The Direwolf Forest had long been a place of quiet, dappled sunlight and the rhythmic cycle of nature.
But today, the tranquility was shattered. The forest had ceased to be a training ground; it had become a slaughterhouse of digital pixels and shattered pride.
Piaro stood on the same grassy knoll as the day before, his posture unyielding. However, his wooden stick was no longer held in a ready stance.
It was planted firmly in the soft soil, his weathered hands resting atop it as he leaned his weight forward. His eyes, usually sharp with the burning intent of a master seeking a spark in his pupil, were clouded with a profound, quiet disappointment.
He wasn't looking at a swordsman. He was looking at a walking fortress that defied every law of martial balance he held dear.
In the center of the clearing, a sound rang out that made the birds take flight in alarm. It was Grid, and he was laughing. It wasn't the heroic, belly-deep roar of a warrior who had finally mastered a complex technique.
It was the manic, high-pitched cackle of a man who had discovered a "Skip" button on a cosmic level.
Grid was no longer the pathetic, trembling apprentice in soot-stained rags. He was encased in the [Guardian's Vanguard Plate], a Level 120 heavy armor set that looked like it had been plucked from the treasury of a noble.
Forged by Arthur under the watchful, somewhat skeptical eye of Khan, the suit was a marvel of Black Iron and ancient blueprints.
The metal was a polished, deep cobalt—the color of a midnight sea—etched with silver filigree that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic blue light every time Grid breathed.
In his gauntleted hands, he gripped a weapon that bordered on the absurd: [The Wolf-Slayer's Fang], a reproduction Arthur had produced.
It was made of one of the blueprints using his 'Aspiring Blacksmith's Appraisal' skill, having "borrowed" the designs from Earl Ashur's private vaults when Arthur went there once.
It was a serrated greatsword so massive and heavy it looked like it belonged in the hands of a regional raid boss.
"Come on!" Grid screamed at a pack of five Direwolves circling him. "Is that all you've got? Bite me! Try it! I'll give you a free hit!"
A wolf lunged, its muscles coiling like springs before it snapped its jaws toward Grid's exposed thigh. In the past, Grid would have shrieked, tripped over a stray root, and forgotten every word of Piaro's advice on footwork.
Now, he didn't even twitch. He simply stood there, an arrogant smirk visible through the T-shaped slit of his cobalt helm.
CLANG.
The sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. The wolf's teeth didn't just fail to pierce; they shattered against the enchanted plating. A holographic blue notification box flickered over Grid's head:
[0 Damage]
[The target has suffered 'Tooth Fracture' status.]
"My turn," Grid sneered, his voice metallic and distorted by the visor.
He didn't pivot his hips. He didn't shift his center of gravity to generate torque. He didn't breathe into the strike.
He simply swung the massive sword with the raw, clumsy strength of his 'Legendary' stats, bolstered by the item's hidden weight-reduction charms.
The blade didn't cut the wolf; it erased it. The sheer physical force of a Level 120 weapon meeting a Level 20 mob turned the beast into a cloud of grey pixels instantly.
There was no blood, only the sound of displaced air and the chime of experience points hitting a bank.
This transformation had begun eighteen hours earlier in the sweltering heart of Khan's forge.
Arthur had watched Grid's miserable failure in the field and realized a fundamental truth: the "Final Hurdle" of the Sword Saint required him to defeat a Legend, but the heavens had provided him with a Legend who loathed effort. If Grid couldn't be a swordsman, Arthur would turn him into a titan of steel.
"You're trying to play their game, Grid," Arthur had said, slamming a heavy, leather-bound book onto the anvil. It was [Khan's Battlegear Blueprints].
"You're trying to learn 'technique' from a man who can cut a mountain with a farming hoe. You don't have that talent. But you have the class of craftsman."
Arthur gestured toward the roaring furnace. "You are Pagma's Successor. Since you can't dodge the coming attacks, make an overpowered gear. Become the tank they can't sink their teeth into."
The logic had pierced through Grid's dejection like a lightning bolt. His eyes had widened, reflecting the orange glow of the coals.
"Overgeared... My class allows me to wield and wear any weapon and battle gear disregarding the level restrictions. I don't need to be fast. I just need to be indestructible. If I can't hit them because I'm slow, I'll just wait until they break themselves against me."
For eighteen hours straight, the smithy had rung with the sound of frantic hammering. Arthur had taken the lead, utilizing the Black Iron he had secured.
Arthur knew that if he let Grid do the primary forging now, the he would waste the precious materials on 'Normal' or 'Rare' results. Arthur needed 'Epic' and 'Unique'.
He let Grid act as the assistant, feeding the flames and quenching the steel, allowing the [Pagma's Successor] passive to bleed into the items alongside his Pagma's apprentice class.
Arthur wanted absolute peak of Unique as Grid's Legendary Blacksmith's breath infused the gear. The result was a set of gear that essentially allowed a toddler to wield a tactical nuke while inside of a tank.
Back in the forest, Grid was a whirlwind of inefficient, expensive destruction. He was the literal definition of using a "cannon to kill a chicken." He swung a sword worth hundreds of thousands of gold to harvest experience from creatures that dropped copper coins.
[You have reached Level 15!]
[You have reached Level 22!]
[You have reached Level 30!]
The levels were pouring in at a rate that would make a professional power-leveler weep with envy. Grid was "bypass-leveling," leaping over the intended progression curve of the game through the sheer audacity of his equipment.
"Talent? Heh!" Grid shouted, slamming his sword into the ground. The impact created a shockwave that knocked back a lurking wolf, sending it tumbling through the underbrush.
"Piaro! Look at this! Who needs a 'pivot point' when I have 500 points of physical defense and 400 points of attack power? I'll just bridge the gap with overwhelming items!"
He stood tall, the sun catching the silver filigree of his helm. "I'm a legendary blacksmith, not some brute who has to sweat over a stance. I'll be known for my items, not for my technique. I am the one who gears the world, so why shouldn't I be the most geared of all?"
Piaro looked away, a shadow passing over his face. The disappointment wasn't just for Grid; it was for the art of the sword itself. "He has found his path," the Great Swordsman whispered to Arthur, who remained leaning against a tree nearby.
"But it is a path of hollow strength. He relies on the shell, not the pearl within. When the shell cracks—and it always cracks, Arthur—there will be nothing left but a frightened blacksmith."
Arthur didn't look away from Grid. "It's not hollow, Piaro. It's just... different. In this world, the one with the best tools often survives longer than the one with the best heart. Let him believe he's found a shortcut."
Arthur smiled and said while looking at Piaro, "In the later stages, when the gear can no longer bridge the gap between his stats and a true master's technique, he'll crawl back to you. He'll use the very that's commanding him to ignore your advices. For now, let him feel the happiness of the 'invincible'."
Arthur's smile was thin and dangerous. To him, the more "Overgeared" Grid became, the more legendary the feat of defeating him would be. Every piece of armor Grid donned was just another layer of the "impossibility" Arthur was destined to overcome to reach his own Sainthood.
"I'm invincible!" Grid's voice echoed through the trees. He was currently carrying the [Wolf-Slayer] greatsword on his shoulder, walking with a deliberate, heavy-footed stomp. It wasn't efficient, but it was loud. It was a statement.
He felt a surge of intoxicating power. This was what he had always wanted—to be the one looking down.
He didn't care that he was Level 30 fighting Level 20s. He didn't care that his movements were ugly and his footwork was non-existent.
The numbers on his screen told him he was winning, and for Grid, numbers were the only truth that mattered.
If the number was high enough, the "how" didn't matter.
"Arthur! Give me more Black Iron!" Grid yelled, turning back. "I want to forge a shield next! A shield that reflects magic!"
Arthur nodded, his expression unreadable. "I have the materials ready, Grid. Let's go back. You've outgrown this forest. The wolves can't even scratch the polish on your greaves anymore."
As they walked back toward the gates of Winston, the "Overgeared" Legend led the way. His heavy armor clanked loudly, signaling his presence to anyone within a mile. He was proud of the noise. He wanted the world to hear the sound of his success.
Behind him, Arthur and Piaro walked in silence. One was mourning the death of a potential student; the other was sharpening his soul for the day when he'd challenge the other Legend.