The air in Bairan had changed. It no longer just smelled of sulfur and horse manure; it smelled of interest.
For a player like Shin Youngwoo, "interest" was usually a dirty word associated with loan sharks and bank statements.
But in Satisfy, the interest of the Great Guilds was far more dangerous. As Grid stepped out of the Bairan smithy, his hood pulled low and his skin stained with three days' worth of soot, he felt the invisible net closing in.
He had just finished his most grueling session yet: 200 [Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment].
His eyes were bloodshot, his stamina was a flickering ember, and his stomach felt like it had been hollowed out by a rusty spoon. But the weight of the bundles in his inventory was the only thing keeping him upright.
As he moved toward the Auction House to list this final, massive batch, he paused in the shadow of a fruit stall. Two players stood nearby—high-level warriors clad in the crimson-and-gold surcoats of the Giant Guild.
"The Tzedakah Guild is already here," one whispered, his voice urgent. "Jishuka is obsessed. She thinks the maker is hiding in one of the private forges. Our orders are to lock down every smithy in Bairan. No one leaves without showing their profession and their crafting log."
"What if it's an NPC?" the other asked.
"Then we buy the NPC. If the NPC won't sell, we occupy the shop. The Guild Master wants those Resentment arrows. They're the only things breaking the Yatan shields in the North."
Grid felt a cold sweat prickle down his spine. It wasn't the heat of the forge anymore; it was the cold reality of Arthur's warning.
'Lock down every smithy? Crafting logs?' If they saw his log, it was over. He would be "Pagma's Successor" in name, but "Property of the Giant Guild" in practice. They would chain him to an anvil, feed him just enough to keep his stamina from hitting zero, and demand Epics until his mind snapped.
"Not a chance," Grid hissed under his breath.
Grid moved with a sudden, frantic energy. He didn't go to the main auction counter where the crowds were thickest. Instead, he used a remote listing terminal in a dingy, low-traffic alleyway.
[Item for Auction: 200 Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment (Bulk)]
[Starting Price: 150 Gold]
[Buyout Price: 400 Gold]
He didn't care about maximizing the bid anymore. He needed the gold, and he needed it now. He set the buyout price at a level that would seem astronomical to a solo player but like a bargain to a desperate Guild.
He waited, hidden behind a stack of empty crates, his heart hammering against his ribs.
[A buyout has been confirmed!]
[400 Gold has been deposited into your account (Minus 15% Auction Fee).]
[Current Balance: 512 Gold, 45 Silver]
The number was staggering. Over 5 million won. In a few days of labor and moldy bread, he had cleared a massive chunk of his immediate debt. But the victory felt hollow as he heard the clatter of armored boots echoing at the end of the alley.
"Check the terminal logs! Someone just made a massive listing!"
Grid didn't wait. He scrambled over the crates, his Level 1 Agility barely sufficing to get him over the wall. He landed in a heap of trash on the other side, his HP dropping by 3, but he didn't stop. He ran.
Bairan was no longer a village; it was a trap. The Tzedakah Guild scouts were patrolling the main gates, their eyes scanning every player's equipment.
'I can't leave through the gates,' Grid realized, ducking behind a hay wagon. 'I look like a hobo, but my sword is too unique. If they see Mamon's Greatsword, they'll put two and two together.'
He looked at the wagon. It was loaded with oversized barrels of ale, destined for the military camps in the west. A sign on the side read: [Northern Trading Co. - Supply Run to Winston].
Winston. The place Arthur had told him to go.
The world was forcing him back onto the path he had tried so hard to deviate from. He had made his money, he had proven his "point" to the ghost of Arthur's reputation, and now Bairan was burning him out.
"Hey! You there!" a guard shouted, pointing toward the wagon.
Grid didn't think. He dove into the back of the wagon, wedging himself between two massive ale barrels. He pulled a heavy, brine-soaked tarp over himself just as the driver climbed onto the seat.
"There's Movement!" a Tzedakah scout barked, running up to the wagon. "Search the barrels!"
Grid held his breath, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His heart was so loud he was sure they could hear it through the wood.
"It's just ale for the Earl's men, miss," the NPC driver grumbled. "Unless you want to explain to Earl Steim why his knights are sober and angry during a crusade, I suggest you let me pass."
The scout hesitated. The Tzedakah Guild was powerful, but they were mercenaries. Offending the quest-giver, the Earl himself, was a death sentence for their reputation.
"Fine. Move on. But if you see a suspicious blacksmith who looked like a beggar, you report to us."
The wagon lurched forward. Grid felt the jarring bounce of the wooden wheels against the cobblestones, then the softer thud of the dirt road. He stayed under the tarp for an hour, the smell of fermenting yeast and old brine filling his nostrils.
He was safe. He was rich. And he was currently hitching a ride like a common thief.
As the wagon rumbled further away from Bairan, the tension finally began to bleed out of Grid's muscles. He pushed back the tarp, breathing in the fresh, rain-scented air of the countryside.
The sun was setting, casting long, golden shadows over the rolling hills of the Eternal Kingdom. For the first time in days, the roar of the forge was absent. In its place was the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses and the chirping of crickets.
Grid sat up, leaning his back against a barrel. He opened his character window.
[Name: Grid]
[Level: 1]
[Class: Pagma's Successor (Legendary)]
...
[Stamina: 4/100]
[Hunger: 2%]
He looked at his gold balance again. 512 gold. In the real world, this was life-changing. He could pay off the most aggressive collectors. He could buy his sister a gift. He could finally eat a meal that didn't have green fuzz on it.
But as he looked back toward the distant smoke of Bairan, he felt a strange, nagging emptiness. He had made the best arrows in the world, yet he had to hide in a barrel of beer to avoid being enslaved for them.
"Arthur..." Grid whispered to the wind. "You really are a bastard. You knew this would happen. You knew I'd get greedy, and you knew the guilds would come sniffing."
He realized now that Arthur's advice to go to Winston wasn't just about training. Winston was a neutral territory, a place where a blacksmith could grow without the immediate scrutiny of the frontline rankers. Bairan was a gold mine, but it was a gold mine located in the middle of a battlefield.
'I'll go to Winston,' Grid decided, his jaw setting. 'I'll find this Khan guy. I'll learn what I can. But I'm not doing it for Arthur. I'm doing it so that next time Jishuka or the Giant Guild wants my items, I won't have to hide in a barrel. I'll make them pay ten times the buyout price just for the privilege of speaking to me.'
As the wagon approached the outskirts of Winston under the cover of moonlight, Grid checked his notifications one last time.
[Your 'Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment' have caused a shift in the Northern War.]
[Reputation as a 'Nameless Craftsman' has increased.]
[The Yatan Church has placed a bounty on the 'Merchant of Spite'.]
Grid laughed—a dry, raspy sound. "Merchant of Spite? I like that. It's better than being a 'Clown' or a 'Successor'."
He hopped off the back of the wagon as it slowed down near the town square, landing stealthily in the shadows. He watched the wagon roll away, then turned to face the gates of Winston.
Winston was different from Bairan. It was older, more fortified, and possessed an air of quiet dignity. Here, the hammers of the smithies rang with a steady, purposeful beat rather than the frantic tempo of war.
Grid adjusted his hood, hiding his soot-stained face once more. He began to walk toward the center of town, his eyes searching for the sign of a hammer and anvil.
"Khan," Grid muttered, checking the note Arthur had given him so long ago. "Let's see if you're as good as that silver-haired freak says you are."
While the North burned in a crusade fueled by his arrows, and while the guilds of Bairan searched for a ghost, the Second Legend had finally arrived at his true starting point. He had the gold, he had the resentment, and now, he was ready to acquire the strength.