The Bairan smithy had become a tomb of soot and sweat. For three days and three nights, the rhythmic, heavy thud of Grid's hammer had not ceased for more than a few minutes at a time.
The other players who used the public forge had long since moved on, unnerved by the half-naked man with bloodshot eyes who muttered to himself in a language of curses and interest rates.
Grid was no longer just a player; he was a machine of pure, unadulterated willpower. His stamina bar flickered in the red, a constant warning of impending collapse, but he ignored it.
When the hunger became too much to bear, he didn't seek out the savory skewers or fresh ale sold at the village stalls. Instead, he reached into his inventory and pulled out a crust of green-tinged, rock-hard bread.
This was the "Old Moldy Bread" he had hoarded during his three months of hell in the Northern End Cave. It was a remnant of his greatest suffering, a dry, bitter memory of the time Ashur had sent him to die for an S-rank quest.
Crunch.
Grid chewed the moldy crust, his face contorting in disgust. "This bread... it tastes like Ashur's betrayal," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper through a throat parched by the forge's heat. "Every bite makes me stronger. Every foul swallow reminds me why I'm here."
He wasn't eating for nourishment; he was eating for fuel. He was literally consuming his own past misery to power his current spite.
By the dawn of the fourth day, the pile of dark, violet-tinged arrows beside his anvil reached one hundred. Each one was a masterpiece of malice.
They didn't gleam with the heroic light of a holy weapon; they seemed to pull the light out of the room, their Jaffa-heads obsidian-black and etched with jagged, irregular grooves that looked like frozen screams.
[You have completed 100 'Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment'!]
[Your understanding of the Jaffa material has increased by 7%.]
[Your Dexterity has increased by 2.]
Grid slumped against the stone wall, his hammer falling from his limp fingers. He looked at his hands—blistered, blackened by coal, and shaking with tremors. He was Level -1, but his spirit felt like it had aged a decade.
Smith walked into the forge, the morning light catching the smoke from his pipe. He looked at the pile of a hundred Epic arrows, then at the exhausted youth huddled in the soot.
"You're still alive," Smith noted, his voice carrying a reluctant shard of respect. "I've seen masters collapse after ten hours of Jaffa work. You did seventy-two without a wink of sleep."
"I have... bills to pay," Grid wheezed, forcing himself to his feet. He began to pack the arrows into bundles of ten, his movements robotic. "I don't have time to sleep. Sleep is for people who don't owe 100 million won debt on their head."
Smith looked at the arrows, then back at Grid. "Those things... they aren't just tools. They're a curse. You're going to put those into the world? Into a war zone?"
Grid's bloodshot eyes met the blacksmith's. "If the world didn't want curses, it shouldn't have made it so expensive to live."
Grid didn't head to the stalls. He knew that selling these directly would invite too many questions, and his haggling skills were notoriously governed by his temper. Instead, he made his way to the Bairan Auction House, the central hub for the elite guilds preparing for the Northern Crusade.
He listed the entire lot of 100 arrows as a single bundle.
[Item for Auction: Bundle of 100 Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment]
[Starting Price: 50 Gold]
[Buyout Price: None]
In the world of Satisfy, 50 gold was a small fortune—equivalent to nearly 500,000 won. For a bundle of arrows, it was an astronomical starting bid.
The average Jaffa arrow sold for 6 silver. But Grid knew the market. He knew that the 'Top Rankers' were currently obsessed with the 'Special Jaffa' legend Arthur had created.
He sat in the back of the auction hall, hidden in a dark corner, clutching his stomach as it grumbled against the moldy bread.
Then, the bidding started.
"50 Gold!" a representative from the Tzedakah Guild shouted, her eyes fixed on the item description.
"65 Gold!" a member of the Giant Guild countered.
The room went silent for a moment as players read the item details. Then, a roar of excitement erupted.
"Wait! Look at the attack power! 43 to 51?! That's higher than the legendary 'Special Jaffa' arrows from the news!"
"The buff! Look at the buff! Double damage if the user holds resentment toward the target?"
"In a war? Everyone holds resentment! This is a god-tier item!"
"90 Gold!"
"110 Gold!"
"135 Gold!"
Grid's heart hammered against his ribs. He watched the numbers climb with a feverish intensity. 135... 140... 148...
"152 Gold!" a final, booming voice rang out. It was a high-ranking officer from Tzedakah guild.
[Sold!]
[152 Gold has been deposited into your account (Minus 10% Auction Fee).]
Grid stared at the notification. 136.8 Gold. That was over 1.38 million won in three 'Satisfy' days, means in a single earth day. He had made more in a single day gaming session than he had in a month of manual labor.
The auction hall was in an uproar. Players were swarming the auctioneers, demanding to know the identity of the seller.
"Who made these?!"
"Is it the Nameless Legend from the news?"
"No, look at the description! It says the maker has an 'abysmal reputation'! It's a new master!"
Grid felt the urge to stand up. He wanted to scream, "It's me! I'm the one! I'm Pagma's Successor!" He wanted to see the shock on their faces, to see the beautiful female players flock to him, to hear the high-level rankers beg for his service. The desire for recognition was a physical itch under his skin.
But as he leaned forward, Arthur's voice echoed in his mind, cold and sobering. "Never tell this secret to anyone, or people will kill you until you are forced to delete your account. A legendary class can be a curse to those without strength."
Grid looked at the crowd. There were Level 200 warriors there who could snap him like a twig. There were guild leaders who would see a Level -1 Legendary Blacksmith not as a hero, but as a resource to be seized.
If they found him, they wouldn't offer him a throne; they would offer him a cage. They would lock him in a dark basement and force him to hammer out Resentment Arrows 24/7 for a pittance, protected by "contracts" he wouldn't be able to fight.
'Arthur... you bastard,' Grid thought, sinking back into the shadows. 'You're right. Again.'
He pulled his hood lower, concealing his pale, soot-streaked face. He watched as the guild members frantically searched the room for anyone looking suspicious. He saw the greed in their eyes—the same greed he felt, but backed by the power to act on it.
He waited until the crowd dispersed, then quietly slipped out the back door. He didn't celebrate. He didn't buy a fancy meal. He walked back toward the smithy, his pockets heavy with gold but his heart heavy with the reality of his own weakness.
The Bairan smithy was quiet when he returned. Smith was at the furnace, looking up as Grid entered.
"You're back," Smith said, noticing the hollow look in Grid's eyes. "Did they sell?"
"152 gold," Grid said flatly.
Smith whistled. "You're a rich man, kid. Or a wannabe rich, at least. What now? You going to tell the world who you are? You could be the most famous man in Bairan by sunset."
Grid looked at his hammer, then at his trembling, soot-covered hands. "No," Grid said, his voice hard. "I'm nobody. Just a guy who makes arrows."
He picked up a fresh bar of Jaffa iron. He didn't have the strength to be a Legend yet. He didn't have the levels or the armor. All he had was the hammer and a mountain of debt that was slightly smaller than it had been three days ago.
"I need to make more," Grid whispered, the fires of the forge reflecting in his cold, determined eyes. "If I can't be famous, I'll be rich. And if I can't be respected, I'll be feared through the blades I forge."
Smith watched him, a grim smile touching his lips. The boy was learning. He was still greedy, still petty, and still a brat—but he was learning the weight of the hammer.