Holy Artifact Creation

"Hmm..."

I'm standing in front of the guild's request board after returning just two days later. If you're wondering what I'm doing, obviously I'm checking out the requests posted there. Not for me, though—for Siron. Sure, it pisses me off a bit that she just dumped me at the guild without doing jack shit else, but she's still lovably adorable, no question. Which means I've got a duty to scope out what requests have come in for her.

Before heading to Siron's named request board, I peeked at the general board out of curiosity, and damn if it didn't remind me all over again just how fucked this world's conscience is.

A crappy, tasteless meal costs about 3 dong. So filling one bag with trash should cover a meal, right? The problem's that "bring your own equipment" line. Meaning you gotta buy the purification bags yourself—and if memory serves, those run 4 dong each. Bottom line: even if you bust your ass cramming trash into the bag, you still can't afford a damn meal.

If it were me, I'd shove the client into a bag and dunk 'em in the sewer. Utterly fucked request. And the hilarious part? These shit-tier quests get snatched up in a couple days. Newbie apprentices fresh off registration need to rack up achievements and build credit, and no one hires rookies for anything better than this soul-crushing crap. Unless you're some prodigy solo-slaying monsters like a maniac, everyone goes through it at least once, or so I've heard.

I shake my head and head over to the board for Siron, our city's one and only silver-rank adventurer. Unlike the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠general board ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠plastered wall-to-wall with requests, hers has just three lonely sheets pinned up.

I dunno what the hell a white-maned ice bear is, but with a gold coin on the line, it's gotta be one nasty motherfucker.

Unlike those trash requests, even a loaded merchant caravan's bending over backwards for Siron—you can feel it in the wording.

I pat my shoulders, which tense up a bit, and shift my gaze to the last one.

A whopping 2 gold coins. That's 200 silver, or 2,000 dong. My monthly pay's 2 silver— I'd have to save every penny till I croak to scrape that together. Insane money. But it also screams "this job's a death trap," so I furrow my brow.

If I had the skills, I'd tell Siron she doesn't need to take these death wishes. Sadly, I'm just a 2-silver slave.

"Fuck."

She handled shit like this before without a care, but now that we're closer, I'm worried sick. Human hearts are a goddamn mystery.

"Time like this calls for crowd-sourced wisdom."

Time to tap my bosses with 50+ years of experience combined. Ignoring the scorching stares aimed my way, I hustle up the stairs.

"Oh, gotta say hi to Amelia-noonim first."

Siron's a rock-solid girlfriend now, but skipping the hello to the big sis who's fed me free every meal since I joined? That'd make me an ungrateful punk. She'd probably flick my forehead harder than Siron.

Dinner hour's approaching, so the tavern's buzzing more than expected. I weave carefully through clusters of women already chugging beers—god knows where they've been—and poke my head into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kitchen.

"Noonim. I'm back."

"Heh~ Heard Siron fucked you raw, huh?"

"Khk...!!"

"Kukukuk!! No surprise—takes at least a silver-rank adventurer to bag our guild's poster boy!!"

Amelia-noonim, cheeks flushed from her side drinks, cackles wildly. Her voice carries—no one's louder—and it echoes from kitchen to tavern, hitting every adventurer's ears. Gulps and hungry glares stab me from all sides.

"Kukuku, you thirsty bitches!! Wanna snag a man? Quit boozing and go grind some quests!! Kakakaka!!"

Amelia-noonim shreds the leers with her venomous laugh. In another joint, some drunk might snap—but lock eyes with her beastly charisma on that tall frame, and rage control kicks in hard. Plus, pre-retirement, she was a famed silver-rank from the capital. Want your limbs intact? Shut up and drink.

"Anyway, meat-heavy salad for dinner, please."

"Pay up to eat now, punk!! Kakakaka!!"

"Ahem, see ya later."

I wave her off and slip quietly to my room, per her "get lost" vibe.

"Whew, fuck. Hard as rocks."

After two nights in luxury, my bed—usually comfier than a longevity stone—feels like fucking granite.

"Bit early, but needs must."

No way my brain squeezes out big money ideas solo in this mess.

"Enter group chat."

Lucky timing—only those three are online.

I scratch my head—got time—and spill every detail on this world and my situation.

The three seniors start gabbing about the previous owner of this power.

The only power that climbed promotions to escape this world... and it's mine. My chest swells with pride.

They bloom into hypotheticals on what they'd do.

I exit the chat. Then it hits me.

Sleek, soft leggings that highlight beautiful legs and sexy hip lines. But tough enough to block arrows or blades. Comfy fit. Cute design. Solid durability. Easy to wear.

"I'm a god... and leggings are invincible..."

Siron in leggings. Just imagining it makes my lower half ache.

I hop off the bed, reach underneath, and pull out my emergency stash: 10 silver coins. Clutching the pouch tight, I stand.

"Blacksmiths are all fucked."

Siron in leggings. How the hell do I hold back?