Arthur had given him a map to Winston. He had provided a name, a mentor, and a safe harbor. He had tried to steer the destiny of a Legend into a peaceful, structured training ground under the watchful eye of Khan.
But Arthur had forgotten one fundamental truth about Shin Youngwoo: his name was Grid for a reason. And in the world of Satisfy, greed wasn't just a personality trait—it was a gravitational force.
"Jaffa Arrows! High penetration! Only 6 silver each!"
"Selling Jaffa Ore info! 50 Gold! Don't get left behind by the North's mobilization!"
Grid's ears perked up like a predator sensing a kill in the tall grass. He pulled out the map Arthur had given him, looking at the neatly marked path to Winston, then shifted his gaze toward the dust-choked trade route leading toward Bairan Village.
'Winston? Khan? Arthur wants me to go study under some old man in a backwater village?'
Grid thought, a familiar, twisted smile appearing on his face. 'He's playing a different game. He wants me to be a "student." But Bairan is where the blood is hitting the gold. If Jaffa Arrows are selling for 5 silver a pop, and I'm a Legendary Blacksmith... I don't need a teacher. I need a furnace and a mountain of ore.'
He ignored the "Player" intuition that whispered for him to follow Arthur's advice. His debt in the real world was 100 million won. He couldn't afford the luxury of a slow education. He didn't need a sanctuary; he needed a treasury.
Fate itself seemed to groan as it bent to accommodate his decision. Even though Arthur had tried to rewrite the script, the gears of destiny ground Grid toward the Bairan Smithy.
As he walked, Grid checked his HUD news feed. The "Crusade of Vengeance" launched by Earl Steim—ironically sparked by Arthur's own actions—was driving the price of military hardware through the roof.
"That idiot Arthur," Grid muttered, kicking a stone. "He saves the Earl's daughter for 'free' and starts a continental war. He's a tactical genius but an economic moron. Because of his 'heroism,' the demand for arrows has tripled. If I go to Bairan and dominate the Jaffa market now, I'll be a billionaire before I even finish my first legendary item."
Miles away, standing on a jagged cliffside overlooking the gleaming silver armor of the Northern Army's mobilization, Arthur checked his friend list. His eyes widened as he saw the golden icon denoting Grid's location update.
"Bairan...?" Arthur's voice was a mixture of disbelief and weary realization. "I told him Winston! I gave him 1,000 gold specifically so he wouldn't have to scramble for copper! If he goes to Bairan now, he'll run straight into him."
«Kukuku!» Madra let out a dark, resonant chuckle within Arthur's mind. «Did you really think you could tame the beast of greed with a paper map and some brotherly advice? The Successor seeks the gold, not the sanctuary. Your 'Brother' has chosen the path of most resistance. He is drawn to the heat of the forge, even if it burns him.»
Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I tried to give him a shortcut. I tried to save him from the hobo-life struggle in Smith's smithy. But fate won't let a Legend grow in a greenhouse. Fine, let him be. When he realizes Smith's nature, he'll come crawling back to the path I laid out."
The village of Bairan was a chaotic swarm of archers, merchants, and mercenary guilds. The air smelled of sulfur, horse manure, and hot iron.
Grid walked straight past the high-level players, his bare chest (he still hadn't bought a shirt) and the heavy [Mamon's Greatsword] on his back drawing curious, judgmental looks.
He didn't search for a mentor. He searched for an anvil.
[You have entered Bairan Village square.]
[The 'Jaffa Arrow' craze is at its peak!]
Grid spotted the local blacksmith—a man whose face was a map of soot and exhaustion, overwhelmed by a line of players stretching out the door.
Grid didn't wait in line. He stepped forward, pushing past a level 180 Archer, and slammed his hand on the soot-stained counter.
"Move aside," Grid said, his voice cold and filled with an arrogance that his Level -1 status couldn't justify. "A real professional is here. Give me your hammer, and prepare to see a miracle."
The heat in the Bairan smithy was a physical weight, a thick air of coal smoke and the metallic tang of molten ore. Smith, the local blacksmith, was a man whose patience had been eroded to a razor's edge by the relentless Jaffa demand.
He stared at a mountain of unfinished orders, then slowly looked up at the half-naked man in iron plate armor demanding his forge.
Smith didn't see a Legend. He saw the Level -1 tag and a posture that stank of unearned pride.
"Listen, traveler," Smith rumbled, his voice like grinding gravel.
"I don't have time for tourists playing at being craftsmen. If you want arrows, get in line like the rest of the archers. If you want to rent a forge, it's 5 silver an hour, and you pay for the coal upfront. Cash only."
"You don't understand," Grid snapped, his eyes flashing with the frantic greed of a man who could see gold coins floating in the furnace flames. "I'm not a tourist. I'm the one who's going to fix your pathetic production speed. I'm Pagma's Successor."
At the mention of the name Pagma, Smith's hammer paused mid-swing. The ringing of steel on iron stopped. He finally put down his tools and looked Grid in the eye. Then, he did something Grid didn't expect.
He laughed.
It wasn't a hearty, welcoming laugh; it was a dry, mocking wheeze that turned into a coughing fit.
"Pagma's Successor? You?" Smith spat a glob of dark phlegm onto the dirt floor.
"Boy, you aren't even fit to hold the tongs of the man who walked through here three months ago. And he was just a self-proclaimed apprentice! You come in here with your chest puffed out, talking about legends, but you don't have the callouses of a smith. You have the look of a man who wants to skip the work and jump straight to the riches."
Grid's face twisted in fury. "What do you know? I have the skills! I have the title!"
"Titles are just for show to a man like me," Smith rebuked, his voice rising over the roar of the furnace.
"Three months ago, a man came to this village. He didn't brag. He didn't demand my anvil. He sat in that corner for twenty hours straight, working with Jaffa ore like he was whispering to the soul of the metal. He was the first one to realize the truth that you—and every other greedy blacksmith—have ignored."
Smith stepped out from behind the counter, looming over the Level -1 Grid.
"Everyone thinks Jaffa is just for penetration. They think an arrow is a 'Normal' grade consumable that breaks after one use. But that man... he navigated a path no one else saw. He proved that even a simple arrow could be more than 'Normal' grade. He forged a Jaffa Arrow of Epic and even Unique rating. He turned a consumable into a masterpiece."
Grid froze. The anger in his chest was replaced by a cold, hollow shock. A Unique Jaffa Arrow? An Epic one? He had read the forums for hours; every expert said arrows were fixed at Normal grade because of their low durability and mass-production nature.
"He told me," Smith continued, his tone turning reverent, "that the grade of an item isn't determined by its type, but by the sincerity of the smith's intent. He spoke of a 'peer' who would eventually follow him—someone with the potential of a Legend. I thought he was talking about a hero. Looking at you... I think he was talking about a warning."
Smith pointed a thick, soot-stained finger at the door.
"That man, the Nameless Legend, is the reason Bairan is famous today. He's the reason the Guilds are so obsessed with Jaffa. You claim to be Pagma's Successor, but you're standing in the shadow of a man who didn't need a title to prove his worth. If you want my hammer, you'll start at the beginning. You'll smelt the slag. You'll pump the bellows. And you'll stop looking at the gold long enough to actually see the iron."
Grid's pride was stung, but his greed was piqued. He knew exactly who Smith was talking about. Arthur. The man who had seemingly pioneered every profitable market before Grid even realized they existed.
'That bastard Arthur...' Grid's teeth ground together. 'He was here three months ago? He already mastered the Jaffa market? He knew exactly what would happen if I came here.'
Grid realized Arthur hadn't just given him a map to Winston; he had given him a map away from Arthur's own shadow. By coming to Bairan, Grid had walked straight into a legacy he wasn't yet equipped to handle.
"I don't need to pump bellows," Grid growled, though his voice lacked its previous bite. "Just give me the Jaffa. I'll show you an arrow that will make your 'Nameless Legend' look like an amateur."
Smith shook his head, a look of pity in his eyes. "The arrogance of the young. Fine. But listen well, 'Successor.' The path Arthur navigated wasn't paved with gold; it was paved with 10,000 failed strikes. If you think your class is a shortcut, you'll find that the only thing you'll forge here is your own ruin. The world is changing. A war is coming in the North, and the man you're trying to surpass is a mountain standing in front of you. If you want to stand on the same stage as him, you'd better start swinging that hammer before the fire goes out."
Smith handed over a heavy iron hammer. To a Level 1 player with baseline Strength, the tool was deceptively heavy, pulling at Grid's shoulder and making his arm tremble.
Grid looked at the furnace. He didn't see the flickering orange light. He saw Arthur's smirk. He saw the "Unique" and "Epic" notifications that were supposed to be impossible.
"I'll show you," Grid whispered, more to himself than to Smith. "I'll make an arrow that even the Gods will want to buy. I'll make Legendary Arrows!"
The forge roared, and for the first time in his life, Shin Youngwoo wasn't just thinking about the 100 million won. He was thinking about the man who had already mastered the metal he was about to strike.
The world had corrected the path, and in the heat of the Bairan smithy, the second Legend finally began his work.