I stand looking at the huge bald guy with dark bags under his eyes and a smirk on his face. He’s waiting for me to say the same words I've been saying every goddamn day for the past two months.

  "I would like to take the smith’s Rank evaluation."

  "There's no one currently available who can conduct the evaluation."

  "I will come back tomorrow."

  "You’re free to do as you wish." he finished with his smirk growing larger.

  Motherfuckers.

  It has been two months.

  TWO FUCKING MONTHS!

  How much longer do I have to wait for the evaluation!?

  ...

  "Who told you to make shields?"

  The Army Inspector’s voice is clipped and measured, his expression unreadable. He holds a stack of documents in one hand, a pen poised in the other, ready to write down whatever response I give.

  Behind him, Deputy Terbal, the Quartermaster, and the Quartermaster’s assistant stand in absolute silence. My gaze lingers on the assistant—the likely culprit for the appearance of the Inspector. His wide eyes are locked onto mine.

  He knows that I know.

  I tear my gaze away and face the Inspector. "No one. I’m learning by myself."

  "Where did you get the crafting materials for that ‘learning’?"

  "They're mine. I bought them with my own money."

  "Do you have proof?"

  "Yes."

  The Inspector hums, satisfied, and scribbles something in his documents.

  So just my word is enough? I had the receipt ready, but I guess I didn’t even need it.

  "Why aren’t you working on Army tasks right now?" He asks next.

  "I’ve fulfilled my quota for the next several months, and the Quartermaster refuses to provide any more steel."

  The Inspector raises an eyebrow and turns to the Quartermaster.

  "There are more than a dozen crates full of stuff he made, and storage space isn't infinite," the Quartermaster explains.

  The Inspector nods, then turns back to my workstation, his eyes sweeping over every tool, every piece of metal.

  His gaze lands on my hammer.

  "This tool isn’t Army-issued," he states, pointing at it.

  Not a question. A statement.

  "It’s mine. I made it myself. As I said before, I bought the materials with my own money."

  "And in which forge did you make it?"

  "This one." I gesture toward my workstation.

  The Inspector’s expression doesn’t change. "Hm. Have you ever worked on anything in this smithy that was later sold?"

  "What? No! Of course not! I haven’t even passed the Rank Evaluation yet. I can’t work commercially as a smith."

  The inspector frowns and barely a second later responds.

  "And who told you that?"

  "Uh..." My brain stalls. "But I don’t have a Rank yet. I—I can’t work—"

  "You’re not allowed to sell things under your name, but working commercially in the private sector was never prohibited."

  The revelation slams into me like a war chariot tearing through unarmored infantry.

  I stand frozen as the Inspector sighs, writes something down in his document, and moves on. "Just make sure your personal projects don’t interfere with Army-issued tasks."

  That’s it. He walks away.

  But I’m still standing there, reeling.

  I could’ve worked in a local smithy this entire time.

  No one would’ve stopped me. No one would have cared.

  It never even occurred to me to ask. I had assumed—so confidently—that I needed a Rank before I could work outside the Army. It seemed logical. 'You’re not a real smith until you get your Rank'. That was just how things are.

  Except they aren't.

  And all it would’ve taken to learn that was a single question.

  I never asked.

  Because I never spoke to the other smiths here. I was too absorbed in my own work—repairing Army-issued tools, crafting my own, fulfilling my quota, binding Light, earning gold, becoming an adventurer.

  I never asked.

  A narrow-minded moron.

  And now, I realize something else.

  There’s nothing holding me here anymore.

  I only need to return when it’s time to make another batch of swords for the quota, and that won’t be for months.

  My gaze drifts back to my workstation—the half-made tower shield, the cursed artifact of a book sitting next to it.

  I don’t need to be here.

  I could rent a corner in a proper smithy. Maybe even pay someone to teach me how to forge decent armor and shields instead of relying on that awful book.

  And I should find myself a flat.

  With a kitchen.

  And a soft bed.

  Yes.

  ...

  "Five silver a day," the drunk slurs, swaying slightly.

  "Three silver," I counter, glancing around the dimly lit, foul-smelling smithy.

  "Five, and not a copper less!" he insists, punctuating his demand with another swig from his bottle.

  "Three," I repeat, my tone firm. "I pay for the material and bring my own tools. You provide the space, the anvil, and a hot forge."

  I stretch my hand out, waiting.

  The drunk scratches his scruffy beard, huffing in displeasure. A few moments pass, then—grudgingly—he clasps my hand in a rough shake.

  Deal.

  The prices for some things in this city have been eye-opening.

  I managed to find a room for a single silver a day. That’s three gold a month. Quite a steal in fact, but it’s not just about the price—it’s about the place.

  I had asked the plump lady who bakes that incredible crunchy bread if she knew a good place to stay, and she offered me a room in her house. It’s not exactly in the city center, but getting fresh bread every morning? Impossible to pass up.

  On the other hand, smithing lessons? A complete scam.

  Fifty gold for a few short lessons? Absurd.

  I visited several smithies, and most of the so-called "masters" barely even knew their craft. I could tell just by looking at the quality of their swords and armor—utter garbage.

  This place, though? Different.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The iron quality is shit, sure, but the final products are solid. Reliable. The craftsmanship speaks for itself.

  Like the shield on display to my left—whoever made it paid serious attention to detail. The hand straps are properly secured, reinforced where they meet the metal. Built to last. That’s what matters.

  The owner? Well... he reeks of alcohol and doesn’t seem to understand the concept of personal hygiene. But I can learn from him. And, most importantly—it’s cheap.

  After my experience with that cursed book, nothing I’ve seen so far is really a problem.

  "When do we start?" I ask, handing over the silver for my first day.

  The drunk smith pockets the coins, grumbles, "Now."

  He gestures to a rickety chair in the corner. "Sit."

  I do.

  Then, for the next several minutes, I watch as he shuffles around the room, picking up tools, examining them, putting them back. Over and over again.

  He groans. Scratches his head. Looks lost.

  Eventually, my patience wears thin.

  "I’ve studied—"

  "No." His voice cuts through the air. "Don’t care what you read, who you learned from, or what you’ve made so far. We start from zero."

  I frown. That would be a waste of time.

  As if reading my mind, he lets out a displeased huff.

  "Don’t like it? Get out. You already paid." His tone is final. "If not, then sit and listen."

  With that, he bends down and picks up a bottle lying at the foot of the anvil.

  He turns to me with a smile.

  "This is everything we need."

  This may have been a mistake.

  ...

  "Good morning, Harv," says Lana—the plump baker, and now, for the past few days, my landlady.

  "Morning, Lana. Any bread left?" I ask with a groan, wincing as her loud voice reverberates through my skull.

  "Of course, sweetie." She smiles warmly. "Give me a moment."

  I count out seven coppers and place them on the counter while she disappears into the back room. A few moments later, the exchange is made, and I bite into a still-warm piece of bread, the satisfying crunch cutting through my lingering exhaustion.

  The price has gone up everywhere. Just one extra copper in my case, but still—a worrying trend.

  "Did that drunk keep you up all night in the smithy?" she asks.

  "Yeah... Mike has very specific quality standards."

  The understatement of the week.

  The drunk bastard didn’t even let me explain what I was working on or what I actually wanted to learn. Instead, I sat through hours of his rambling lecture on common metals and their properties—information I’ve known for years. But did he care? Nope.

  When that finally ended, he tested my practical skills. Told me to make a pot. Seemed easy enough. I made one in no time.

  His response?

  "An insult to cooking."

  He forced me to melt it down and start again.

  That cycle repeated for the entire day. Result? I made one pot. Not pots—one single goddamn pot. Every time, he found some new flaw, no matter how minor. We worked deep into the night. Despite his frail appearance and obvious reliance on booze, the man is relentless.

  It’s frustrating, sure. But with each failed iteration, I learned something new. Improved. So, for now... I’ll follow his instructions.

  After finishing my bread, I say goodbye to Lana and head toward the Smithing Guild.

  The building is almost empty, save for one person.

  The same huge, bald guy who has been here every single day since I arrived in this city.

  He turns toward me as I enter, and before I even open my mouth, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his tired face.

  I step up to the counter, both of us already knowing how this will go.

  "I would like to take the Smith’s Rank evaluation."

  His smile widens. "There’s no one currently available who can conduct the evaluation."

  Two. Months. Straight.

  "Then I will come back tomorrow," I say, my voice just as tired as his.

  His grin stretches even wider. "You’re free to do as you wish."

  And just like that, our daily ritual ends, and I walk out.

  It has been two. Fucking. Months.

  Maybe I should contact my mentor? Maybe he knows something? Maybe he could help—

  No.

  He is no longer my mentor.

  I’m an adult. On my own. I have to solve this myself.

  So, today, I break my routine.

  Instead of the usual path, I head straight to the Adventurer’s Guild.

  The walk takes about fifteen minutes, weaving through the morning crowds. As I go, I rehearse the conversation in my head, running through every possible scenario. Preparing responses. Adjusting them.

  By the time I arrive, I’ve already played out a dozen different versions of how this will go.

  Deep breath.

  I push open the door and step inside.

  Chaos.

  As always, the guild is packed—people moving in all directions, conversations overlapping into a wall of sound, hundreds of poor souls lined up in endless queues.

  But that’s not my destination.

  I move straight toward the quest board.

  Near it, groups of adventurers stand talking, strategizing, waiting.

  Here we go.

  I scan the board for interesting quests—ones that require a team. At the same time, I mentally catalog solo missions, just in case this plan doesn’t work out.

  Once I’ve got a few options, I turn and start analyzing the groups.

  First group:

  Guardian, Archer, Mage. All of them in early teens. I'm not a babysitter. Next.

  Second group:

  Archer, four Guardians, and... a Rouge? Strange setup. I also really don’t like the look in their eyes. Next.

  Third group:

  Two Archers and a Guardian. All female. My age with pretty faces... No. Just no.

  Fourth group:

  Archer, Mage, young Warrior, and...

  My eyes narrow.

  An older Warrior. Mid-forties, maybe. Sharp eyes. Confident posture.

  His gaze is already on me.

  He’s skilled.

  There are other groups, but I’ll start with this one.

  I walk toward them.

  The older Warrior watches me approach. The others only notice me once I’m already there.

  "Hello. I’m looking for a team."

  The second I speak, the entire group instinctively turns to him.

  Yeah. Definitely the leader.

  After a short pause, he finally speaks. "What can you tell me about yourself?"

  "D-Rank Adventurer. Know a few spells. Good with a sword."

  At that last part, he snorts. Not impressed.

  Then his eyes narrow slightly.

  "Army?" He nods toward the bracelet on my left wrist.

  "A smith."

  A long moment of silence as he studies me. The rest of the team stands completely still, their gazes flicking back and forth between us.

  Then, finally—

  "Hm. You look competent. Why us?"

  "Worked solo. No solid experience with teams. Need to fix that."

  Another pause. His eyes are sharp, calculating.

  "Hm. I see. Name?"

  "Harv."

  The warrior exhales, then—

  "Well, Harv... sorry to say this, but I’ll have to decline. These chipmunks are already a lot for me to manage."

  He gestures at his team with a forced smile. They immediately shoot him glares.

  A lie.

  Doesn’t matter.

  "Not a problem," I say with a nod, already turning to walk away.

  I expected that.

  There are plenty of other teams here.

  The next attempt will work out better.

  ...

  After another seven unsuccessful attempts, I walk out of the Adventurer’s Guild and head toward the dungeon.

  This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time—but somehow, it always ended up at the bottom of my priority list. Not anymore.

  When I first asked about the dungeon, the receptionist told me only D-Rank adventurers and above were allowed inside. Thankfully, I reached that level after my last trip into the forest, where I hunted orcs and earned forty gold.

  I’ve heard a lot about dungeons—about the fortunes people make inside them, about the grotesque monsters that lurk in the depths.

  And now... I can finally enter one.

  A real DUNGEON.

  Dungeon.

  Shit. Even thinking about it isn’t helping.

  Why?

  Why do those failed attempts still sting?

  Nothing was lost. I can try again tomorrow. No enemies were made. No one was cruel or angry.

  But those stretched smiles...

  A few minutes later, I find myself at the end of yet another queue.

  This city is obsessed with lines.

  No one ever questions it. No one tries to fix it.

  Do people here enjoy waiting? Is there some hidden cultural significance I’m missing?

  This queue, however, is different. It’s huge. I mean really huge.

  From where I stand, the line stretches all the way to the massive black rectangular building in the distance—a hundred meters away, at least.

  This is going to take a while.

  I did my basic preparations, though they weren’t as easy as I expected.

  Even after proving to the receptionist at the Guild that I qualified—showing my Guild card and everything—the only thing I got was a piece of paper and that same stretched smile.

  "Next," was all she said.

  Fucking bitch.

  The paper contained nothing useful—just the dungeon’s location, a basic checklist of what to bring, and entry requirements.

  That was it.

  No guides. No advice. No information about the dangers inside.

  Thankfully, Lana pointed me toward a shop that sells dungeon maps. The owner even threw in some extra information about what monsters to expect and what kind of gear to bring—though it cost me four silver.

  Four silver coins for information the Guild should have provided for free.

  Why the FUCK do I have to pay for something so basic?!

  Fuck the Guild.

  Fuck this city.

  At least the pay is good.

  After over half an hour of slow progress, I finally reach the entrance.

  Or so I think.

  Turns out, the line continues inside the building.

  I descend wide stone stairs that stretch another two hundred meters down until I finally reach the bottom.

  At last, it’s my turn.

  Standing before me are two heavily armored guards in full-plate armor, their expressions locked in permanent scowls. A dozen more stand behind them, watching over the process.

  Up until now, I’ve seen them search every adventurer in line, speaking to them with clear disinterest.

  But when I step forward...

  Their expressions change.

  The scowls vanish. Instead—a smile.

  The first guard speaks, friendly, almost amused.

  "Hey there. New here?"

  "Yes."

  He motions to a purple verification stone beside them.

  I place my palm with an army-issued bracelet on the wrist, and the stone shines softly, confirming my affiliation.

  The guard nods. "What’s your team number?"

  "Team number?" I blink. "I don’t have one."

  A pause.

  The guard’s smile falters slightly. "Huh? Who’s your captain?"

  "...I don’t have one."

  The friendliness in his eyes shifts to confusion. His hand casually rests on the pommel of his sword.

  "What’s the name of your direct superior?" he asks, his voice laced with suspicion.

  "Terbal Kraesh."

  The moment I say the name, he pauses. Then, turning to his partner, he asks—

  "Do you know this Kraesh guy?"

  The second guard scratches his head. "Wait... isn’t that the smithy guy?"

  "Yes," I confirm.

  "Ohhh." The first guard relaxes immediately. "You’re a smith. That explains it. You should’ve said that in the first place."

  Then his brow furrows. "Wait—then why are you going in alone?"

  "Because I don’t have a team? But I’m D-Rank." I show him my Guild card.

  The guard sighs. Deeply.

  "Have you ever been inside a dungeon before?"

  "No, but I bought a map and information from a merchant."

  Both guards groan in unison.

  "The Adventurer’s Guild didn’t explain anything, did they?" the first guard asks.

  I shake my head.

  "Those fuckers." He turns and waves over another guard. "Lloyd, come here."

  A soldier steps forward, saluting.

  "Lloyd, same story as always. Show him around."

  The first guard gives me a small smile.

  "Welcome to the dungeon, newbie."

  What follows is a two-hour tour through the first floor of the dungeon.

  Lloyd explained everything.

  What to expect. What not to do. The monsters that roam the halls. The hidden dangers.

  He killed every monster we encountered—then showed me exactly where to extract their cores without damaging them.

  And then, for the first time, I saw it.

  The dungeon absorbed the dead monster's body.

  It was... surreal.

  A few short moments after a monster died, its body started to collapse, melting into a thick sludge.

  And then—

  It was sucked into the dungeon floor.

  All that remained was a small core.

  I’ve heard about this before. Read about it. But seeing it happen right in front of me was something else entirely.

  How the hell does that even work?

  Are there hidden channels in the floor?

  Is the floor alive?

  Is the dungeon alive?

  Lloyd didn't have the answers.

  But he did hand me all the cores he collected, calling them a welcome gift.

  "It’s not easy being an Army member in this city," he said. "If you ever have trouble with adventurers, come to us. We'll help you. The Guild won’t do shit, they're always biased against us."

  Then, he told me something interesting.

  Army members only pay a 10% tax on dungeon cores.

  Adventurers? 25%.

  "Every dungeon belongs to the army," Lloyd explained. "We use them to train soldiers. The Guild only gets what we don’t need. Army gets the meat. Guild gets the scraps."

  And that’s why adventurers hate us.

  That’s why the Guild staff treat me like shit.

  That’s why the smiles are always stretched thin.

  Lloyd also told me that I no longer need to wait in the queue, that I can just walk up to them directly and they will let me in.

  Everything makes sense now.

  That explains so many things.