Chapter 5: Quarry of Lost Souls

When the bladesmith learned I’d retrieved the sword without ever drawing my blade, he was dumbfounded. He just stared at the sword like it was a ghost from his past.

But I just smiled, left him with a confident back, and continued on my way to retrieve the second weapon. I whistled as I walked, boots kicking up dust, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

The second weapon was an iron staff. Marcus Tate, the current owner of Tate’s Quarry. The quarry’s dust stuck to everything—trucks, boots, even the vending machine out front, which only took quarters and hope. The place was a fixture in town—half the buildings owed their bricks to it.

A few years ago, to take over the business, he accidentally killed his own father. His mother, unable to bear it, died by suicide. In the bladesmith’s eyes, this was ungrateful.

I carried a six-pack, stood outside the quarry, and asked the security guard to announce me. Dust from the trucks covered everything—boots, faces, even the sun.

Before the guard could go, the main gate slowly opened, and a dark-skinned, burly man walked out. I heard the guard respectfully call him "Boss."

"You stay in the quarry all day, how’d you get so tanned?" I looked Marcus Tate up and down, puzzled. The sun beat down hard; his skin looked tough as old leather.

"Who are you? What are you here for?" Marcus Tate’s eyes flashed coldly, his tone fierce.

"I’ve come to invite you to have a drink." I raised the beer in my hand.

Marcus Tate was startled, his expression softening.

"…You’re neither my friend nor my brother. Why would you invite me to drink?"

"If you want, I can be your friend or brother anytime." I smiled.

"…You want to be friends with me? You don’t despise me? Everyone says I killed my father and drove my mother to her death. I’m ungrateful."

A trace of pain flashed in Marcus Tate’s eyes.

I smiled even wider.

"I’m only twenty-six. I don’t look old enough to be your father."

"…You really don’t."

"So, I’m not the ungrateful one. Why would I despise you?" I laughed, shoving the six-pack into his arms. The cold cans rattled, and he seemed surprised by the friendly weight.

Inside the quarry’s office, Marcus Tate and I sat at a table, drinking. The place smelled like limestone and stale coffee, the air thick with dust and memory.

"How’s the beer?" I asked.

"Very good."

"I know you also have something very good."

I glanced at the iron staff beside him. It leaned against the battered metal file cabinet, looking almost regal in the harsh fluorescent light.

Marcus Tate’s eyes instantly went cold. "You’re here for the staff too?"

"I know not many people come to the quarry, and those who do mostly want to take the iron staff from you." I took a sip of beer and spoke slowly.

"So what makes you different from them?" Marcus Tate’s neck veins bulged, his can nearly crushed in his hand.

"In this world, it’s always better to have more friends than enemies." I smiled, unbothered. "They all see you as an enemy, but I want to be your friend."

With that, I picked up my can and clinked it with his. The clang echoed through the empty office.

Marcus Tate was stunned. The anger faded from his face.

"You’re not lying to me? No one around here wants to be my friend."

"Of course not. Since we’ve drunk together, from now on, you—Marcus Tate—are my friend, Mason Reed’s friend." I laughed and downed my beer.