The Exorcist Doctor

Chapter 136 - A Day in the Life // of an Ironwych Smith

It’d been a proper while since Arnell walked the streets of Ironwych. It was still the middle of the day, but sunlight was ever greyed out and bruised by the Vile. Furnaces roared behind slatted windows. Hammers rang against anvils in uneven rhythms. Chains scraped, and somewhere, a printing press coughed and stalled, its operators swearing so loud he felt the ground vibrate as steam hissed out into the street.

His mask was pulled tight over his mouth and his shoulders were hunched. It was habit, at this point, as he passed stalls stacked with bent plates and gears sorted by size, bumping shoulders with men and women with grease-blackened hands and hollow eyes. This was his world. It’d always been his world. Ironwych raised him, fed him, and gave him a job, but… it’d really been a while since he went shopping for parts in this market district.

Ever since the Myrmur parasitized him, he’d been hollowed out slowly. At first, he’d thought it was just a common iron plague and tried to work it out—coughing into rags, spitting blood behind his forge, and pretending his occasional fits of weakness was just exhaustion—but when that failed and he realized he had a living, breathing monster inside him, he’d closed the doors to his forge. He’d sold all of his tools. Sold all of his scrap. He’d spent every last coin he had on stabilizers from the Steelborn just to keep the parasite from tearing its way out of him.

But even though he’d been cured for well over three weeks now, it was only today that he actually began thinking about opening up shop again. He had to buy parts to repair the unmaintained machines, new tools to replace his emptied workbenches, and…

Well, he had to get Gael and Maeve out of his forge as well.

He was grateful to the two of them for saving his life. He really was. But for three weeks straight, they’d run his forge like it was their clinic. Myrmur Hosts came and went. Blood replaced oil. Bandages piled where metal shavings used to collect. It was necessary for the type of activities the two of them were doing, but Arnell wasn’t earning anything out of them, so he had to say it soon.

I got this.

Just gotta walk up to them, puff my chest out, and say something like… ‘Hey, can the two of you use someplace else as your base? I’m kinda broke, and I gotta get back to work real soon.’

Again, he wasn’t ungrateful. Saints, he really wasn’t, but… recently, his forge felt like nothing but borrowed space in his own life.

Two days, he decided. Two more days, and he’d tell them—politely—that they really had to go.

After five minutes of pushing through the crowds, he reached the familiar blue-and-red bannered stall tucked beneath a crooked awning of patched sheet metal. The shop owner here, Obhan, was always difficult. Lean, sharp-eyed, and stingy to the bone, the man charged for everything, argued over nothing, and treated every customer like a nuisance, including Arnell. Unfortunately, Obhan was the only man in the area that sold some of the parts he needed to perform maintenance on his machines. There was no other choice.

But when Obhan saw Arnell approaching, he flinched. Not subtly. Not politely. The man’s shoulders jerked, and his hand vanished beneath the counter as if he’d just spotted a blade instead of a customer.

Arnell stopped short of reaching the stall, confusion prickling across his skin.

“... You alright?” he asked.

Obhan stared at him, eyes wide and glassy. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink for a moment. He looked like a man who’d been caught mid-step at the edge of a drop.

Arnell shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I just…” He cleared his throat, gesturing towards the shelves behind Obhan. “I-I need the usual parts. Ten medium cog teeth, three iron belts, and two ignition pins for one of my boot levers. The old ones won’t catch. Machines keeps stalling.” He hesitated before adding, quieter, “I… uh, I don’t have the money to pay you back yet, but I will once I reopen the forge and get some clients again. I swear this on the Saintess, I’ll pay you back first thing.”

Normally, him mentioning he’d owe Obhan a debt would lead to a conversation about charging him interest rates, but today, it earned him…

Fear?

“No problem,” Obhan said quickly, nodding far too hard. “No problem at all. Actually, just… uh, just take whatever you need.”

Arnell frowned. “What?”

“Anything you want,” Obhan repeated, pushing a tray of parts forward like an offering. “All of it. Anything for my man Arnell. Don’t worry about paying me back, either. Just think of it as… a gift! A gift.”

The words still didn’t quite ring right in Arnell’s ears. The man once charged him extra because a bolt ‘looked lucky’. Obhan wouldn’t just give things away, and he certainly wouldn’t give things away to a broke man like Arnell.

“Why… is it free?” Arnell asked carefully.

Obhan’s eyes flicked to the street, then back again. His jaw worked as if chewing on something unpleasant. “Just… y’know. Helping out a fellow working man,” he muttered. “Hard times around here. Men like us gotta look out for each other, right?”

…

Oh, Arnell didn’t believe a word of it, but Ironwych taught a lesson to everyone early: when generosity came uninvited, refusing it was often more dangerous than accepting it.

So he nodded, uneasy, and started scooping the parts he needed into his empty bag. Metal clinked softly as cog teeth knocked together. Belts folded and slid into place. The ignition pins felt heavier than they should’ve, carrying expectation along with weight, but Obhan watched him the entire time, rigid and silent.

Arnell left quickly and moved onto the next stall, but as the hours dragged on and the smoke-thick afternoon sagged towards evening—as he moved from stall to shop through the market district, gathering what he needed for his forge—each stop only left him more unsettled than the last.

It wasn’t just the first shop. It was all of them.

Vendors who’d sneered at him from behind their counters now straightened when they saw him coming. Men who used to talk over his head, mock his coughing fits, or jack up prices the moment they realized he was desperate suddenly became polite. Coins he tried to place on counters were pushed back into his palm, and parts were wrapped for him without complaint. One woman even bowed her head slightly as she handed him a bundle of belts, her eyes flicking nervously towards the street as if she expected someone to be watching.

“On the house,” they kept saying. “Anything you need, no charge.”

Arnell thanked them every time, but by the time his bag was heavy with parts and the street lamps began to glow through the smog, his nerves were wound tight. His fingers twitched constantly, brushing the strap of his bag, his chest, his pockets. Every friendly nod made him flinch. Every bowed head made his stomach churn.

Just who the hell did they think he was?

As night settled and the market really began to thin, Arnell turned towards home. The main streets were still loud with work and voices, but the thought of walking them made his skin crawl, so he slipped into the back alleys instead. It was narrower, quieter, and…

Riskier.

He didn’t get far into the alleys before he rounded a corner and saw a knot of hoodlums loitering beneath a sagging overhang, blocking the alley with casual intent. They weren’t Steelborn, of course. More like street rats with clubs and knives who survived by charging ‘passage fees’ to anyone who looked too honest to fight back.

Arnell grimaced, because despite having an Advanced Oil Beetle Class, he wasn’t a fighter, and he could just tell these street rats fought for a living.

… Shit.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He slowed, considering his options. Unfortunately, the alternate alley back home to his left was even worse. There were hounds there that nobody had cleared out in days, and he heard a few people had already been mauled to death already.

He sighed and checked his pockets. At least he still had a few coins. More than usual, actually, since he hadn’t been allowed to spend any today.

Oh, whatever. They’ll only take ten or twenty silvers anyways.

I just wanna go home.

As he approached the hoodlums, he drew his coin pouch and held it out before they could even speak.

“This is all I got,” he said. “Just let me pass in peace tonight.”

They closed in on him anyway. One of them stepped forward—broad-shouldered, scarred, his scowl practiced and mean—and Arnell’s breath caught as the man leaned in, eyes narrowing.

Then the scowl faltered, and the man froze. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and with it, something like fear drained the color from his face.

“… You,” the man muttered.

Arnell swallowed. His hands shook despite himself, but frankly, the man's entire body was shaking even harder.

“Move it, boys!” he snapped over his shoulder. The rest of the street rats behind him obeyed instantly, peeling away to open a clear path through the alley. “Of course you can pass,” the man turned around and said to Arnell again, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No need for trouble. We're not looking for any. Right, boys?”

“O… kay?”

Arnell didn’t understand, and he didn’t like that he didn’t understand, but then the man's eyes flicked to the coin pouch in his hand.

“That looks light,” the man said quickly. “Big boss wouldn’t like that. No sir.”

Before Arnell could respond, the man looked over his shoulder once more, and his boys reached under their coats. Within seconds, half a dozen coin pouches were pressed into Arnell’s arms, and the man gave him a firm pat on the back as he was nudged along.

“Go on,” he said. “And, uh… there really is no need to mention this little stand-up to anyone, yeah?”

“... Okay?”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t linger. He hurried past them without sparing them another glance, splashing through filthy runoff, and before long, he reached his building in the middle of nowhere. Thank the Saintess there wasn’t anyone squatting around, because he wasn’t sure if his heart could take any more. How in hell was he going home with everything he needed while being richer than when he left?

He slipped inside and climbed the lower stairwell quickly, darkness swallowing him whole. The idea that it might all be a cruel, vindictive prank crossed his mind, but who would do such a thing to him? When was the last time anyone had even thought about him for more than five minutes?

His mind had a nasty habit of wandering whenever his body got tired, and he started seeing the past in the dark.

When he was a boy—when it was just him and his mother—he used to run up these same stairs after errands, his arms aching from hauling heavy scrap and brittle gears and whatever else she’d sent him down to fetch.

He’d always been small for his age. The parts always felt too big. The bag always cut into his skin. He’d stumble and huff and swear he’d never do it again, but… then he’d reach the top, push into the forge, and there she’d be in the dim light, shoulders bent over a workbench. His mother’s hair was always tied back and her hands were always black with soot, but she’d look up every time like he’d brought her the city’s greatest treasures instead of actual junk.

She’d grin, rub his head like he was still a kid even when he grew taller than her, and say something soft that made the forge feel warmer than any furnace ever did.

Those were the good times.

And Saints, how long had it been since his forge felt like that?

He’d spent most of his adulthood working quietly in his forge. It was honest work, the kind that didn’t require anyone’s permission as long as his hands kept moving. Clients came over sometimes, but they came for his metal, his machines, and whatever else they wanted to inspect before giving him their production contracts. He never talked with anyone after, and he definitely never drank with anyone after.

Then Gael and Maeve arrived, and suddenly his forge had voices in it again.

… Maybe having people over isn’t such a bad thing, after all?

The thought made him slow mid-step, , but then he shook his head as if he could rattle the softness out of it. He’d already made his decision. He had to go back to his work, and he had to stop letting his life be borrowed by the Raven and the Caser.

Just enjoy these last two days with them, and then—

His boot suddenly slid. His heart lurched as he grabbed the railing and just managed to stop himself from falling down the stairs, but he looked down and scowled. Steelborn blood, he thought. From last night. Gael and Maeve hadn’t killed anyone on their way down, but the amount of blood spilled damn near made it seem like an entire party of men had kicked the can.

“Be careful,” someone said. “It’s still slippery here.”

Arnell jerked his head to the side. Unbeknownst to him—while he was lost in his daydreaming—he’d passed a man sweeping blood off the stairs with an old broom. He wore a tattered cloak that looked like it’d been chewed by rats, while a crude mask hammered from scrap iron—not in Ironwych’s style—sat over his face.

“... Who are you?” Arnell frowned, his grip tightening on the railing. This building didn’t have any cleaners. Landlords and leaks and screaming pipes, sure, but definitely nothing for comfort.

The man paused, lifting his head slowly as if deciding whether Arnell was worth acknowledging. For a heartbeat, Arnell felt threatened, and he considered turning tail and running back down the stairs—but then the man just shrugged, casual as a man could be while standing in blood.

“I’m the Cleaner,” he said plainly. “I’m here for the cleaning job.”

“Hired by… who?”

The Cleaner flicked his broom again, pushing a red smear down into the shadows. “Does it matter?” he said. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be done in a few more hours.”

Arnell swallowed. Of course it fucking mattered, but his fingers ached around the strap of his bag as he climbed the stairs faster, each step making the parts inside clink together.

Just gotta get home.

Just get inside.

When he reached the very top of the building, twelve floors up, he found his door’s lantern hanging where it always hung—except it looked brighter than it should’ve, a pale glow spilling down the upper landing. He scowled at it. It looked the same as his lantern, but this one was newer. Someone had replaced it while he was gone.

Clenching his jaw, he pushed his key into the door. His hand hesitated a moment, because he suddenly feared he’d open it and find a bunch of Steelborn waiting for him, seeking revenge for what happened to their brothers last night in the stairwell. It wasn’t really his fault, but it kinda was his for letting Gael and Maeve bunk here. If it came down to it…

Fuck it.

I just gotta fight.

He bobbed his head up and down, trying to amp himself up for the fight.

I got this.

I got my hammer, my Art, and my attribute levels aren’t the worst.

Come at me, you iron fucks—

Then he kicked his door in, and pop, pop, pop.

Weak fireworks sputtered and cracked in the air, harmless and pathetic, but still loud enough to make Arnell flinch like he’d been shot. Confetti fluttered down in slow spirals, while a chorus of cheers immediately erupted, echoing off the rafters.

Arnell’s bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a metallic clang as he stood there blinking, frozen in the doorway.

His forge—his usually dim, soot-stained, grim little box of a life—was bright.

New lanterns hung on the walls. The machines he’d been cursing and trying to repair for weeks already looked repaired. The panels were reattached, the belts were tightened, and new cog teeth had all been fitted back into place. The floor was swept clean. The workbenches were wiped down. Even the ceiling beams he could never reach without grabbing a ladder from the cranky old lady downstairs looked less filthy. Who the hell even thought about cleaning all the soot off the beams up there?

And then there were the people. So many people. Dozens of Ironwych citizens filled the forge, crowded between machines and tables, laughing and clapping and waving cups in the air. His workbenches may have all been cleaned, but bowls, plates, hunks of bread, skewers of oily meat, and jugs of dark and alcoholic-smelling drinks sat everywhere, like someone had decided to turn his place into a banquet hall.

“Arnell!” someone shouted, voice hoarse with gratitude.

“Thank you!” another yelled, pushing forward.

A man—gaunt, still pale from sickness—stepped up and grabbed Arnell’s hands in both of his, squeezing hard. “Thank you, young man,” he said quickly, eyes wet. “Thank you for letting us stay here. I thought I’d be dead in a tunnel somewhere.”

But before Arnell could form a sentence, the man was pushed aside gently and a woman took his place, her cheeks hollow and her smile shaking. “Saintess bless you,” she breathed. “You didn’t turn us away.”

Then another. Then another. They rotated in like a line of confession, each one saying some version of the same thing and pressing gratitude into Arnell’s palms until it started to feel heavy enough to bruise.

He looked around with wide eyes as he started to recognize some of them. They were the Myrmur Hosts who’d been sleeping against his walls and sitting on his benches and bleeding on his floor the past few days. Now they were standing, eating, laughing—alive enough to throw confetti in his face.

But how… and why—

An arm hooked around his neck from behind and dragged him forward. He flinched instinctively and turned his head, finding Gael already drinking like there was no tomorrow. The Raven raised his bottle as the crowd cheered around them once again, and his eyes—Saintess, those glowing green eyes—looked absolutely bright with mischief.

Then, with all the shameless warmth of a lunatic offering poison as medicine, Gael grinned down at him.

“Want some of this 85%?”