Chapter 58
Chapter 58
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 58
Chapter Title: A Bit of Rest (3)
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Hendrick, the apprentice at Zirnier's Workshop—the finest weapon shop in Labyrinth City—frowned at the giant standing before him.
A battered, crude Great Helm covered in scratches. And a man squeezed into a tight black T-shirt, clearly too small for his frame.
'...No way there's men's clothing that fits a body like that.'
Hendrick couldn't bring himself to look at the ferocious mass of muscle.
Or more accurately, he was deliberately ignoring it.
The reason was obvious. Inferiority complex.
Every time he laid eyes on that sturdy physique, he felt an instinctive sense of defeat and humiliation as a man.
And damn, was he tall. Easily over two meters. Hendrick hated having to crane his neck just to meet his gaze.
Hendrick resorted to a common escape from reality.
He rolled his eyes, desperately hunting for flaws while ignoring the man's strengths.
Skin riddled with scratches, scars, and calluses. Pathetic wealth. Clothes so grimy you could spot the filth from across the room.
A sleekly designed axe hung at his waist, sure—but it didn't scream anything beyond Junior Explorer level.
Overall assessment: The man before him was a Junior Explorer.
Which made it all the more ridiculous.
"What did you just say?"
"I'm here to see Zirnier."
The helmeted man stated it boldly, as if he had no idea how insane he sounded.
The few explorers who'd been sneaking glances at him since he entered the shop now stared in shock.
"N-No, uh... hah..."
Hendrick was too dumbfounded to speak.
These kinds of entitled customers popped up occasionally.
'Mostly nobles, arrogant professors with fancy papers, or tycoons who dominate the Labyrinth City's markets.'
People who could snap their fingers and have hundreds of servants and slaves at their beck and call. Who could bully and bend dozens of blacksmiths to their whims.
'And they all got their asses handed to them.'
By none other than Zirnier's hammer.
In the workshop of the continent's only relic-grade artifact crafter, even the elite were just another customer.
If those high-and-mighty types got humbled, what gave this guy the confidence to demand an audience with Zirnier?
Hendrick almost pitied the clueless fool who didn't know his place.
So, he decided to make him realize it himself.
"Sir, why don't you take a look around?"
The helmeted man obliged, glancing around casually before turning back to Hendrick.
"Notice anything?"
Luxurious decor everywhere you looked. Masterfully crafted gear bordering on art. Patrons gazing at the displays with awe.
Every one of them draped in flashy luxuries or equipped like mid-to-high rank explorers.
Because the bare minimum to afford—and wield—Zirnier-grade gear was Mid-rank Explorer status.
Yet this guy? Generous estimate put him at the top of Junior Explorer.
"Everyone's gear looks badass. Whoa, I want that one."
"Exactly. You get it, right?"
Their equipment was on another level. Take a look at yourself. You don't belong here. You're out of your depth.
He'd danced around it, but that's what he meant...
"What does that have to do with anything? I told you, Zirnier asked me to come."
The man repeated himself verbatim. He hadn't caught the subtext. Probably not the sharpest tool in the shed.
Hendrick sighed inwardly, irritation flaring despite his brief intimidation. Time to boot this out-of-place guy.
"Sir, this isn't the sort of place for customers like—"
WHOOOOOOSH!
Suddenly, a blast of scorching wind erupted from behind Hendrick.
It happened sometimes. When the door to Zirnier's Workshop downstairs opened, this explosive aura would burst forth.
The overwhelming energy knocked Hendrick off balance, sending him tumbling ignobly to the floor.
"Oh! Finally! Is Zirnier coming out?"
"I've been waiting half a year for a custom order! This time, she has to..."
Competition lit up every face in the shop.
These were people who'd waited at least six months just to beg Zirnier for gear.
She might refuse outright—it was her call—but her creations were worth the agony of anticipation.
Greedy eyes turned toward the stairs leading below.
Soon, the one they'd all been waiting for would appear.
Thud! Thud!
The sharp ones tilted their heads at the oddly light footsteps.
Made sense. They weren't footsteps at all.
Scraaaape.
It was an arm. A crude yet mechanical prosthetic limb reeking of oily gears.
The mechanical arm slapped its palm to the floor and hopped up the stairs.
"...What the hell is that?"
"Where's Zirnier? Why'd she send that?"
Ignoring the confusion and stares, the arm kept hopping toward its destination.
Hendrick gaped, slack-jawed.
The arm stopped right in front of the helmeted man.
Then it hopped once more, flipping palm and forearm.
Clank. Clank.
Its fingers whirred, pointing downstairs.
"You want me to follow?"
Clank.
Thumb and index formed an OK sign.
"OK."
It hopped up, latched onto the helmeted man's arm, and dragged him off.
The man followed without resistance.
Hendrick and the staff, along with the packed shop, watched the scene in stunned silence.
Neither the man nor the arm spared them a glance.
We descended several flights of stairs, passed a massive door and dozens of security measures, and arrived at Zirnier's Workshop.
CLANG! CLANG!
The moment we entered, the sound of hammering steel echoed from afar.
My senses screamed that this was no ordinary place.
Just breathing felt oppressively heavy, like my lungs were cooking. My respiratory tract burned like steamed buns.
Sweat soaked me after a few steps.
Dizzyingly hot and humid. I could've been dropped in a desert and still felt cold.
Clank clank.
The arm kept guiding me. Damn, how far does this go? It's getting hotter.
CLAAAAANG!
But the hammering grew closer. Grit through the heat and steam.
Ten minutes later, we reached the workshop's heart.
'No wonder the basement felt ridiculously huge.'
First thing I saw: a colossal furnace rivaling a four-story building.
CLANG!
At its center, where molten metal glowed red-hot—the hottest spot—a woman swung her hammer.
Each strike made her tightly bound blonde ponytail sway, her white-bandaged chest heaving.
Diana, Edelbert, Zirnier... Top explorers all had trash fashion sense.
I'd gawked at Edelbert's leotard; this one hid insane style under her cloak too.
Sparks scorched her bronze skin, but Zirnier hammered on unfazed.
CLAAAAANG!
"Huuuuh..."
Zirnier slammed her hammer down on the radiant steel atop the anvil, then tossed it aside with a ragged breath.
Plop plop plop.
The mechanical hand gripping my arm detached.
It grabbed a nearby Dwarf brew and towel, delivering them to Zirnier.
"Good work, Number One."
Clank clank. Number One wiggled happily at the praise.
Zirnier, face hidden by a full mask, wiped sweat and chugged the booze.
More amazing than downing 82-proof Dwarf liquor like water? How she drank through that featureless mask.
She draped the white towel loosely around her neck and plopped onto the anvil, eyeing me.
Her face was obscured, but the head tilt screamed curiosity.
Finally, her mouth opened.
"Who the hell are you?"
"...?"
...She pulled this last time too. This woman seriously needs dementia checked.
"Oh! You're that guy! Heh. Months later and you've bulked up nice. Almost didn't recognize you!"
"Yeah..."
Gulp. Gulp.
Kaaah!
Zirnier wiped—presumably—her mouth under the mask and stared at me.
"Heh heh. Nah, just messing with you. No way I'd forget the punk who used my first creation as a flowerpot."
"..."
I'd genuinely thought she'd forgotten.
Memories flooded back of her endless drunken ramblings trapping me for hours.
Chugging poison like that mid-work? No wonder her memory's shot.
I kept that thought locked away—saying it aloud might end badly.
"Your apprentice was yapping nonsense too, so I figured you'd wiped me from your mind."
"Huh? Yeah, well, having one loose screw in the shop's great for scaring off trash customers. That's why I keep him."
"...Scaring off customers?"
Not the kind of talk you'd expect from someone owning a weapon shop. Actively repelling business?
"Customers mean I gotta make boring crap. I craft what I feel like."
Zirnier crossed her legs, swigging from the bottle, exuding strange charisma.
"I said I'd make you anything, but pick something bland and it'll suck the fun out."
Bland and boring.
Vs. something that turns her on.
I recalled her drunken rants on weapon romanticism.
For years, she'd slaved over efficient trash people wanted—not what she craved. She had standards.
Swords, blades, spears, rapiers: Efficiency nerds.
Axes, clubs, gauntlets: Romantic nutjobs.
Lucky or unlucky? My tastes would probably get her hot and bothered.
I described the weapon I wanted.
Zirnier started bored but gradually stiffened.
"...You're seriously asking for that?"
"Yeah. What do you think?"
"......"
Shiver, shiiiiver.
She started trembling the second I finished.
Gulp. Gulp.
Then chugged a full bottle of Dwarf brew.
Still not enough—she called Number One and hurled it sky-high.
Drunken maniac.
Number One bounced off the ceiling and landed softly beside her. Hammers now in both their grips.
"You... ROMANTIC APPROVED!"
Zirnier shed her boredom, stepping to the furnace.
"Knew you had taste picking my helmet, but didn't peg you for a romantic psycho."
She hefted the radiant steel she'd been pounding before I arrived. Ominous aura.
"My sincerity to your romanticism."
Number One swung hammers wildly; Zirnier grinned at me.
"I'll craft you a badass sub-weapon."
Seeing her this pumped... Zirnier can't resist dual-axe barbarian vibes either...
"...What?"
Why the fuck a sub-weapon?
The misunderstanding cleared up later.
Zirnier had picked up Edelbert's warped theory: Combat = sweating it out with your opponent = basically sex.
Fitting for someone cursed with Reject Trash Dick.
'Wait... does that mean this whole time with Master...?'
Outrage left my limbs shaking.