The morning mist in Winston was thick, clinging to the stone walls of the smithy like a damp shroud. Outside, the rhythmic thud-thud of a heavy wooden cart echoed against the cobblestones.
Steng, the newly minted disciple of Khan, was already at work. He had volunteered for the grunt work—hauling firewood from the lumber district and quenching-oils from the dry goods warehouse—with a frantic, desperate energy. To him, every heavy lift was a payment toward a debt of gratitude he could never fully calculate.
Inside the forge, however, the air was heavy with a different kind of pressure.
Arthur stood by the central drafting table, his shadow cast long and sharp by the dying embers of the night-fire.
He wasn't looking at a blueprint. His arms were crossed over his chest, his crimson eyes fixed steadily on Grid, who was currently polishing a finished breastplate with the intensity of a man trying to scrub a stain out of time itself.
"Grid," Arthur said, his voice low and carrying the weight of a final decision. "We need to finalize the overhead for the new expansion. Specifically, Steng's upkeep."
Grid didn't stop polishing. "Upkeep? He's an apprentice. He gets a roof, he gets the leftover soup. That's his pay."
"He is a Rank 2 Blacksmith with expencess at home," Arthur countered calmly. "He is essentially starting his career over under our roof. Until he adapts to the manual techniques of Khan's and begins producing sellable inventory, he needs a stipend. I've run the numbers. He needs a 5,000 gold salary for the first month to cover his home expencess and personal growth."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that precedes a natural disaster.
Grid's polishing cloth fell from his hand. His face transformed from a healthy tan to a translucent, sickly grey. His eyes didn't just widen; they bulged, his pupils vibrating.
"Five... thousand... gold?" Grid's voice was a strangled, pathetic wheeze. "Arthur... do you know what 5,000 gold is? In the real world, that's... that's a down payment on a life! In Winston, it's a mountain of ores! It's... it's a piece of my very soul being ripped out through my nose!"
"It's an investment in infrastructure," Arthur said, stepping into Grid's personal space. "I've already discussed this with Cecil. Between the smithy's reserve, I am covering 4,000 gold form our share. You, as the co-lead and the 'Legendary' partner, will cover the remaining 1,000. It's more than fair."
"One thousand gold is not a pittance!" Grid roared, clutching his chest and stumbling back against an anvil. "That's one thousand golden memories! One thousand friends I'll never see again! Why does the newbie need gold? He has youth! He has health! He doesn't need to eat anything but bread and water!"
"Grid," Arthur's voice took on a sharp, metallic edge. "You are the Successor of Pagma. Your time is literally worth more than gold. Every hour you spend melting low-grade ore into ingots or hauling charcoal is an hour you aren't forging items. Steng handles the labor, we handle the creation. 1,000 gold buys you back your destiny. Stop acting like a pauper and start acting like a master."
It took nearly an hour of grueling negotiation. Khan stepped in, offering emotional appeals about the "legacy of the smithy." Meteria even appeared, offering Grid a sympathetic pat on the shoulder that he tried—and failed—to shrug off. Finally, with a signature written in ink so dark and jagged it looked like a death warrant, the deal was struck.
Just as the ink dried, the shop doors creaked open. Steng arrived, panting, his face streaked with wood dust and sweat, pulling a cart piled dangerously high with premium, seasoned oak.
"I... I got the best... highest-density oak!" Steng gasped, leaning against the doorframe.
Grid looked at him. To any normal person, Steng was a hardworking, promising young man. To Grid, Steng was now a sentient, walking black hole that had just swallowed a thousand pieces of gold.
"Don't just stand there, you gold-sink!" Grid grumbled, turning back to his anvil with a renewed, bitter ferocity. "Every second you aren't working is a second you're stealing from my debt fund! Move! Melt something! Earn your keep!"
Arthur sighed, giving Steng a reassuring nod. "Ignore the growling. He's just mourning his lost 'friends.' Come here, Steng. It's time we discuss the reality of the Winston forge."
Arthur led Steng to a secondary furnace, one that had been meticulously cleaned and prepared. On a stone plinth nearby sat a pile of high grade iron ingots, its surface dull and unassuming.
"In the Northern Garrison," Arthur began, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Steng, "how did you produce your items? When you had the materials and the blueprint, what was your process?"
Steng looked confused. "The... standard way? I open the interface, select the blueprint, ensure the iron and other materials are in the designated slots, and click 'Craft.' The system handles the motion, my character follows the optimal pathing, and the progress bar completes. It's the only way to ensure the stats align with the blueprint's minimums."
Arthur's expression turned cold—not with anger at Steng, but with a profound, simmering disdain for the shortcut.
"From this moment on," Arthur said, his voice echoing in the rafters, "you are forbidden from touching that button. If I see a progress bar over your head, you will be expelled from this smithy before the bar hits fifty percent."
Steng went pale. "But... Big brother Arthur... the failure rate... without the system's assistance, the manual dexterity required to hit Rare-tier stats is... it's nearly impossible for a player. If I fail, I waste the materials. I waste your gold."
"The production button is a ceiling, Steng," Arthur said, stepping closer until he was looking down at the new apprentice. "It is a crutch designed by the system to keep players 'competent' but never 'extraordinary.' It guarantees a result, yes, but it strips the item of its soul. In this forge, we don't follow progress bars. We follow the rhythm of the heart. If you want to reach the heights of a Master—if you want a path toward a Legendary Class to even become a possibility—you must hammer every strike yourself. You must feel the heat, smell the iron, and know the steel's breaking point by the sound it makes against the anvil."
Steng swallowed hard. His hands, still covered in the dust of the lumber yard, began to shake. The production button was his safety net; it was the only thing that made him a "blacksmith" in his own mind. To abandon it was to stand naked before the anvil.
"I... I want to try," Steng whispered.
Grid, who had been eavesdropping while working on a dagger, suddenly froze. His hammer stayed suspended in mid-air. He slowly turned around, his face a mask of dawning horror.
"Wait," Grid said, his voice trembling. "Production... button? What... what is a 'production button'?"
Steng blinked. "The craft interface? You know... you click 'Craft,' and your body moves automatically? The system handles the hammer swings so you don't lose stamina as fast and guarantees the durability isn't bugged? Every blacksmith in Satisfy uses it."
The hammer fell from Grid's hand, clattering loudly against the stone floor. He looked at his palms—blistered, calloused, stained with permanent soot and scarred by sparks.
He thought about the thousands of hours he had spent swinging a heavy iron hammer until his stamina hit zero and he got a debuff of soreness. He thought about the sweat, the stinging in his eyes, and the sheer, brutal physical agony of manual forging.
"You mean..." Grid's eyes began to leak tears of pure, concentrated salt. "You mean the other players... just... click... a... button? They don't have to actually... hit... the metal carefully?"
Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Grid, we have Legendary and Unique Growth classes. The system doesn't give us the easy way out. Our 'Class Potential' is locked behind manual labor. The system forces us to do it the hard way so we can't mass produce Legendary items."
Grid didn't say another word. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He simply turned around, walked out of the smithy, and stood in the dead center of the street.
For the next five minutes, the citizens of Winston were treated to a masterclass in creative profanity.
Grid's voice reached a pitch that caused birds to fall from the sky. He cursed the developers, he cursed the CEO, he cursed the very concept of binary code, and he cursed the mothers of everyone who had ever designed a user interface of the production button.
"UNFAAAAAIR!"
The scream echoed off the walls. "I've been working like a medieval slave! I've been living in a soot-box while everyone else is playing a clicking game! I want my wasted labor back! I want a refund on my sweat!"
That night, the forge was quiet save for the crackling of the high-density oak Steng had hauled. The entire household—Khan, Arthur, Grid (still muttering about 'clickers'), and Cecil—gathered around Steng's anvil.
"This is it," Steng whispered.
Arthur had provided him with a blueprint he'd acquired during his numirous 'harvest' using Aspiring Blacksmith's appraisal skill: the [Swift Guard Dagger]. It was a complex design, requiring precise heat control to maintain the Agility bonuses.
Steng pulled the glowing iron from the coals. He didn't open a menu. He didn't look for a progress bar. He took a deep breath, raised his hammer, and struck.
Ting!
The vibration traveled up his arm, jarring his teeth. Without the system's "Auto-Correct" feature, the hammer didn't land perfectly. The metal deformed unevenly. Steng panicked, his movements becoming frantic.
"Stop," Arthur's voice was a calm anchor. "Don't chase the metal. Lead it. Breathe with the bellows. The iron isn't your enemy; it's your canvas."
Steng slowed down. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the radiating heat on his cheeks. He struck again.
Ttang!
This time, the sound was clearer. As the hours passed, something magical happened. Steng's stats—his Strength and Dexterity—started to work with him rather than for him. He began to see where the impurities were gathering in the glow. He saw the "grain" of the steel.
Grid watched with a sour expression, his arms crossed, ready to mock the newcomer for wasting that 1,000 gold investment.
But as midnight turned to dawn, Grid's scowl faded into a look of begrudging respect. Steng wasn't a Legend, but he had the one thing Grid respected: the refusal to give up.
By the time the first rays of sunlight pierced the soot-stained windows, a dagger lay on the cooling rack. It wasn't perfect. The pommel was slightly off-center, and the blade had a minor tremor in its line.
But it shimmered with a clean, sharp light that no "button-pressed" item could ever replicate.
Arthur picked it up, his [Appraisal] identifying the item immediately.
[Swift Guard Dagger]
Rating: Rare
Durability: 110/110 | Attack Power: 142
Attribute: Agility +10.
Description: A dagger forged by an apprentice who has abandoned the easy path. It far exceeds the quality of mass-produced items of the same rank.
Special Effect: 5% increase in draw speed.
Steng collapsed into a wooden chair, his arms feeling like lead, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at his hands—red, shaking, and raw. But his face was glowing with a transcendental joy.
"I... I did it," Steng whispered. "It's a Rare. My first Rare rank item... without the button. I could feel the Agility being hammered into the edge."
Grid looked at the dagger, then at Steng's exhausted face, then back at the mental image of his 1,000 gold coins. He stood up, his face twitching. He walked back outside, stood in the street, and the screaming began anew.
"HE GOT A RARE ON HIS FIRST TRY?!" Grid's voice shattered the morning peace.
"It took me weeks! Weeks of suffering! Developers! Why is the 'Gold-Sink' more lucky than the 'Pagma's Successor'?! Why is the universe rewarding my 1,000 gold investment with my own jealousy?! I hate this game! I hate everything!"
Arthur watched Grid stomp away toward the fountain to cool his head, then turned to Steng, offering a hand.
"The system rewards the soul, Steng," Arthur said, his voice warm with pride. "You didn't just make a dagger tonight. You broke the ceiling. Welcome to the real forge."
Steng took Arthur's hand, pulling himself up. He was exhausted, broke, and his co-worker was a lunatic who screamed at the devolopers—but as he looked at the Rare dagger he had made with his own two hands, he knew he would never touch the 'Craft' button again.