The fires of Khan's smithy had become a permanent, pulsing fixture of Winston's skyline. For ten grueling days, the Furnace had not been allowed to cool, its orange maw devouring charcoal and spitting out sparks that danced like fireflies against the soot-stained rafters.
The rhythmic, unrelenting clang-clang-clang of hammers had moved beyond a mere noise; it had become the city's new heartbeat, a metronome for the frantic reconstruction of a town reborn.
Grid was a man possessed. He was no longer just a player or a blacksmith; he was a manifestation of pure, unadulterated spite. Driven by the agonizing memory of the 1,000 gold he had been forced to "sacrifice" to the girls for rent—a sum that felt like a physical wound to his soul—he worked with a fervor that bordered on the demonic.
He didn't eat unless Khan forced a piece of bread into his hand. He didn't sleep unless his Stamina bar hit the flashing red "Exhaustion" zone, causing his character to collapse face-first into the cooling sand. Every strike of his hammer was a vengeful blow against poverty.
Every fold of the steel was a silent prayer for a windfall that would finally make him the "Rich Man" he was destined to be.
By the dawn of the eleventh day, Grid stood before a cooling rack. He had produced a massive batch of twenty-five items. He had poured his resentment, his exhaustion, and his desperate hope for profit into every single one of them.
Grid wiped a thick layer of sweat and soot from his brow with a trembling hand as he began the appraisal process. The system notifications, usually a source of anxiety, began to chime in a rising crescendo of victory.
[Very Delicate Plate Armor]
Rating: Epic
Durability: 272/272 | Defense: 303 | Movement Speed: -6%
* Special: Small chance (3%) of completely nullifying damage from stab-type attacks.
* Description: An armor piece crafted by a blacksmith with burgeoning genius but a tragic lack of social reputation. By meticulously refining steel plates into two thin, overlapping layers, the smith has achieved a defense-to-weight ratio that defies common logic.
* User Restriction: Level 120+, 380 Strength, 400 Stamina.
[An Epic-rated item has been produced! All stats +4. Reputation +80.]
Grid's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Four points to all stats... that's the equivalent of leveling up four times in a single breath!"
He didn't stop to celebrate. He moved to the next item, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
[Seemingly Plain Gauntlets]
Rating: Epic
Durability: 83/83 | Defense: 29 | Attack Speed: +4% | Accuracy: +8%
* Description: From the outside, these appear to be the work of a distracted apprentice. However, the internal ergonomics provide a grip and flexibility that feel like a second skin.
* User Restriction: Level 120+, 1,000 Agility.
[An Epic-rated item has been produced! All stats +4. Reputation +80.]
And finally, the boots—the crowning achievement of the batch.
[Quite Flashy Boots]
Rating: Epic
Durability: 120/120 | Defense: 67 | Movement Speed: +5%
* Description: Stylish, aerodynamic, and functional. These boots were crafted by a rising talent who clearly has a taste for the finer things in life.
* User Restriction: Level 120+, 1,000 Agility.
[An Epic-rated item has been produced! All stats +4. Reputation +80.]
"Hahaha! HAHAHAHA!"
Grid's hysterical laughter erupted from the smithy, so loud and jagged that it startled a flock of pigeons into the sky and made passing pedestrians crossing the streets shrieked in fear.
"Twelve points to every single stat! I'm getting stronger just by standing at the anvil! Who needs hunting? Who needs quests? I'll just forge my way to Godhood!"
He looked at the rest of the batch—twenty-two high-quality Normal rank items. They were sturdy and reliable, perfect for the common players who were flooding Winston. But the three Epics? Those were too precious for the riff-raff.
Arthur, who had been quietly working in the corner, looked up from his own anvil. "Grid, those are impressive. To maximize the gold, we shouldn't sell them to players. We should take them to the Winston Knight's Auction. You could say it's a form of advertising."
In Satisfy, NPCs—especially high-ranking noble knights and captains—often had much deeper pockets than players of a comparable level. They valued "Masterpieces" over "Efficiency." It was time to "shear the wool" from the city's wealthiest defenders.
As they began packing the items for the auction house, Arthur pulled some of his works too. "I suppose," Arthur said casually, his voice devoid of any pride, "I should clear out some of my less successful works as well. They're just taking up space in my inventory."
He began to lay them out on a velvet-covered table: a longsword, a heavy shield, a suit of plate armor, gauntlets, and thick boots. He called them the Reliable Series. To Arthur, these were the dregs of his inventory—items he considered his "failures" during a particularly uninspired training week.
Grid leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the "trash" his companion was discarding.
[Reliable Longsword] (Rare) - Attack Power: 230. Level Requirement: 160.
[Reliable Gauntlets] (Rare) - Defense: 34. Level Requirement: 180.
[Reliable Heavy Boots] (Rare) - Defense: 241. Level Requirement: 180. (Note: 35% chance of movement skill failure due to weight).
[Reliable Armor] (Rare) - Defense: 380. Level Requirement: 180. (Effect: Reduces incoming physical damage by 10% when HP is above 60%).
[Reliable Shield] (Rare) - Defense: 230. (Effect: Reduces damage by 50% on a successful block).
To Arthur, these were clumsy, inefficient, and lacked the "soul" of a true masterpiece. To Grid, who was staring at the Level 180 requirements and the staggering defense numbers, they were literal gold mines. These "Rare" items outperformed some of Grid's best work simply through raw material density and higher level tiering.
"Arthur," Grid said, his voice trembling as he looked at the consistent Rare ratings across the entire set. "How... how the hell do you do it?"
"Do what?" Arthur asked, genuinely confused.
"You produce Rare and Epic items like you're baking cheap bread! I put my literal soul into twenty-five items and I felt like I won the lottery because I got three Epics! You just pulled a full, matching Rare set out of a discard pile like it was old laundry! What's the secret? Is it the hammer? Is it the way you breathe?"
Arthur leaned against his anvil, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at the items, then back at Grid's sweating, desperate face. "I don't think it's the technique, Grid. I've watched you strike. Your form is... well, it's Legendary. Maybe it's just... luck?"
"Luck?" Grid scoffed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Luck is for people who don't have talent. Luck is what losers use as an excuse. Tell me, tell me the secret of your success. I want to know what kind of 'buff' you're hiding."
Arthur hesitated. He knew the disparity between them was a sensitive subject. But Grid's eyes were wide and manic, practically vibrating with the need for an answer. With a sigh, Arthur flicked his hand.
A translucent blue window manifested in the air.
Grid's eyes scanned the numbers. He bypassed the Strength (1200), the Agility (1200), and the Stamina (1000). He scrolled past the skills and the titles. He looked at the very bottom, where the minor stats were hidden.
[Good Luck: 214]
Grid's eyes widened until they looked like porcelain saucers. His jaw didn't just drop; it hit the floor with an audible thud.
"Two... hundred... and fourteen?" Grid's voice was a high-pitched, agonizing squeak. "My Luck is... I don't even have a Luck stat! It's zero!; No! It's probably negative!"
The realization hit Grid like a freight train loaded with lead bars. While he was struggling, sweating, and crying literal tears of blood to get a 10% chance at an Epic item through sheer brute-force repetition, Arthur was walking around with a 214-point "Good Luck" buff.
In Satisfy, Luck influenced everything—drop rates, critical hits, and, most importantly, the probability of higher-tier item generation during crafting. Arthur wasn't just talented; the game's hidden algorithms were practically tilting the world in his favor.
"DEVELOPERS!"
Grid screamed, his voice cracking as he sprinted out of the smithy and into the middle of Winston's busy main street.
"YOU BASTARDS! THIS IS DISCRIMINATION! THIS IS A RIGGED GAME! I'M FILING A LAWSUIT!"
He fell to his knees in the dirt, clutching his head in his hands as if trying to keep his brain from exploding.
"Why?! Why does he get the cool silver-white hair, the mysterious red eyes, and a 214 Luck stat?! I'm the Legendary Blacksmith's Successor! I'm the one who's supposed to be the protagonist! I'm the one who suffered through the debt! I'm the one who ate nothing but moldy rye breads for months!"
Passersby, including a group of local knights and several confused players, stopped to stare at the man wailing in the dirt.
"Is that... is that the Hero of Winston?" a player whispered. "Why is he crying about luck? Didn't he just kill a giant golem?"
Inside the shop, Arthur looked at the chaos with a faint, amused smile. He turned to Cecil. "Cecil, do you also want to go and submit some of your creations at the auction? I'm sure the knights would pay a fortune for your designs."
"No," Cecil said, her voice cool and composed. "My products are all Epic and Unique rated. I want them auctioned in the Reinhardt Auction House—the capital is where the real money is. I only have a few Rare and Normal items currently, and I'll probably just sell those in the smithy later as 'budget' gear."
Arthur blinked. "Epic and Unique? All of them?"
Cecil just shrugged, a silent testament to the fact that Arthur wasn't the only one, another monster of the forge is also breathing down in Grid's neck.
Outside Grid was still face-down in the dirt, cursing the heavens and the ancestors of the developers. But even as he cried, his hands were twitching in a rhythmic, hammer-swinging motion.
His brain, wired for profit and survival, was already calculating. 'If Arthur has 214 Luck and gets a Rare 50% of the time... and I have 0 Luck and get an Epic 10% of the time... then I just need to work five times faster than him. I'll just sleep four hours a week. I'll become a machine.'
He stood up, wiping the mud from his face. His eyes were no longer crying; they were glowing with a terrifying, jealous light.
"Khan! Pack the crates!" Grid barked, storming back into the forge. "We're going to that auction! I'm going to take every single copper those knights have! If the heavens won't give me luck, I'll just take their money instead!"
The "wool shearing" of the Winston Knights was about to begin. And a very angry, very jealous, and very motivated blacksmith was leading the charge.