The Grand Launch

"Ah, can't I get rid of that first-purchase coupon discount text at the bottom of every product listing? It totally kills the mood every time I look at it."

Not that I could call anyone to fix it even if I wanted to.

This was roughly two months after signing the contract with Humson, the dwarven weaponsmith. After about a month of preparation, with inventory fully stocked, I photographed the first batch of delivered products and listed them on the marketplace. The three launch items were the ones with the highest stock at Humson's weapon shop: daggers, two-handed swords, and one-handed swords.

The daggers shipped without dedicated scabbards — just the pieces themselves — so even with the edges removed, I had to bulk-order sponge padding to wrap the pointed tips. Honestly, I'd wanted to make scabbards for the daggers too. But most people in the other world didn't use scabbards for daggers. The ones that existed were cheap leather belt-loop affairs used by hunters, and for a dagger that once belonged to a would-be king-slayer, that would just look pathetic. More than anything, I wanted at least one product listed at a reasonably accessible price — something under 100,000 won even after the discount. When your whole catalog sits at premium price points, you need an entry-level bait product. Something casual buyers could pick up without thinking twice.

The one-handed sword looked premium from the moment I first laid eyes on it. I knew right away this was the one to price high. The distinctive red gem set into the center of the hilt was a common mineral back in Humson's homeland — it glowed brighter red when it touched human body heat. I'd wanted to include that in the product description too, but there was a chance the glow wouldn't activate in this world, so I left it out.

The two-handed sword was the problem. Total length: just over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠160 centimeters. (Holy hell, look at the size of that thing!) The reason it was so long: the pommel featured a distinctly dwarven — and utterly unnecessary — ornament of a hammer and axe crossed in an X, eating up a full six centimeters. Sure, I could have used a bigger shipping box, but the idea of paying extra shipping fees over this, driving up the price for customers, really grated on me. When I suggested simply removing the ornament, Humson nearly jumped out of his skin and threatened to tear up the contract.

I handed the furious dwarf a cold green tea from a plastic bottle — thankfully, he seemed to like the taste — and waited for him to cool down before we worked on the problem together. Somewhere in the middle of it, Humson stared at the twist-off cap on the plastic bottle and asked, genuinely fascinated:

"How in blazes does this thing lock when you twist it?"

"There's a spiral groove carved inside the cap. The bottle neck has a matching groove. When you twist them together, the threads interlock and seal tight — it can't slip off."

"Simple enough to shock the god of fire itself — and brilliant! Your people's brains are operating on a whole different level from ours!"

Unlike an ordinary human, who might marvel at the taste or convenience of a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠product, Humson — true to his dwarven nature — was far more curious about how it worked. He spent a good long while twisting the cap on and off by himself, like a baby playing with a toy. Then, almost absently, he muttered to himself:

"This technique could be damn useful..."

He spent half a day muttering to himself, barely acknowledging my presence in his shop. And the result of all that grumbling? This. The pommel ornament now twisted on and off like a bottle cap. Leave it attached for horizontal storage; twist it off when you wanted to swing the sword without the obstruction. He even designed the base of the detached ornament to sit flat, so it could stand upright on its own — displayable like a figurine or a trophy. In the end, it saved on shipping, added practical value, and made the product better.

It was a moment that shattered my preconceptions about dwarves — stubborn creatures convinced their way was the only way. I'd learn later, from a book borrowed from the library, that when it came to dwarven temperament, Humson was the odd one. Dwarves cannot bend their pride. Their work is always the best, period. But Humson had considered himself a failure. He'd hit rock bottom, come to foreign lands, suffered through catering to other races' tastes. That was why he could strip away his pride and try something new with his own work. A blessing in disguise, you might call it.

I took the photos with my smartphone, nothing fancy. I'm no professional photographer, but with the otherworld as a backdrop, I figured I'd captured something with the right atmosphere. For the Red Spider dagger, I borrowed a table near the fireplace at the Owl Tavern — my usual inn — and arranged an old envelope and letter paper on it. An outdated meat order form from the butcher, pure trash destined for the bin. Then I dripped a few drops of pig's blood, sourced from Plenty Meat Butchery, onto the blade, staging the scene like an assassin who had just barely completed a difficult contract, dragging his exhausted body back to write a coded letter of success to his client by firelight.

Same approach for the Wandering Wind and the Demon's Sword. I propped the two-handed sword upright beside a haystack in some random open barn around dusk, and for the Demon's Sword, I splashed pig's blood liberally across the cobblestones of a dark back alley, set a blazing torch beside it, and shot by firelight.

Obviously, every buyer knew these weren't real. But I was confident from the start that product descriptions with this kind of narrative concept would land.

And here's the thing — how did I come up with these stories to write into the listings? The truth is, I copied them nearly verbatim from a book I borrowed from the village library called A Study of the Kingdom's Historical Weapons. In other words, these were real events. These were unique weapons that existed somewhere, right now, in that world. Naturally, the book didn't include photographs — just ink illustrations. It was the kind of book you'd take with a grain of salt, half legend and half hearsay. But I wasn't selling these weapons to the people of that world. My customers were from ours. I figured it didn't matter.

Anyway. The results? Did they sell?

Honestly? It wasn't a smash hit from the start. Wasn't even a moderate success. At first, it was closer to a total flop. Nearly three weeks without a single sale. Was the idea that people from this world would buy useless otherworldly weapons just my own delusion after all? Just like when I'd first shown snacks to the people of Greenhill, I started to think I'd failed. But this time I refused to give up, and kept pushing the product listings.

Then, slowly, buyers started to trickle in. Exactly as I'd predicted — nobody was looking for medieval weapons to actually train with. They wanted display pieces. It hit precisely the enthusiast niche, just enough to move the hearts of true fanatics. But whether I'd perfectly targeted that tiny minority of customers whose tastes aligned, the response was one hundred percent praise.

For the record, that reply I posted was copy-pasted from another product's comment section. Thankfully, copy-paste worked for comments. Though there seemed to be some kind of censorship filter, so I'm not sure everything went through.

In the early days, even the enthusiasts left normal reviews like these. But the longer the shop ran, the more reviews started appearing that made me think, this person is genuinely unhinged. People began weaving their own narratives around their purchases — just like me — and more and more of them started calling themselves "Sir," or "Adventurer," or "Hero." Eventually, the buyers formed their own community. These days, I hear they've even started a swordsmanship club: they grind the tips even blunter for safety and hold medieval-style sparring sessions down by the Han River. Good for them, but I'm not getting involved. It's not like I have unrestricted commenting privileges anyway.

Haah. Reading this review is making me lose my mind. This guy's drowning in his own roleplay too. There's no way that's an actual Demon's Sword. That's a unique weapon from the other world — one of a kind, exactly one in existence. And leaving that final review with that maddening open ending, like something terrible just happened, doesn't help. That comment did drive up sales, but I didn't give him the 10% discount coupon. I was starting to worry someone might actually have an accident with that sword.

Anyway, business was off to a good start. If this momentum held, I figured I could build a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dedicated sales site instead ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of relying on the big platforms.