The rhythmic Ttang! Ttang! of the hammer echoed through the rafters of Khan's smithy, a relentless heartbeat that hadn't faltered for twelve hours.
Arthur stood at the anvil, his hair matted with sweat and soot, his eyes bloodshot from the stinging heat of the furnace.
Beside him, Khan watched with the silent intensity of a hawk. The old man had stopped shouting hours ago.
He recognized the look in Arthur's eyes—it was the obsession of a man who had tasted perfection once and was now starving because he couldn't replicate it on demand.
"The rhythm is off, Arthur," Khan whispered, his voice low and gravelly. "You're hammering the steel, but you're fighting the soul of the metal. You want the result more than you want the process."
Arthur didn't answer. He pulled a white-hot bar of Black Iron-laminated steel from the coals and brought the hammer down with bone-jarring force.
Arthur had expected the path of a Legend to be a vertical climb, but Satisfy had a way of humbling even the chosen. After the birth of the Ideal Longsword, the "Luck" stat seemed to have deserted him.
He had spent the morning attempting to forge a twin to that Unique masterpiece. But with every quenching, the system notifications were a cold bucket of water to his pride.
First came the Reliable Longsword. It was a solid, Rare-rated blade, perfectly balanced and sharp enough to decapitate a level 150 ogre. In the hands of a common player, it was a treasure; to Arthur, it was a reminder of his limitations.
[Reliable Longsword]
Rating: Rare
Durability: 230/230
Attack Power: 210
Attack Speed: +2%
Description: A sword made by a craftsman with great skill and potential but lacking in experience and reputation. It is dependable, but it lacks the 'spark' of a masterpiece.
"Again," Arthur grunted, tossing the Rare blade into a wooden crate like it was scrap metal.
The next four hours were a blur of sparks and steam. He pushed his Dexterity to the limit, focusing on the microscopic grain of the steel. The result was better, but still not what he craved.
[Good Longsword]
Rating: Epic
Durability: 270/270
Attack Power: 250
Attack Speed: +3%
Special Feature: Will do an additional 50 damage per attack.
"Epic," Arthur muttered, his fingers tracing the fuller of the blade. "An Epic sword that most top-tier players would kill for, and yet it feels like a failure."
Khan walked over, picking up the Epic blade. He tested the flex, the steel singing a clear, high note. "Most smiths live their entire lives without producing an Epic-rated weapon, lad. You've made three in a single afternoon. Why the long face?"
"Because 'Good' and 'Reliable' won't cut for efficiency. For normal adventures, that's enough, but for knights or mercenaries, only Ideal will be a choice.
Arthur looked at the crate filled with Rare and Epic weaponry. A single one of these swords could fetch 2000 to 8000 gold on the Auction.
He could easily clear out his inventory and become the richest player in the satisfy within months. But he didn't move toward the door.
"We can't sell these," Arthur said, his eyes turning toward the window where a Mero scout was pretending to fix a wagon wheel across the street.
"Why not?" Khan asked, surprised. "The coin would buy us the finest charcoal and better bellows. We could fix the roof!"
"If these swords hit the market, the Mero Company will know exactly what we're capable of," Arthur explained.
"They'll see the 'Unknown Craftsman' signature and realize the ghost of Bairan has moved into their backyard. They won't just harass us; they'll bring the Baron's army to seize this forge and execute us for 'illegal production'."
Arthur knew the timeline. Grid—the original protagonist—would eventually arrive here, desperate and debt-ridden. Grid's clumsiness and accidental kindness were the catalysts that would truly save Khan in a way Arthur's cold calculation couldn't.
'I'll hunt the shadows,' Arthur thought. 'I'll build the arsenal. I'll let the Mero Company think they're winning until the moment I cut their legs out from under them.'
Arthur turned back to the forge. He had 2,000 iron ingots left and enough Black Iron to make a king weep.
"Khan," Arthur said, his voice regaining its composure. "Don't teach me just the blades. Show me the Plate Armor. Show me the Gauntlets. If my luck won't give me a Unique sword today, I'll force it to give me a Unique set of boots."
Khan laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that chased away the gloom of the smithy. "You're a stubborn brat, Arthur. Fine. Let's look at the Heavy Plate blueprints. It requires a different kind of tempering—what we call 'The Turtle's Breath'."
For the rest of the week, the forge never cooled. Arthur practiced the assembly of articulated joints and the sloping geometry of breastplates designed to deflect lances.
He failed often. He produced "Reliable" boots that were too heavy and "Good" gauntlets that pinched the fingers. But with every failure, his Persistence stat hummed, and his Dexterity ticked upward.
[Your understanding of 'Basic Armor Smithing' has increased to 75%.]
[Dexterity has risen by +2.]
On the seventh day, a heavy knock sounded on the smithy door. It wasn't the rhythmic tap of a customer; it was the arrogant thud of a man who owned the street.
Arthur didn't hide the crate of swords. He simply threw a heavy, oil-stained tarp over it and stepped into the shadows behind the cooling vat, his hand resting on the hilt of the Ideal Longsword.
Khan opened the door. Standing there was Biel, a high-ranking executive of the Mero Company, flanked by two armored guards.
"Still here, Khan?" Biel sneered, waving a handkerchief in front of his nose to block the smell of smoke.
"The Baron is getting impatient. The taxes on this 'abandoned' property have been raised. You owe 200 gold by the end of the month, or we move in the bailiffs."
Khan's hand tightened on the doorframe. "This forge is mine by blood, Biel. I'll pay your blood money."
"With what? The wine bottles you sell for scrap?" Biel laughed, his eyes darting into the shop. He paused, his gaze lingering on the glowing furnace.
"You've been busy, old man. I hear a hammer ringing day and night. Producing iron nails, are we?"
"Leave," Khan growled.
As Biel turned to go, his eyes caught a glimpse of a single silver-tinted shaving on the floor—a remnant of the Mythical Jaffa-Silver Arrow Arthur had shown Khan. Biel's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He simply smiled and walked away.
Once the door was shut, Khan slumped against the wall, his face pale. "Two hundred gold... it's impossible. They've rigged the game, Arthur."
Arthur stepped out of the shadows, the dark smoke of the forge swirling around him. He looked at the crate of Rare and Epic swords—weapons that were easily worth 500 gold if sold to the right people.
"They think they've trapped a mouse," Arthur said, his voice as cold as quenched steel. "They don't realize they've locked themselves in a cage with a wolf."
He looked at the furnace. He was tired. His muscles screamed for rest. But he remembered the Undefeated King quest is far from easy, he can't falter here.
"Khan, get some rest," Arthur commanded. "I'm going to finish the gauntlets."
Arthur picked up the hammer. He didn't care about the luck stat anymore. He would forge until the system had no choice but to acknowledge him.
The hammer fell again.
Ttang!
In the silence of Winston, the sound was no longer just craft. It was a declaration of war.