"Rustheads!" announces the fat, hairy creature, which some might mistake for a dwarf. "This is Sam, John, and Trell. They’re new. Show them the ropes."

  "It’s Krell," one of them murmurs under his breath.

  That’s the second group of young smiths in the last three days. They’re all here for the same reason I am—the Rank evaluation.

  Did I show up too early? Is that why I’ve been waiting for so long? It’s been over a month since I arrived, and only now are people starting to pour in.

  And somehow, an undamaged set of tools has been found for each of them.

  I shake my head, pushing the distracting thoughts aside, and focus back on my work. I glance at the paper drawing again, double-checking my progress. To the right of it, a small pair of dark gray pliers rests on the table. They’ve been a mild success.

  The joints move smoothly, opening and closing with ease. Sure, I gave them a good coating of oil, but there’s something different now—something more. It’s not just the mechanical movement. It’s the way it feels in my hands, the way it fits. Standardized tools are good, but there’s no comparing them to something built for your hands, something designed with small, specific features that regular tools just can’t match. There are a few cosmetic fixes to make, but overall, the tool’s ready.

  Okay, not a mild success—a success.

  The bindinging solution stopped absorbing mana yesterday evening and I had to test the result. And the result is glorious. I can feel the pliers’ location even from meters away, even if I were blindfolded.

  I take a breath, thinking about my next move. Should I proceed slowly, creating each tool one by one? Or should I dive right into it, push through and make them all in one go?

  The sound of loud voices drifts toward me, pulling my attention away. My eyes narrow, irritated, as I glance toward the trio of new arrivals.

  "Could you believe it!? A whole goblin horde!" one of them says, his voice annoyingly high-pitched.

  "More like a dozen, not a horde," another replies dismissively.

  "That’s still a lot!" the first one shoots back.

  "A Red Wave," the third mutters quietly.

  "Yeah, and the braindead Easterners decided to rebel just when we needed those problems the least," the second grumbles, clearly irritated.

  A grimace spreads across the faces of everyone in the smithy, including mine.

  The royal messenger wyverns brought news, but it wasn’t good.

  There’s no official declaration yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The Empire’s Tax Collections envoy is dead. Executed. There's no stopping the storm that follows anymore.

  Ever since the Sun Kingdom joined the Empire three centuries ago,and became the East province, they’ve been granted special privileges. The books I’ve read in the clan only mention their 'contribution to the war effort against demons', but no one ever really explains what that contribution was. What could they have done that would justify such autonomy?

  And now it looks like even that wasn’t enough. They want more.

  Not that it matters anymore. Once this rebellion is crushed and their so-called Hero is caught and sent to the frontlines, the instigators will be dealt with. The punishment will likely be similar to that of the infamous religious fanatics here in the West.

  We can only hope the resolution is swift and doesn’t devolve into another mass slaughter. We can't afford to fight demons and tear ourselves apart at the same time.

  ...

  I scan the forest floor, counting the bodies—six goblins.

  A scowl creeps onto my face. These worthless little shits are worth more than the dead deer behind me, the very thing they tried to steal. And yet, I can’t just drag their corpses to the Adventurer Guild and demand payment.

  I tried that a few days ago.

  It didn’t go well.

  Hunting wild game during a goblin season is just stupid. There’s a small fortune lying all around me, but no—I'm forced to pick up the scraps and ignore the treasure right under my feet. In the past few days, I’ve killed enough goblins to pay the damn registration fee twice over, but I still can’t cash them in.

  For a brief moment, I had the idea to grab some random adventurer and use him as a middleman. He’d claim the kills, hand over the ears, and collect the money—easy. He’d get some recognition and a small cut, and I’d finally be free of this bullshit.

  But in the end, I couldn’t do it.

  Lying to the Adventurer Guild would result in instant blacklisting. And anyone willing to take part in that kind of scheme is exactly the kind of person I should avoid. Getting involved with someone like that would bring more problems than it solves.

  I exhale sharply, looking around again.

  What the fuck is a smith doing in a fucking forest!?

  Where did I go wrong? A smith should be in a warm forge, hammering out art while earning a shitload of gold. Not gutting goblins in the middle of nowhere.

  FUCK.

  For a moment, I considered selling the core of snakey snake. The idea flickers in my mind for only a second before I shove it down. I’ve made enough stupid mistakes lately—I don’t need to add another to the list. Those cores are rare, and a few more days of work is a small price to pay to keep it.

  A low growl snaps me out of my thoughts.

  My head lazily turns toward the source—a mangy excuse for a wolf, slowly circling me. Its fur is a filthy black, with large patches missing. Its jaw hangs slightly open, revealing yellowed, uneven teeth. Either it’s mad, starving, or just too damn stupid to recognize a man holding a bloody sword, standing among dead goblins.

  Wait.

  Wolf pelts aren’t cheap, right?

  ...

  "No. I don’t need the fur, just the meat."

  "But it’s a whole wolf pelt," I argue.

  "Doesn’t matter. It’s damaged anyway."

  "It’s still worth something!" My voice rises in indignation.

  "I don’t need it."

  For several long seconds we stood in silence glaring at each other.

  "Fine" I spat out, "Then cut out the meat and return the pelt."

  There’s no way I dragged the damn thing all the way here for nothing.

  The butcher grumbles something under his breath, chewing on the thought for several long seconds before finally responding.

  "Twenty."

  "What?"

  "Twenty silver. For everything, including the pelt."

  My jaw drops before I can stop it. The fucker lied. He knew the pelt was worth something.

  Wait.

  Has he been cheating me this whole time?

  A slow, simmering rage builds in my chest.

  "Fifty," I growl.

  His eyes shoot wide open. His hands flail in protest.

  "No way I’m paying five gold for a wolf—"

  "You’ve been cheating me out of my money. If you say no, I’ll take my business elsewhere. Not just that—I’ll tell everyone you sell spoiled meat."

  He freezes. I press on.

  "I’ll tell every single person I know, every single person I meet, until no one ever buys from you again."

  His expression twists in fury and disbelief. "WHAT?! Who do you think you are?! Why would anyone care what you—" He stops short, his face contorting in disgust. "You dirty—"

  I cut him off.

  "I work for the army. I have many friends. Try me."

  I lift my left wrist, showing him the bracelet.

  A heavy silence falls between us. People move in the background, going about their business, completely ignoring our standoff.

  The butcher huffs, his jaw tightening. Then, with a sharp motion, he pulls out five gold coins and slams them onto the counter.

  "Never come back." He spits the words out like venom.

  "Wasn’t planning to."

  I swipe my money off the counter and walk away without looking back.

  As the shop fades behind me, a strange rush floods my chest—a chaotic blend of shame, pride, and something else I can’t quite name. My mind races, replaying the moment.

  I bluffed my way out of that.

  No violence or blood. Just bullshit and a strong enough front to make him fold first.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Is this how people get what they want? Just lie and hope the other side backs down?

  The butcher shop disappears into the distance as the thought lingers in my mind.

  ‘I have many friends.’

  Next time, I should come up with something more believable.

  ...

  I turn the dark gray hammer in my hand, inspecting it for any imperfections. Nothing. Good. It’s plain-looking—intentionally so. The goal was to make all my tools inconspicuous. Less likely to be stolen that way.

  Not that plain means weak.

  A thick head with a sharp wedge-shaped peen on the rear on top of a long metal pole, made out of a single solid piece of steel. It has already passed the tempering and hardening process, therefore despite its unpolished appearance, it's more or less ready. Polishing it to a shiny state or wrapping a fancy colorful leather around the handle will only make it more likely to be stolen, or at least attempted to be stolen.

  I turn it again in my hands, and a thought creeps in.

  This would make a damn good weapon.

  A wide hammer face for blunt force. A sharp peen for piercing armor. With enough momentum, either side could be devastating.

  Hm.

  The idea of adding mana pathways grew more and more interesting the more I thought about it. If you ignore some elemental properties of mana, the pathways are used to guide mana around and help it keep the structural integrity in place. The hammer doesn’t really need pathways, but the drawbacks aren't that severe...

  I for sure won’t use the pathways for the elemental purpose, like the idiots who like walking around with a flaming sword. There’s no practical purpose to that unless you want to cauterize a wound or something... But that’s just stupid and also a major waste of mana.

  But I must agree that hammering a sword with a flaming hammer... would look kinda cool.

  Hm.

  My mind races through potential layouts for the pathways. A thick, central pathway running from the handle to the head, then spiraling outward into a coil before looping back toward the peen. A spiral growing outward would distribute energy evenly, but an inward spiral offers better control. I could also make it wrap around...

  Even a minor mistake would cause the center of weight to shift, causing either an instant crack to appear on the hammer or dooming it to a gruesome and shattering death after a single wrong strike.

  I close my eyes and start working.

  Mana drills into the steel, winding its way up the handle, then shifting into a spiral. Slow, steady, threading its way just beneath the surface. When it reaches the head, it loops in on itself—turn after turn, circle after circle, each layer aligning perfectly with the last. The spiral tightens, the last coil locking into place before I guide the mana toward the peen, where it finally settles.

  I exhale sharply, blinking as my vision clears.

  Visually, nothing has changed. But the weight in my hand feels different.

  I send a stream of mana through it, testing the flow. Smooth. Unobstructed. Perfect.

  Moment of truth.

  Mana is pushed into it and I slam the hammer against the anvil violently with full strength.

  A loud ping resounded.

  A second passed, then another.

  Nothing.

  Just to be sure, I wrap the hammer completely in my mana, checking for cracks.

  Nothing.

  Not even a hairline fracture.

  A grin pulls at my lips.

  Success.

  It's done.

  The urge to start swinging it around is almost unbearable. Just one little test—

  No.

  This is a tool. Not a weapon. Even though it could be one.

  A groan escapes me as my mind shifts to my actual weapons—Light and Heavy. I still haven’t completed the pathways in Light. Too much has happened, and there’s never been time.

  You can bind an already created weapon, by filling the pathways with the same binding solution, but post-binding will never come close to the security of forge-binding. A skilled mana user can just scrape out the binding material from within the pathways and rebind the weapon again.

  Argh.

  But that doesn't change the fact that I MUST bind Light and quite soon. It’s my most valuable possession, and while it’s hidden under a thin layer of simple iron, one day someone may notice it's extremely lightweight.

  Though it isn't as critical as other things, such as finishing my tools, earning money, joining Adventurer guild, preparing for evaluation and much more.

  So much work...

  "Look at this beauty!"

  I glance across the smithy. The noisy trio of newcomers is crowded around a freshly forged sword.

  "Look how perfectly balanced it is—even with a pathway!"

  "Awesome!" one of them exclaims.

  "Let me see—oh! You already sharpened it!"

  They start striking ridiculous poses, clearly imagining themselves as legendary warriors.

  Not that I ever—

  Shut up. A hammer blazing with mana is awesome.

  "Did you already decide on a name?" one of them asks.

  "Yes!" The smith raises the sword high, dramatic as ever. "I name you... the Destroyer!"

  The trio erupts in excitement before heading out to celebrate.

  I turn away, shaking my head.

  There had been doubts, a small voice whispering in the back of my mind, but now I’m sure.

  These people are amateurs.

  No real smith names their work like that. What’s he going to call his next sword—Destroyer II?

  Maybe the problem is me.

  No... Well—yes. But no.

  I was trained by a High-Smith. That changes expectations. But still—getting this excited over a basic sword with a single pillar pathway? Even Tim, who always struggled with pathway creation, could create a sword similar to that while blindfolded and absolutely wasted after a night of drinking.

  So yes, I’m better at smithing.

  But they have something I don’t.

  It’s been more than a month.

  And I haven’t made a single friend.

  Was it worth it?

  I need to work.

  Yes. Work. There's still too much to do.

  ...

  "This year is gonna be shit. A long monster wave, random demons crawling out of nowhere, and now a fucking war." growls a raspy voice behind me.

  "Nonsense. You shouldn’t believe baseless rumors spread by nitwits with no expertise in the matter." A posh, nasally voice counters. "And the rebellion in the East will barely affect us, tucked away here in the West."

  "Desmond, when the price of bread and everything else skyrockets, don’t come crying to me with your powdered nose."

  "My friend, such an event is even less likely than you reading a book."

  I tune them out, eyes locked on the receptionist flipping through the stack of papers in her hands. The price of bread might actually be a problem. I’ve grown way too attached to that one special kind the plump lady at the bakery makes. If things go south, it could get expensive.

  Shit.

  Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

  The bakery should be open by now...

  "Everything seems fine," the receptionist suddenly announces, pulling me back to reality. She’s not the same one as last time, but she has the same wide, fake smile. "The only step left is the registration fee."

  I slide the correct sum onto the counter. She counted the coins and nodded.

  "A moment."

  She disappears, returning less than a minute later with a single sheet of paper. With practiced efficiency, she fills it out, stamps it with a glowing magical seal, and hands it to me. Then, she gestures to my right.

  "Give these papers to counter twelve."

  What? That’s it? Ten gold for this scrap of paper? Where’s the damn Guild card?

  She catches the look on my face and, as if reading my mind, continues.

  "Guild cards are made at counter twelve. They’ll explain everything."

  The same fake smile.

  I stare at her. She stares back.

  No further explanation. No patience.

  'Fuck off,' huh?

  Fine.

  I move toward counter twelve, joining a much shorter—but painfully slower—queue. As I wait, doubts start creeping in. What if this is a scam? But then again, what would they gain? The cost of maintaining a place like this has to be enormous. They wouldn’t... right?

  Eventually, I step up to the counter. The man sitting there looks to be in his mid-forties, slouched in a ridiculously soft-looking chair. He extends his hand without even glancing at me.

  "Papers."

  I hand them over. He clicks his tongue in discontent, stands up, and walks off through a door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and rising doubts. A long and uncomfortable minute passed before he returned, holding something small and metallic.

  Back in his seat, he pinches the shiny piece of metal between his thumb and index finger, eyes closing as he starts muttering under his breath. A faint glow pulses over the metal’s surface, and letters begin etching themselves into it.

  Finally, he extends the card to me. His voice is tired, completely uninterested.

  "Push mana into it."

  I comply. The letters shine again as he mutters another chant. Then, without even looking at me, he shoves the card into my hand.

  "F-Rank. Don’t lose it. Put it on a chain and wear it at all times. Next."

  "Wait—what? That’s it?" I ask, staring at the metal card in disbelief.

  "Grab a quest, complete it, get paid. Next."

  Before I can press for details, someone behind me shoves me aside.

  "Damn kids, know absolutely nothing nowadays," the asshole grumbles as he practically throws his papers onto the counter.

  It takes every ounce of self-control not to snap. My fists clench. A slow, seething anger boils beneath my skin.

  I shove the card into my pocket and turn toward the quest board, my steps heavier than before.

  These assholes. Every last one of them. No explanations, no effort—nothing.

  Oh, you like things fast? Fine.

  This is a game two can play.

  ...

  "Could you repeat that?" The receptionist’s voice trembles, her horrified eyes fixed on the gray bag sitting on the counter—dark red liquid slowly seeping from its seams.

  "Thirty-seven goblins, seventy-four ears. Proof, as requested." I push the bag slightly forward, letting it squelch against the wood. "You can count them and verify everything. I insist."

  The same girl who took my registration just days ago no longer wears that fake, cheery smile. Good. Her face has paled, her gaze glued to the dripping mess in front of her. Slowly, she steps back.

  Oh? You don’t like the smell? What a pity.

  A thick, dark smear has already spread across her desk. She’s going to have to scrub that out later. The receptionists to her left and right stare, wide-eyed, their expressions mirroring hers.

  "A moment," she manages before rushing away.

  It took me three whole days of hunting and collecting to fill that damn bag to the brim. Sure, I could’ve turned in the haul in smaller batches, but that wasn’t the point. It hadn’t been fun keeping the contents... preserved. But seeing their reactions?

  Worth it.

  Less than a minute later, the girl returns, this time with an older woman in tow—gray hair tied into a tight bun, sharp eyes full of scrutiny. She wastes no time before launching into a series of questions. I answer each one calmly, plastering my own version of their stretched, fake smiles.

  "Proof of monster hunting quest completion is handled at counter twenty-one," the older woman says, voice clipped and stern.

  "Oh, really? Pity no one told me that beforehand." My tone is just as dry.

  Our eyes lock in a silent contest.

  Get fucked, lady.

  "I know my eyes are beautiful, but they aren’t for sale."

  Not even a chuckle.

  Pity.

  "Counter twenty-one," she huffs before turning on her heel and walking off.

  I grab the bag and make my way toward the new counter—pausing just long enough to enjoy the disgust on the receptionist’s face as she glares at the spreading bloodstain on her desk.

  The queue at counter twenty-one moves quickly. When my turn comes, I drop the bag with a wet thud, making sure it covers as much of the counter as possible.

  The clerk barely reacts. He’s middle-aged, dead-eyed, and radiates the same tired aura as everyone else in this damn city. Raising a hand, he mutters a spell. A faint glow flickers over the bag.

  "Twenty-nine goblins, seven hobs, one shaman. Twenty-six gold, five silver." He counts out the coins and stacks them neatly on the blood-slicked surface.

  Shit.

  I wanted to make them count everything again a second time after announcing that some of them are hobs and shamans. Sadly they have a convenient spell for that. Damn.

  I stare at the coins. I already knew how much I was getting, but seeing the actual stack in front of me...

  A strange feeling settles in my chest.

  Two weeks of hunting wild game wouldn’t earn me even half this amount. Three days of hunting goblins—barely a challenge—earned me more than I expected. Goblins are only dangerous if they ambush you. Flip that around, and they’re pathetically easy to take down.

  While I’m lost in thought, the clerk scribbles something on a piece of paper, stamps it, and hands it over.

  "Give this to counter twelve." His voice is dull, drained of any enthusiasm.

  Great, more bureaucracy.

  And why is everyone in this city so damn tired?

  I pocket the money, take the paper, and move to the familiar queue at counter twelve. More waiting. More bureaucracy. I glance down at the paper.

  Names, numbers... and an entire paragraph of seemingly random letters and digits.

  The hell?

  This looks like a cipher. A coded message. Something straight out of high-level military communication. I only recognize the pattern because I was taught how encrypted orders are handled in the upper echelons of the army.

  Why the hell would the Guild use something like this for civilian paperwork?

  Before I can puzzle it out, the line moves forward. My turn.

  "Papers." The same man from before, same age, same tired look, same disinterested tone.

  Damn. I was hoping to smudge this asshole counter too.

  I hand him the paper. He barely glances at it before shifting it to his left hand and holding out his right.

  "Card."

  ...Did he already decipher it? In his head? That should take an extra paper and minutes even if you knew the algorithm by heart.

  I fish out my card and hand it over. He mutters something under his breath, the card lights up, and—

  "E-Rank. Next." He shoves it back at me.

  That’s it.

  I take my card and leave without another word. Not like anyone would bother explaining anything anyway.

  Not surprising, really. I was expecting a rank-up. The question is: would another seventy-four goblin ears get me another promotion? Or would it take ten times that amount?

  Hunting nearly four hundred goblins just to rank up again doesn’t sound appealing.

  Whatever.

  The bureaucracy is somewhat understandable. Delegating tasks across different counters keeps things structured. But in practice? It just means more walking, more standing in line, more wasted time. There has to be a better way. More employees? Better organization? Or am I missing something?

  I step outside, my purse jingling with the weight of freshly earned gold.

  The streets are packed, bodies moving like currents in a storm, splitting and merging, flowing toward unseen destinations.

  I’ll have to pick a current to follow.

  My thoughts drift back to the gold in my hands.

  Three days of work. Twenty-six gold.

  The registration fee suddenly doesn’t seem so high anymore.

  Is gold not worth as much as I thought?

  I don’t know what a smith makes in a day, but this... this shifts my whole perspective.

  Then my stomach growls.

  Thoughts of the bakery push away all other concerns.

  Actually, no.

  I think I’ve earned a real meal.

  Something more substantial than just a loaf of bread.

  ...Maybe I should rethink my profession.

  Maybe Oldie was right.

  Maybe there are other things I’m good at.