What Did You Do to Our Child?

The 6th Floor was a goblin den.

A field packed wall to wall with green-headed vermin.

The hunter forums called it a grinding floor. Apparently, anyone without an area-of-effect skill had to hack away for three days and three nights straight.

"Weep, O Lament of whatever."

Goblins have low intelligence. Low intelligence means low mental defenses.

The moment the magic sword unleashed a single pulse of dark-crimson energy, the entire goblin army dropped their weapons as one and collapsed into each other's arms, wailing.

"Kieeeek?"

"Kyaaaak!"

Goblins drowning in existential despair. They were probably wrestling with questions like Why was I born? and What does it mean to live as a goblin? right about now.

Slash—

I swung the sword at my leisure. There wasn't even resistance worth calling resistance.

Hummm— hummm—

The magic sword purred with delight.

"That's it. Good boy. That's right."

I'd gotten the hang of walking this oversized dog by now. Praise, it turned out, made even a cursed blade dance.

I checked the time. 2:15 p.m. If I went home now, I'd just lie in bed watching shorts, and that would genuinely melt my brain. The shorts algorithm was scarier than the magic sword.

"...Might as well knock out the 7th Floor while I'm at it."

Night's Wail's performance would work anywhere. The climb to the 6th Floor had already proven that.

The instant I stepped through the 7th Floor gate—

A blast of heat.

Like walking into a sauna furnace. No, worse. What spread before my eyes was a blazing magma field. Magma bubbled in every crack of the fractured earth, and the air shimmered with heat haze.

My body held up thanks to the trait. Sweat poured off me like rain, but my bones weren't about to melt.

The problem was—

Wooooong……

Night's Wail whimpered the entire way. It felt like forcing a bath-hating dog into a tub.

"Sorry. Let's wrap this up quick."

I sprinted full-tilt toward the volcanic crater where the boss waited.

At the crater's center, the boss monster rose from the lava.

A fire salamander. The Salamander.

The moment it opened its maw, a torrent of flame breath poured out. I rolled sideways to dodge and closed the distance.

I could see the trajectory. The question was whether this sword would last long enough to draw it.

"One hit. Just one hit. Hold on."

I slipped through the gaps in the flame breath and carved a single stroke at its nape.

Slash——

The hit connected with a satisfying bite.

KRA-KOOOOM!

The lizard's thick neck was severed. Instead of red blood, viscous magma erupted like a fountain.

"Nice. Good work, Night's Wail..."

And then that magma poured directly onto my sword.

Hisssss!

Like taffy. Like ice cream on a summer day. That wicked magic sword warped, then melted from the tip down into a blunt metal rod.

"......"

All that remained in my hand was a single black iron stick.

The trait could shrug off penalties inflicted on my body, but it couldn't protect a weapon from its own inherent limitations.

Today's lesson: every floor of the Tower has different rules and environments. Which means you need a weapon suited to each one.

Tuition fee: one magic sword.

I wondered how much the repair bill was going to be.

And there was a bigger problem.

How was I supposed to show this to the person who made it?

Jingle—

"Anyone here?"

"Welcome... eek! C-Customer!"

Han Serin at the counter took one look at me and had her usual seizure. At least she didn't trip over herself throwing a rag this time. Real progress.

"What brings you in today... huh? Wh-what's that stick?"

"Well, you see."

I set the stick on the counter.

Han Serin's gaze locked onto it. Onto the thing that had once been a magic sword.

"Night... Wail...?"

Her pupils went seismic.

"That's... that's our Night's Wail, right? This engraving on the hilt... I carved that..."

"Yes. The 7th Floor was a flame zone, so the durability..."

"AAAAAAAHHH!!"

Han Serin snatched the stick and clutched it to her chest.

"Baby! My baby!! Stay with me! It's Mommy! Mommy's right here!!"

"Mommy?"

"Open your eyes! Please! Open those wicked, curse-filled eyes of yours! You're supposed to melt people's brains! Why have you gone so cold...!!"

Han Serin whipped her head up. She glared at me with tear-brimming eyes.

"I, uh, did a bit of hunting in a magma zone."

"Magma!? You took Night's Wail into magma!? Do you not know this child is dark-attribute!? What kind of parent throws their kid into a fire pit!!"

"When exactly did we start a family?"

"The maker is the mom! The user is the dad! Obviously!!"

"Which country's common sense is that?"

"Th-this is domestic violence!! You magic-sword abuser!! You animal! You monster! You soulless psychopath!!"

Han Serin clutched the stick and shuffled backward. She was looking at me the way you'd look at a violent criminal. Last time I was an undercover cop running a sting. This time I was a domestic abuser. My rap sheet was filling out nicely.

"Please calm down. This is a durability issue. It didn't have any fire resistance on it at all."

"Waaah, you're so mean... so cruel...! Did you even think about how hot it must have been for this child!? What did it say at the end!? Did you hear its last words!?"

"It did whimper a bit."

"Whimpered... hic... my baby..."

Han Serin stroked the melted blade and sobbed wretchedly.

Watching her face dissolve into a mess of tears and snot, I was at a loss.

"Ma'am. Wasn't the durability design flawed from the start?"

"W-what...?"

"You loaded it with curses and mental contamination options, but you didn't put in a single point of fire resistance or elemental durability. The blade started warping the second we got near a lava pool."

"Th-that's...!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Han Serin's shoulders flinched.

"But... Night's Wail is a proper dark-attribute magic sword...! Darkness is supposed to be cold and damp! If I slapped fire resistance on it, the concept would fall apart!!"

"That concept almost cost me my life."

"Eek...!"

At that, Han Serin's theatrics cut off cold.

"Your life... the customer's life... because of my sword..."

The color drained from her face.

"If the magic sword broke... that means my skill wasn't good enough... it means I'm a hack blacksmith who can't even attach fire resistance... th-then..."

Thud!

Han Serin dropped to her knees and smashed her forehead into the floorboards.

"Y-you're going to throw me away, aren't you...?"

"Excuse me?"

"Please don't throw me away...! I'll do anything! I'll do whatever you say! I'll lick the floor! I'll clean, I'll do laundry, I'll sign a slave contract!!"

"...Ma'am?"

"I'm sorry! I'm a worthless hack blacksmith who put the customer's life in danger! Please forgive me! Please don't report me to the Association! Please don't sue meee!"

"Lift your head. You're going to split your forehead open."

"I don't care about my forehead!! It's a worthless forehead anyway!!"

Had her delusions overflowed and gone express-delivery?

I crouched down so we were at eye level.

"I'm not throwing you away."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Hic?"

"Just repair it. I'll still need it going forward."

I pulled the materials from my inventory and set them on the floor. Flame stones and a Salamander's Heart I'd picked up on the 7th Floor, plus an envelope with the repair fee inside.

"These dropped on this floor. Use them for the repair if you can."

Han Serin, forehead still planted on the floor, rolled her eyes to look back and forth between the materials and the envelope.

"R-really...? You're not mad...? You're not going to hit me...?"

"Why would I hit someone?"

"Th-then your thing is tearing people down psychologically...?"

"I said I'm not doing that!"

"Eek! See, you ARE mad!!"

Han Serin sank again.

I waited, but she didn't reboot, so I just moved the materials onto the counter.

"Anyway, I'll leave the repair to you. How long will it take?"

"Three days."

"Sorry?"

"Give me three days."

Her voice had changed.

"The core is still alive. The ego's just asleep. If I use the flame stones as a catalyst and reforge it... no. I'll rebuild the frame from scratch. Come back in three days."

What was this. She suddenly looked competent.

Three days was a long time.

No weapon meant no climbing. I considered buying a standard-issue longsword, but after using Night's Wail, I couldn't bring myself to pick one up.

The comedown was too steep. They say once you drive a sports car, you can never go back to a compact. So this was what that felt like.

A forced vacation. I had nothing to do.

After rolling around the house long enough to get bored, I wandered over to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the workshop. It wasn't like I had anywhere else to go.

"Hey, mind if I watch?"

"Sure."

Han Serin didn't even look back.

In front of the forge, apron on and a kerchief tied around her head, she was turning a red-hot lump of metal with a pair of tongs.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Sparks leapt with every fall of the hammer. Between those sparks, dark-crimson mana wound itself in like thread.

I sat in a corner chair and watched.

Honestly, I was a little surprised.

Her profile, washed in forge-light, belonged to a different person.

The eyes fixed on the metal were still and unshaken, and there was no hesitation in her hammering.

Where had all the usual theatrics gone? The persecution complex, the full-body prostration?

"Not enough darkness."

Han Serin muttered to herself, pulled a black glass bottle from the shelf, and popped the stopper. A sound like a grudge-soaked moan leaked from inside.

"Three spoonfuls of wailing... half a spoon of lingering obsession... no, this kid's a picky eater, so I'll go with concentrated grudge extract."

The recipe struck me as questionable, but I kept my mouth shut. Nothing's more annoying than someone hovering over you while you cook.

Clang. Clang. Clang!

Every time the hammer struck steel, mana seeped into the blade with delicate precision. She powdered the flame stones and coated the metal, then folded and hammered layer upon layer of pitch-black magic alloy, her hands never once faltering.

...She actually looks like a proper artisan.

She didn't put the hammer down for half a day straight.

Didn't eat.

Didn't drink.

...Wait. This wasn't just today, was it? What about yesterday? The day before? Had she eaten anything at all?

I pulled out my phone and opened a delivery app.

Thirty minutes later.

"Pizza's here. Eat something, then get back to it."

The rich smell of cheese and pepperoni occupied the workshop.

"...Ah."

Clang.

Han Serin creaked her head around.

"Pi... pizza...?"

"Yeah. Pepperoni. There's cola too."

"Y-you're buying me... pizza...? Me...? Why...?"

"Because you haven't eaten."

"A man buying a woman greasy, calorie-bomb food...?"

"It's just dinner."

"This is seduction!! Why are you seducing me? Are you going to take responsibility!? Are you trying to buy my heart with one pizza?? A-and pepperoni is my favorite, how did you know that? Don't tell me you ran a background check??"

"I just ordered something inoffensive."

"C-coincidences don't stack up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like this! This is fate... no, a scheme!! Ahhh, what do I do! I'm not emotionally prepared yet! We're already at the sharing-a-pizza stage...!"

"It's getting cold. Eat."

"I-if I eat, I lose... but the smell... the cheese... nngh..."

Han Serin agonized for five seconds, then dropped to her knees in front of the pizza.

She picked up a slice with both hands and started chewing.

"...It's so goood!! It's warm...! I haven't had delivery in three years... the cheese is stretching... hehehe..."

Watching her face melt into pure happiness, I found myself seriously wondering.

Maybe it wasn't the wielder whose brain got eroded by the magic sword. Maybe it was the maker.

Evening of the third day.

"It's done...!"

Han Serin came out holding the sword in both hands.

Night's Wail was back. Dark-crimson mana rose off the blade, shot through here and there with the vermilion glow of the flame stones.

The name had gotten longer. And—

"There are more penalties than before."

"Th-that's, um, I put the flame stones in together with the grudges and the kid came out a little more twisted... I-I'm sorry! I really am just a trash magic-sword junkie..."

"...Let's call it an anti-theft feature."

I took the sword and gave it a light swing.

Whoosh. Whooosh.

Hummm—!

That familiar purr climbed up through the hilt.

I sheathed the sword, pulled out my wallet, and paid the remaining balance.

Han Serin took the money while sneaking glances at me. Her eyes were sparkling. The eyes of a puppy waiting for something.

What. What was she waiting for.

I had no idea, so I just turned around.

"Hiiing..."

"I'll be going, then."

When I looked back, Han Serin was standing there with her shoulders slumped, wearing an expression like the world had ended.

"Ah... right... take care... I guess it still wasn't enough... yeah, I'm just a slave who makes magic swords anyway..."

Ah. That was it.

"Nice work."

"...What?"

"Turning out something this good in three days. I made the right call leaving this to you, Serin."

The effect was tremendous.

"......!!"

Poof!

Han Serin's face flooded crimson. And then she ascended. More precisely, her heels lifted off the ground, and some unintelligible sound leaked from her mouth.

"N-nice work... h-hyeh... he said I did well... to me... hyeee..."

"So, about that."

The mood was good. I set the documents I'd prepared on the counter.

"Let's sign an exclusive contract. From now on, I want to leave all my weapons to you, Serin. I'm counting on you."

"Exclusive...?"

Han Serin's eyes flicked back and forth between the papers and my face. The flicking got faster and faster.

"Exclusive means belonging to... you want to monopolize me...? If I stamp this... I become this person's personal blacksmith... uheh... uheheh... th-this is basically... a m-marriage registration???"

"It's a weapon supply contract."

"Uheh... uheheh..."

Han Serin signed with trembling hands, then clutched the contract to her chest.

And then, from somewhere, she produced an empty picture frame.

"What are you doing."

"I-I'm going to frame it and hang it up! In the most visible spot on the counter! I'll make it a family heirloom and pass it down for generations...!"

"Contracts are not for display. Give it here."

"No!!"

Han Serin hugged the frame, ducked behind the counter, and hissed at me like a cat.

"It's mine! No take-backs!! This is the first exclusive contract of my life!! If you take it I'll cry!!"

"...Fine. Do whatever you want."

I made a quiet retreat. Looking for common sense in this workshop was the real mistake.

At the same time.

Yooseong Artifacts headquarters, the top-floor office.

Yu Hayeon — youngest daughter of the Yooseong Group, and an S-rank production-type awakener — sat in front of her monitor, replaying the same footage over and over.

The 7th Floor clear video. On screen, the man's sword was melting. Even as the blade dissolved, he calmly cut the Salamander's throat.

Pause. Frame advance. Play. Pause again.

"...Bizarre."

By Yooseong Group quality-control standards, the sword in Baek Mujin's hands was nothing more than a defective product. It didn't even have fire resistance. Garbage that melted under its own weight.

"Equipment in that condition, and he still put up this record."

It was absurd.

A parade of new records, holding a defective product. What if a proper piece of equipment ended up in those hands? What if Yooseong's technology backed his trait?

The data was telling her. At this rate, that man would reach the front lines within a few months. The 42nd Floor. Ranker territory.

In stock terms, this was rock bottom. A chance to buy the dip.

"I'll have to buy him."

Yu Hayeon typed Baek Mujin's name into her tablet, and the corner of her mouth curled up.