The golden era of the "Tax-Free Hero" lasted exactly until the sun went down.
In the quiet, cooling interior of Khan's smithy, the air was no longer filled with the joyous clinking of player gold or the celebratory cheers of the liberated. Instead, it was filled with the cold, mathematical pressure of overhead costs and the terrifying reality of communal living.
Grid sat at the heavy wooden table, his arms wrapped protectively around his bulging sacks of gold like a dragon guarding a hoard, his eyes darting suspiciously toward the four women standing across from him: Alfia, Meteria, Nana, and Cecil.
"It's a simple matter of logistics, Grid," Cecil said, leaning her weight against the shaft of her spear. Her tone was patient, the way a teacher might explain basic arithmetic to a particularly stubborn, slightly dim-witted child.
"You've been using Arthur's personal stock of high-grade coal and refined iron for days. You've been staying in Khan's guest room. You've been sleeping in a bed that requires laundry, and you've been eating rations that don't just materialize out of thin air because you're a 'Legend's Successor.'"
"I saved the city!" Grid shouted, his voice cracking with the indignity of it all. "I'm a hero of the rebellion! Heroes don't pay for laundry! It's—it's a violation of the natural order!"
"Heroes also don't let their companions go bankrupt covering their tab," Nana added, her voice sharp and clinical. "Arthur has already invested 2,500 gold into the collective fund. That's a share for himself and Cecil to cover the next quarter's expenses—1,500 for the high-grade coal shipment from the Western mines and 1,000 for the bulk rations and food stores. We are a team, Grid. Now that you have 21,450 gold, it is time for the 'Hero' to contribute."
Grid looked at Arthur, his last hope for a reprieve. Arthur merely sighed, looking down at the floor. "Look, Grid, it's no problem for me to cover you for a while... but the girls are right. They said if we're going to build something permanent, everyone needs to be self-sufficient."
Arthur's expression was one of pity, the kind one offers to a man about to undergo surgery without anesthesia. Even a Legend had to pay the bills.
"Don't be a pathetic loser, Grid," Alfia interjected, delivering the hardest blow with a bored yawn. "Girls never like stingy men. You're sitting on a mountain of gold and crying over a few coins? Change yourself before you die single and bitter."
"Sister, don't be so mean," Meteria said smoothly, her voice like silk. She stepped closer to Grid, offering a persuasive, gentle smile that momentarily gave him hope. "He just saved the smithy; the shock of wealth is a lot to handle. He'll change in time... won't you, Grid? Starting with your fair share?"
With hands that trembled as if he were suffering from a high-level paralysis debuff, Grid reached into his sack. Every single coin felt like a piece of his own soul being flayed away. One... two... ten...
"One thousand gold," Grid whispered, his face turning a ghostly shade of pale.
Actual tears—genuine, salt-heavy tears of agony—began to stream down his cheeks. It wouldn't have been wrong to call them 'Tears of Blood' given the intensity of his grief. "Do you know how many items I have to make for this? How much sweat I poured into that anvil? This is a tragedy. This is a crime against the hero!"
"It's called 'rent' and 'operating costs,' Grid," Meteria sighed, expertly scooping up the pile of gold before he could snatch it back.
The next morning, the group split.
Alfia, Meteria, Nana, and Cecil prepared for the long trek to the city of Patrian. Alfia and Meteria's father, Airgid—a retired Great Swordsman of some renown who had traded his legendary blade for a soup ladle to run a local inn—was overdue for a visit.
"We need to ensure the old man hasn't picked a fight with the local militia again," Alfia noted, strapping on her traveling cloak and checking the jewel of her staff. "He gets cranky when the ale runs low."
Nana and Cecil decided to tag along, citing the need for "scouting and fresh air" away from the heat of the forge.
Back at the smithy, Khan and Piaro managed the heavy lifting of the new shipments. Khan moved with a newfound spring in his step, stacking blocks of high-grade coal in the backyard shed.
Piaro watched over him, his hawk-like eyes scanning the perimeter for any lingering threats. The "farmer" was surprisingly efficient at manual labor; his immense, hidden strength made heavy logs of firewood look like they were made of balsa wood.
"Stacking wood is a lot like training," Piaro muttered, adjusting his straw hat to block the morning sun. "You have to respect the foundation, or the top above will be uneven. A poorly stacked pile is a betrayal of the wood's structure."
But the real work—the gritty, backbreaking labor—was happening elsewhere.
Grid and Arthur were currently trekking toward a hidden location known as the Bandit Mines, home to some of the richest black iron veins in the entire northern territory.
Originally a stronghold for a vicious gang of outlaws, Arthur had cleared the site previously weeks ago, keeping its location a closely guarded secret of the group.
The forest trek was long and grueling. Grid, however, was not the type to enjoy the majesty of nature.
"Arthur, why are we doing this?" Grid grumbled, his pickaxe slung over his shoulder like a heavy cross. "We have gold! We have thousands of gold! Why aren't we just buying refined black iron from the market like civilized people? My legs are sore, my stamina bar is flashing, and I'm pretty sure I saw a Level 120 shadow wolf watching us back there."
Arthur didn't slow his pace. "Market iron is slag, Grid. It's been diluted with impurities, poorly smelted by apprentices, and handled by merchants who care more about weight than purity. If you want to make legendary items, you need ore that hasn't been touched by mediocrity."
Grid groaned, wiping sweat from his brow. "I can work with slag! I'm a genius! I can hammer the impurities out with sheer spite!"
"Besides," Arthur added, glancing back with a knowing, sharp smirk, "buying high-grade ore from a capital supplier would cost us a 15% of cost of materials to forge an item. By mining it here at the source, we save thousands of gold in material costs over the next month alone."
The transformation in Grid was instantaneous.
The grumbling stopped mid-syllable. His hunched, weary posture snapped straight. His eyes, previously dull with boredom and exhaustion, ignited with a terrifying, predatory light.
"Fifteen percent?" Grid whispered, the numbers calculating behind his eyes like a high-speed processor. "Save? We're saving gold by being out here in the dirt?"
"Exactly. Every chunk of ore you pull out is money that stays in your pocket."
"Out of the way!" Grid roared, suddenly sprinting past Arthur with a burst of speed that shouldn't have been possible for his class. "That black iron is mine! If it saves me a single copper, I'll dig a hole to the center of the planet!"
They reached the Bandit Mines—a series of jagged, yawning tunnels carved into the side of a grey, forbidding mountain. The air inside was cool and smelled of damp earth and rich minerals.
"Use it," Arthur commanded, pointing to Grid's standard-issue iron pickaxe. "[Legendary Blacksmith's Appraisal]."
Grid looked confused, his heavy breathing echoing in the cave. "On a pickaxe? It's just a tool, Arthur. It's not even a weapon."
"Just do it. Trust me." Arthur assured him.
Grid sighed and activated the skill.
[You have appraised the 'Sturdy Iron Pickaxe'.]
[Because you are Pagma's Successor, you have gained a hidden understanding of the tool's structural harmony.]
[Mining Efficiency increased by 30%. Potential for 'Great Success' in ore extraction unlocked.]
Suddenly, the world changed for Grid. The dark, dull stone of the cave wall was no longer solid grey. Veins of glowing blue and deep, throbbing crimson pulsed beneath the surface like the veins of a living beast. He could see the structural integrity of the rocks, the "guide lines" of the earth showing exactly where the ore was most concentrated and where the stone was weakest.
"It... it shows me where to hit," Grid breathed, his voice filled with awe.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Grid began to move in a blur of motion. He wasn't mining like a normal player, swinging with blind hope and brute force. He was striking with the rhythmic precision of a master sculptor. Every hit shattered the useless surrounding rock and left a chunk of high-purity iron ore falling perfectly into his bag.
He was mining at triple the speed of a professional, high-level mining class. To Grid, every rhythmic swing wasn't just labor; it was the sweet, melodic sound of a 15% discount ringing in his ears.
While Grid was busy pillaging the mountain for its iron wealth, the world outside was converging on Winston.
The elite members of the Tzedakah Guild were making their way through the northern territories. They moved like shadows across the landscape—Pon, Toban, and the bald-headed Vantner leading the charge.
"The intelligence is solid," Toban said, checking his holographic map as they paused near a forest crossroads. "The residents of Winston are all talking about a 'Blacksmithing Goddess' named Erina. She's the one who supposedly won the competition against Khan's successor."
"The successor must be a complete joke if he lost to a girl we've never heard of," Vantner laughed, adjusting the straps on his heavy armour. "But Jishuka wants the best. If this Erina can make Epic daggers in under three hours, she's our ticket to monopolizing the arrow market."
"Focus on the blonde," Pon commanded, his eyes sharp. "That's our primary target. Find Erina, and we find the source of the Mythical Arrows."
They had no idea that "Erina" was currently miles away in the frontier, hunting for rare orb production methods, and that the "joke" successor was currently five miles away, covered in mountain dirt, screaming at a stubborn rock for not giving him high-grade iron fast enough.
The Tzedakah Guild was hunting for a ghost. Grid was mining for a fortune. And Arthur was watching the timer, knowing that the peace of Winston was a fragile thing.
As the sun began to set over the peaks, Grid stood over a massive pile of high-purity ore, his face twisted in a manic, soot-stained grin of pure, unadulterated greed.
"More," he whispered, his pickaxe raised high for another strike. "Give me... the 15%!"
Grid has secured a massive stockpile of raw materials.