The heat of the Bairan smithy was no longer a tool; it was an adversary. It was a physical weight, pressing against Grid's lungs and searing the back of his throat as he swung the hammer with a desperation that bordered on madness.
Every strike of the hammer echoed like a heartbeat in the cramped, soot-stained room. He was a Legendary Blacksmith. He had the [Pagma's Successor] class. He had the innate intuition to see the microscopic fissures in the cooling metal, and the dexterity to move with a grace his Level 1 stats shouldn't allow. But the system—that cold, calculating mechanical god named Morpheus—didn't care about his title.
[You have produced a Jaffa Arrow.]
[Rating: Normal]
[You have produced a Jaffa Arrow.]
[Rating: Normal]
"Dammit! Why?!" Grid's roar was raw, his voice cracking under the strain of eighteen hours of continuous labor.
He snatched a glowing rod of Jaffa-infused iron with his tongs and plunged it into the water barrel. The resulting hiss was violent, a cloud of steam engulfing his face, mirroring the fog of rage in his mind.
"I followed the blueprint perfectly! I used the exact jaffa-to-iron ratio! I even added the black manganese at the precise moment of carbonization!"
He turned his bloodshot eyes toward the ceiling, shaking a soot-covered fist at the invisible developers. "Why is it still garbage?! Why am I making trash while he made miracles?!"
Smith, the local blacksmith, had been leaning against a timber post in the corner, a long wooden pipe clenched between his teeth.
He had watched the boy work with a mixture of pity and bewilderment. He had never seen someone move with such technical perfection while looking like they were trying to murder the anvil.
Smith stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching on the slag. He reached into Grid's finished pile—a sea of mediocre, grey-tipped arrows—and pulled out a single shaft.
It was different. A faint, pulsing blue light throbbed within the Jaffa head, a rhythmic glow that signified the Rare rank.
"You made three of these out of a hundred, kid," Smith said, his voice unusually soft, devoid of its earlier mockery.
"For a beginner, that's a miracle. Most blacksmiths in the Eternal Kingdom—even I, on a bad day—couldn't produce a Rare consumable if their lives depended on it. You have the hands of a master."
"It's not enough!" Grid snarled, lunging forward to snatch the arrow back. He clutched it so hard the fletching crumpled.
"Arthur made Epics! He made Uniques! He didn't just make them; he made them consistently! If I can't even reach his standard for a damn arrow, how am I supposed to be a Legend? How am I supposed to look him in the eye without feeling like a fraud?"
Smith sighed, a long plume of grey smoke escaping his nostrils. He placed a heavy, calloused hand on Grid's shoulder. The sheer weight of the NPC's Strength stat forced Grid to stop his manic pacing.
"Arthur didn't just have 'talent,' boy. He had a focus that made the world around him vanish. When he hammered, he wasn't thinking about the gold he'd make or the interest rates on his debt. He wasn't comparing himself to anyone. He was thinking about the trajectory of the wind over a meadow and the exact thickness of a Twin-Head Orc's hide. He navigated the path because he loved the journey of the metal."
Smith patted Grid's shoulder firmly—a gesture meant to be encouraging that felt like a hot iron to Grid's ego. "Keep working. One day... maybe in five or six months... you might actually catch up to the shadow he left behind."
"Five months?!" Grid's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "I don't have five months! I have monthly payments! I have debt collectors who will break my real-world legs if I don't turn a profit! I need to be better than him now!"
Smith shook his head and turned back to his own anvil, the conversation over. "Then you'd better start swinging. The metal doesn't care about your debt collectors. It only cares about the hammer. If you can't find peace in the work, you'll find nothing but slag."
Left alone in the flickering orange glow of the forge, Grid felt his vision swim. Exhaustion, hunger, and pure, unadulterated spite swirled into a toxic cocktail in his stomach.
He looked at the three Rare arrows sitting atop the pile of ninety-seven failures. To any other player, this was a fortune. To Grid, it was a reminder of his inferiority.
"DAMN YOU, DEVELOPERS!" Grid screamed, his voice echoing off the stone walls and out into the busy streets of Bairan. "MORPHEUS, YOU PIECE OF JUNK! WHY DID YOU MAKE THE STANDARDS SO HIGH?!"
In a fit of pique, he punched the stone wall beside the furnace.
[You have dealt 1 damage to the wall.]
[You have received 8 damage.]
[HP: 12/20]
"Ow! Dammit!" He clutched his hand, sliding down the side of the anvil until he was sitting in the soot. "And Arthur... you silver-haired freak. You didn't just give me 1,000 gold; you gave me a complex. You cleared the game's hardest content, set the world on fire, and left the rest of us to choke on your dust."
He looked at his trembling hands. He was Level -1. His stamina was bottomed out. His "Legendary" pride was currently a pile of Normal-grade junk worth less than the coal he'd burned to make them.
He thought about the 800 million won debt. He thought about Arthur's casual smirk—the look of a man who didn't even realize he was standing on top of a mountain everyone else was dying to climb.
But then, the greed didn't vanish. It didn't break. It transformed.
The desperate desire for money merged with a bitter, stubborn resentment. If he couldn't reach Arthur's level through "sincerity" or "focus," he would reach it through pure, concentrated malice.
"Fine," Grid whispered, his eyes turning cold and sharp. He forced himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He grabbed the hammer once more.
"You want a 'Nameless Legend,' Smith? I'll give you a 'Notorious' one. I'll make so many arrows that I'll drown Arthur's memory in the supply. I'll make an Epic if it kills my character."
The sound of the hammer changed.
Before, it had been frantic, seeking a result. Now, it was slower. Heavier. Every blow was delivered as if the anvil was Arthur's face.
Grid wasn't thinking about the "soul of the metal" or the "trajectory of the wind." He was thinking about how much he hated being second. He was thinking about every cent of interest he owed.
He channeled every ounce of his frustration, his jealousy, and his spite into the glowing Jaffa. He didn't seek perfection; he sought vengeance against the metal for being so stubborn.
Hours bled into the night. The other players in Bairan went to sleep or stayed in the taverns, but the rhythmic thwang-clack of Grid's forge never wavered.
Smith watched from the shadows, his eyes narrowing. The boy wasn't following the "path" Arthur had walked. He was carving a jagged, ugly trail of his own.
Finally, as the first light of dawn touched the soot-stained windows, Grid struck the final blow on a shaft of dark, gleaming metal.
A flash of violet light erupted from the anvil, far brighter than the Rare blue he had seen before.
[An Epic rated item has been produced!]
[All stats increased by +4]
[Reputation through continent increased by +80]
[Special Jaffa Arrows of Resentment]
Rating: Epic
Attack: 43~51
* Property: Can bypass 15% of an enemy's physical defense.
* Description: These arrows were forged by a craftsman of legendary potential but abysmal reputation. Lacking the focus of a true master, the maker poured his tremendous resentment toward the 'Original Maker' of Special Jaffa Arrows into the forge.
* Special Buff [Spiteful Strike]: If the user harbors genuine resentment or jealousy toward the target, the damage dealt is doubled.
* Weight: 0.1
Grid stared at the window. It was an Epic. His first Epic. The stats were higher than any arrow currently on the market. But as he read the description, his face contorted.
"Resentment toward the original maker...?" Grid hissed. "Lacking in reputation?! Even the system is mocking me!"
Smith walked over, leaning over Grid's shoulder to inspect the arrow. He let out a short, sharp snort—a sound that was half-laugh, half-disgust.
"Well," Smith said, tapping the dark fletching. "You did it, kid. You made an Epic. But look at it. It's dark, it's heavy, and it smells like a grudge."
Smith looked Grid in the eye, his expression unreadable. "Your jealousy and resentment toward Arthur have won the day, boy. But make no mistake—this isn't a victory for your blacksmithing skills. This is a victory for your pettiness. You didn't master the metal; you just poisoned it with your own heart."
Grid didn't care. He snatched the arrow, his eyes reflecting the flickering embers of the forge. "Poisoned or not, it's an Epic. And people will pay for poison if it kills their enemies."
He turned back to the anvil, the hammer already raised. He had found his "path." It wasn't the path of a hero, or a saint, or a master. It was the path of a man who would forge the world's spite into gold.
"One down," Grid growled, his arm swinging once more. "Ten thousand more to go. Just you wait, Arthur. I'm going to sell so many of these that 'Resentment' becomes the only thing the North knows."
In the distance, the sun rose over the Northern horizon, where a war was brewing. And in a small, smoke-filled room in Bairan, the "Notorious Legend" was truly born—forged not in light, but in the heat of a monumental complex.
Grid has finally produced an Epic item, but it's a 'cursed' reflection of his own personality! With these arrows in production, Grid is about to become the most controversial supplier in the Eternal Kingdom.