More, Even Bigger and Stronger Firepower! (2)

But after about five hours of scouring the first floor in grand style alongside that transfer dissatisfaction goblin who'd disappointed me with the machine gun transfer, I started feeling a massive wave of "Is this for real?" doubts crashing in.

And honestly, who could blame me? What I wanted were big, powerful weapons to smash the ninth floor boss's shell to bits—stuff like the grenade bundles those military otaku uncles told me about, or that RPG antitank missile they call the real deal...

"Keeik."

"No, not that—don't you have any bombs or something?"

"Kyaek!"

"Haa, fuuuuck."

The problem was, when I told the goblin to fetch something other than a gun, it must've been total gibberish to the poor thing. Instead of bringing what I wanted, it shows up with goddamn sticks and rocks.

And when I bitched it out for that crap, it apparently decided plain sticks weren't cutting it...

"Kyaeeek!"

"Oh? What'd you find this ti—...yeah, okay. You've finally entered the Stone Age, huh."

Not content with sticks, it hauls in one of those primitive stone axes goblins sometimes cobble together by jamming rocks onto branches.

"Kewk."

"Spear—nah, wooden spear? You that eager to stab me?"

"Kewuuk."

I tossed the stone axe aside, and next thing I know, it's sharpened a branch into a spear-like death stick. Lucky for me, with no wrists, the goblin couldn't grip it properly—just hugged it to its chest. Otherwise, it'd probably be jabbing my back right now. My head shakes on its own just thinking about it.

The silver lining? All that nagging and bitching burned another hour or so. After meticulously searching everywhere—the armored car (totaled) where I got Wilson, and beyond—I struck gold by pure chance.

I found a truck or armored vehicle or whatever, its chassis barely holding a shape despite being over 70% wrecked and missing any cannon. And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inside? A big, heavy, rusted iron box labeled "Handle with Care: Explosives."

For a second, I thought, "Finally, the grind pays off!" A grin spreads across my face unbidden.

But that joy evaporated the instant I cracked open the box and pulled out the "explosives"...

Sure, there were grenades like I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hoped, plus plastic-wrapped Composition explosives—aka C4—and some electronic gadgets. But when I grabbed a grenade to absorb it quick...

It wouldn't absorb. My trait had slurped up that busted machine gun no problem, but a single grenade? What the hell?

That frustration didn't last. "...Haa, shit. These totally fucked, huh?"

I fired up the status window to check the trait's "Equipment Damage Status" step by step, just in case.

"Struck out on all three. Total bullshit rejection."

There were a dozen more, and I checked every last one. Turns out, my dreams of grenade glory were doomed—they looked fine on the outside, but inside? Corroded to shit, powder gone, fuses rotted away. Utter tragedy. I felt my mood tank hard.

With the grenades being trash, I pinned my hopes on the white C4 bricks in plastic. "These should be fine, right?"

"Heave-ho, let's see what we got..."

Snap! Crack!

"Wha—?!"

I thought C4 was like squishy modeling clay, but this shit snapped like dry twigs straight out of the box. The plastic wrappers had crumbled to powder after decades marinating in rust, and the electronics? Not even assembled—my trait didn't recognize them as "weapons," so no absorption or repair possible.

A few days ago, I was a normie dirt-shoveler. No way could I fix wires and circuits corroded beyond color ID. All that piled up, and...

"KRRR/AAAAA/AAAAH!!"

"Kyaeeeek?!"

I hurled the rock-hard "explosive" lump (formerly) aside and burst into ugly sobs.

Anyway, after bawling my eyes out and somehow venting the skyrocketing stress, I kept searching. That mystery truck/armored car? Useless. Another hour nearby? Nada.

Stomach growling, I munched the triangle kimbap I'd packed, thinking maybe ninth-floor boss time meant pulling out everything. Not just mounted weapons via "Equip"—grab handheld guns too, go beyond akimbo into four-gun hellfire.

Logically? My already trash aim would turn into a circus sideshow. I shelved that dumb idea #1.

Finishing the last kimbap bite while lost in thoughts...

"Kyaeeeek!"

"There you are, Gosik. And from the sound, you've got an iron axe this time."

After eight hours together, I'd even named the dissatisfaction goblin "Gosik." I turned, spotting it hauling another branch jammed with something blunt—like before.

Stone Age to Iron Age already? Finally? I snorted in disbelief.

But then...

"...The fuck?"

I double-took the "iron axe" and yelped in shock.

Not because the goblin had leaped eras. Nah. The handle was just a thick wooden stem, sure. But the blade?

"...RPG?"

Yup. The rod-like end had lost two of its original four tailfins, morphing it into an axe blade. The body—streamlined warhead shape, wedged in the wood—screamed antitank rocket.

I bolted up, excitement surging through me.

Short-lived, though. Outdoor exposure meant likely degradation. I snatched it from Gosik and checked the status window pronto, bracing for "Wrecked. GG."

"Oh? Ooooh?!"

Teetering on the edge, but repairable and usable! I absorbed it on the spot, fusing it into one.

"KIIIIIYOOOOOOOOT!!!!"

"Kyaeeeek?!"

I faceplanted or spun windmills on the floor, basking in pure bliss.