing through the wind before fading into embers.
It wasn't large. It wasn't explosive.
But it was clean. Controlled. Sharper than anything he'd produced before.
Shirou allowed himself a faint smile.
"Alright," he murmured, raising Inferno fang once more. "Let's get to work."