Chapter 1: First Steps

Andrew's stomach growled as he sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, staring at his reflection in the small mirror across the room. Three days. He'd been in this world for three days, and the novelty had worn off approximately two days and twenty-three hours ago.

"So much for being the guy who shows everyone how it's done," he muttered, his adolescent voice still jarring to his ears.

The room he'd woken up in belonged to a small inn on the outskirts of Magnolia. The innkeeper, a kind elderly woman, had found him unconscious in the alley behind her establishment. She'd assumed he was just another orphan looking for work in the big city and had taken pity on him, offering three days of lodging and meals "until he got his bearings."

Those three days were up today.

Andrew rummaged through the pockets of the simple clothes he'd been wearing when he arrived—a plain tunic, trousers, and boots that would have looked perfectly at home at a Renaissance festival. The only items in his possession were a small pouch containing a handful of unfamiliar coins (barely enough for a decent meal), and a folded piece of parchment with a note written in flowing script:

"Prove your theories with nothing but your knowledge and the skills you claim are superior. You have criticized from a position of advantage—now create from a position of disadvantage. Your true test begins without the crutches you relied upon. —A"

"Spiteful cosmic bitch," Andrew snarled, crumpling the note and throwing it across the room. He immediately regretted it and retrieved the paper, carefully smoothing it out again. It was, after all, his only tangible evidence that he wasn't having some elaborate mental breakdown.

The goddess—or whatever Amaranthia truly was—had been thorough in her punishment. Not only had she de-aged him to fourteen, but she'd also provided him with nothing from his previous life. No tools. No materials. No magical abilities that he could discern. Certainly not his grandfather's hammer, which he'd used for nearly every significant project since the old man's death.

"I really fucked up this time, Gramps," he said to the empty room, running his smaller hands through his messy blond hair. "Got under the skin of some interdimensional being with my big mouth."

He glanced out the window toward the Fairy Tail guildhall, its distinctive silhouette visible in the distance. The building itself seemed to mock him. All those incredible mages with their flashy, powerful magic, while he stood here with... nothing.

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding.

"Come in," he called, straightening his posture and trying to look less pathetic than he felt.

The innkeeper, Mrs. Royce, entered with a sympathetic smile. She was a plump woman with silver hair tied back in a neat bun, her weathered face creased with the lines of someone who smiled often.

"Good morning, dear. I've brought you some breakfast." She set down a tray with a modest meal of bread, cheese, and an apple. "Have you given any thought to what you'll do today?"

Andrew nodded, forcing a confident smile. "Yes, ma'am. I need to find work. Preferably with a blacksmith, if there's one in town who might need an apprentice."

Mrs. Royce raised an eyebrow. "A blacksmith? That's unusual for a boy your age. Most young ones who come to Magnolia are hoping to join the guild." She nodded toward the window, where the Fairy Tail building was visible.

"I don't have magic," Andrew replied flatly. It wasn't entirely a lie—he'd spent hours trying to feel for any hint of magical ability within himself and had come up empty.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, dear. Many don't discover their talents until they're in the right situation." She patted his shoulder kindly. "But if it's smithing you're interested in, there's old Bron's shop on Ironwork Street. He might be looking for help—his last apprentice left to join Blue Pegasus a few months back."

Andrew's heart leapt. An actual lead. "Thank you, Mrs. Royce. For everything."

"You're welcome, child. And..." she hesitated, then reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. "Here. It's not much, but it should help until you get your first wages."

Andrew felt a lump in his throat as she pressed the pouch into his hand. The kindness of strangers wasn't something he'd counted on. In his world, people didn't usually take in random teenagers they found in alleys.

"I'll pay you back," he promised, gripping the pouch tightly. "Every jewel."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Just make something of yourself, boy. That'll be payment enough."

After finishing his breakfast and gathering his meager possessions, Andrew stepped out into the streets of Magnolia. The city was bustling with activity, so different from the quiet suburb where he'd lived in his world. Street vendors called out their wares, magical vehicles rumbled past, and people of all descriptions hurried about their business. Many wore clothing styles he recognized from the anime—some practical, others outlandish, and a few barely qualifying as clothing at all.

And the magic. It was everywhere. A woman used wind magic to dry laundry hanging from a balcony. A street performer created dazzling light displays for gathered children. A merchant used levitation magic to arrange his fruit stand. Casual, everyday uses of abilities that would have been revolutionary in his world.

Andrew clenched his fists, the unfairness of it all burning in his chest. Everyone here seemed to have some kind of magical talent—everyone except him.

"Focus," he told himself. "First things first: secure an income, then worry about magic."

Following Mrs. Royce's directions, Andrew made his way to Ironwork Street, a narrow lane lined with various metalworking establishments. The sound of hammers striking anvils, the hiss of hot metal being quenched, and the acrid smell of forge smoke made his heart ache with familiarity. This, at least, was something he understood.

Bron's Forge was located at the far end of the street—a sturdy stone building with a large chimney belching black smoke. The front displayed various metal wares: cookware, tools, horseshoes, and basic weapons. Nothing fancy or magical from what Andrew could see, but solid craftsmanship nonetheless.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door.

The interior was hot and dim, lit primarily by the orange glow of a large forge. A massive man stood with his back to the door, hammering a piece of red-hot metal on an anvil. Even from behind, Andrew could tell this was a smith who knew his craft—each strike was precise, landing exactly where it needed to with just the right force.

"Excuse me," Andrew called over the rhythmic clanging. "Are you Master Bron?"

The hammering paused, and the man turned. He was older than Andrew had expected, perhaps in his late sixties, with a bald head, a thick white beard, and forearms like tree trunks. His face was lined and weathered, his nose crooked as if it had been broken multiple times, and his eyes—sharp and assessing—were a piercing blue.

"Who's asking?" His voice was gruff, matching his appearance.

Andrew stepped forward, doing his best to project confidence despite his adolescent body. "My name is Andrew Slayn. I'm looking for work as an apprentice."

Bron looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. "You're a bit scrawny for forge work, boy."

Andrew bit back a sarcastic retort. His adult body had been lean but muscular after years of smithing. This teenage version of himself was definitely on the scrawny side.

"I'm stronger than I look," he said instead. "And I know metalwork. My grandfather taught me."

"Is that so?" Bron set down his hammer and crossed his massive arms. "And where might your grandfather's forge be?"

Andrew hesitated. He couldn't exactly say "in another dimension."

"He... passed away. His shop too. I'm on my own now."

Something in Bron's expression softened slightly. "Sorry to hear that, lad. But I don't take on apprentices out of charity."

"I'm not asking for charity," Andrew replied, feeling a spark of the argumentative spirit that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. "I'm asking for a chance to prove myself. If I can't pull my weight, you can send me packing."

Bron's bushy white eyebrows rose slightly. "Bold words. But talk is cheap in a forge. What do you know about smithing, boy?"

This was it—Andrew's opportunity. He straightened up and met the old smith's gaze.

"I know that you're working with medium-carbon steel for that axe head," he said, nodding toward the piece Bron had been hammering. "About 0.5% carbon content, I'd guess. Good choice for an edge that needs to be hard but not brittle. I know you need to normalize it after forging to relieve internal stresses, then quench it in oil rather than water to prevent cracking, followed by tempering to balance hardness with toughness."

Bron's expression remained neutral, but Andrew caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"I know how to manage a forge, work bellows, and choose the right fuel for different jobs," Andrew continued. "I understand the difference between forging, annealing, hardening, and tempering. I can identify most common metals by look, sound, and behavior under heat. And I know how to not burn myself or the shop down, which is probably the most important skill for an apprentice."

A long silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the forge and the distant sounds of the street outside. Bron studied him intently, as if trying to peer into his soul.

Finally, the old smith grunted. "You talk like someone who's spent time at a forge, I'll give you that. But there's a world of difference between knowledge and skill." He picked up a bar of raw iron and tossed it to Andrew, who caught it reflexively. "Show me."

For the next hour, Bron put Andrew through his paces, testing his basic skills—managing the forge temperature, drawing out metal, creating simple shapes. It was both frustrating and liberating. Frustrating because his fourteen-year-old body lacked the strength and muscle memory of his adult self, but liberating because, for the first time since arriving in this world, Andrew was doing something familiar.

Despite his physical limitations, his knowledge shone through. When Bron questioned him about alloy compositions, proper hammering techniques, or the reasons behind certain metalworking traditions, Andrew answered with the confidence of someone who had spent years studying the craft.

Finally, Bron called a halt. He wiped his brow with a soot-stained rag and gave Andrew a long, appraising look.

"You've got the right knowledge in your head, boy. Your hands need work—they're too soft, and you don't have the strength yet—but that'll come with time." He stropped his chin thoughtfully. "Where'd you say you were staying?"

"I... don't have a place at the moment," Andrew admitted. "I was at the Willowbranch Inn, but that arrangement ended today."

Bron nodded as if he'd expected this answer. "There's a room in the back. Nothing fancy—just a cot, a chest for your things, and a washbasin. It's yours if you want the position. Five hundred jewel a week to start, plus room and board."

Andrew fought to keep his expression neutral, even as relief flooded through him. A job and a place to stay in one stroke of luck. "Thank you, sir. I accept."

"Don't thank me yet," Bron warned, his expression stern. "I work from sunrise to sunset, and I expect my apprentice to do the same. No complaining, no excuses. You'll start with the basics regardless of what you think you know—hauling coal, pumping bellows, cleaning the shop. You'll earn more complex work by proving yourself, not by telling me what your grandfather taught you. Understood?"

"Completely," Andrew nodded, knowing full well the grueling nature of a blacksmith's apprenticeship. His grandfather hadn't gone easy on him either.

"Good. Now—" Bron was interrupted by the shop door swinging open.

A young woman entered—perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with long brown hair tied back in a practical ponytail. She wore simple clothes with a leather apron similar to Bron's, though considerably less stained and worn. What caught Andrew's eye immediately were the odd gauntlets she wore—metallic with glowing lacrima embedded in the knuckles and palms.

"Uncle Bron, I got those copper ingots you wanted, and—" She stopped, noticing Andrew. "Oh, hello. I didn't realize we had a customer."

"Not a customer," Bron grunted. "New apprentice. Andrew, this is my niece, Elisa. She handles our accounts and some of the finer metalwork."

Elisa looked Andrew up and down with open curiosity. "An apprentice? Really? You said you'd never take another after what happened with Jaris."

Andrew raised an eyebrow at this, but Bron waved his hand dismissively.

"Boy's got knowledge. Good foundation. We'll see if he has the work ethic to match." He turned back to Andrew. "Get yourself settled in the back room. We start proper tomorrow at dawn. Rest of today, just watch and learn how we do things here."

As Bron returned to his work, Elisa moved closer to Andrew, lowering her voice. "Fair warning—he's tough but fair. Do your best, and you'll learn more from him than any fancy magical academy could teach you about metalwork."

"Thanks for the tip," Andrew replied, then gestured to her gauntlets. "Those are interesting. What do they do?"

A proud smile spread across her face as she held up her hands. "My own creation. They enhance my magic—I'm a Metal-Make wizard. Small scale only, nothing like what the big guilds can do, but useful for detailed work."

She demonstrated by touching a scrap piece of metal, her gauntlets glowing briefly. The metal reformed into a small, perfectly detailed figurine of a bird. "See? I can reshape metal without heat for small items. Saves time on the delicate stuff. Uncle Bron thinks it's cheating, but customers don't care how it's made as long as it's good quality."

Andrew stared at the figurine, his mind racing. Magic that manipulated metal directly—this was exactly the kind of thing he'd been looking for. "Could... could anyone learn that type of magic?"

Elisa laughed lightly. "It's not something you just pick up from a book. You either have an affinity for Metal-Make magic or you don't. Why? Are you a mage too?"

"No," Andrew admitted, his heart sinking a little. "At least, I don't think so. I've never used magic before."

"Well, you never know until you try." She patted his shoulder. "But honestly, if you're serious about metalwork, you're in the right place. Magic or no magic, Uncle Bron is the best non-guild smith in Magnolia."

As Elisa headed into the shop's small office, Andrew made his way to the back room that would be his new home. It was exactly as Bron had described—small and sparse, with just a cot, a wooden chest, and a washbasin on a rickety stand. A tiny window provided minimal light and ventilation.

He sat on the edge of the cot, taking stock of his situation. In just three days, he'd been transported to another world, de-aged, left with nothing but his knowledge, and now apprenticed to a blacksmith who, while skilled, appeared to have no connection to magical smithing.

The cosmic joke wasn't lost on him. He'd criticized Fairy Tail's magical smithing system, and now he was in Fairy Tail... working at a completely normal, non-magical forge.

But Elisa's gauntlets and her Metal-Make magic had given him hope. There was a connection between metallurgy and magic in this world after all. He just needed to figure out how to access it—either by developing his own magical abilities or by finding a way to incorporate magical components into traditional smithing.

Andrew flopped back on the cot and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with possibilities. If there was one thing he knew from countless anime, it was that there were always multiple paths to power.

"Think, Andrew," he muttered to himself. "How do protagonists in these situations usually gain abilities?"

In Arifureta, Hajime had fallen into an abyss and gained powers by consuming monster flesh. In countless other stories, characters discovered hidden potential through near-death experiences or by finding ancient artifacts. Some trained relentlessly until they broke through their limits, while others reverse-engineered existing magical items.

He sat up suddenly, eyes widening as ideas began to crystallize.

"I don't need to be born with magic," he realized. "There are other ways."

He began pacing the small room, cataloging his options. First, there were lacrima—crystallized magical energy that could be embedded in items or even bodies. He'd seen Elisa's gauntlets with his own eyes. If he could study how they worked, perhaps he could create something similar, or even find a way to incorporate a lacrima into himself.

Second, there were magical texts and training. Even if he wasn't naturally gifted, surely there were fundamentals of magic theory he could learn. Maybe magic in this world was like a muscle that could be developed through proper exercise.

Third, there were magical creatures and materials. Dragon lacrima gave Dragon Slayers their powers. What other mystical substances existed that could impart magical properties?

He pulled out the crumpled note from Amaranthia and smoothed it flat against his knee.

"Position of disadvantage, huh?" he murmured, a determined smile forming on his lips. "You should have read more manga, cosmic lady. The underdog always finds a way."

Andrew drew a deep breath and made a mental list of immediate goals:

• Learn everything he could from Bron about traditional smithing in this world.

• Study Elisa's Metal-Make magic and those gauntlets whenever possible.

• Save enough money to buy magical reference materials.

• Explore Magnolia for resources—libraries, magical supply shops, or even guild members willing to share knowledge.

• Experiment with combining traditional smithing techniques with whatever magical elements he could access.

"This isn't over, Amaranthia," he said, clenching his fist. "You wanted me to prove my theories? Fine. I'll build something so impressive it'll make your cosmic jaw drop. I'll create a magical smithing system so perfect, so elegant, you'll wish you'd thought of it yourself."

He glanced out the window at the distant silhouette of the Fairy Tail guild hall. Maybe one day he'd walk through those doors, not as a wide-eyed hopeful, but as an accomplished magical smith with creations that even Erza Scarlet would covet.

"Just you watch," he promised the empty room, a fire burning in his eyes that had nothing to do with forge heat. "I'll show you what a real magical smith can do, with or without your blessings."

Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the small window as the sounds of Bron's hammer continued its steady rhythm—a mundane beginning to what Andrew was determined would become an extraordinary journey.

The first step had been taken. He had a job, a roof over his head, and most importantly, a plan. In a world where magic was everywhere, he would find his own path to power—one hammer strike at a time.