There was no blood on Khan’s wrinkled face. His skin was pale all the way to his fingertips. His body was a mess. It was hard to fathom his pain as he kept coughing up black blood.

“I... Take me to the smithy.”

“...”

Faker wanted Khan to relax. His chances of survival were likely to increase if he was stable until Sticks came back. But Faker quickly got rid of that idea. He recalled that Khan had been working for most of his 80 years of life. Khan would feel alive when striking metal in front of a hot furnace.

"I understand.”

Doing blacksmithing would help Khan became stable. Faker believed this and helped Khan. Khan leaned on his shoulder and smiled gently.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Faker’s heart ached. Since when had Khan become so small? Where did his big and hard hands go, leaving only the faded hands of an old man? Time was truly cruel. Faker recalled the bond with Khan since the days of the Tzedakah Guild and worried...