Marketplace Upgrade (Part 2)

The dwarves had brought forward quite an intriguing service for sale.

In essence, they were marketing their own craftsmanship. The arrangement was simple: hand over a weapon along with the requisite fee, and they would enhance the armament to a higher tier.

Put simply, they were offering upgrades up to +7.

The hitch, however, lay squarely in the pricing.

It was steep. In fact, it was absurdly expensive.

Three hundred Mana Dumplings was enough capital to embark on a legitimate shopping spree within the gallery marketplace. Converted to old Earth currency, it amounted to roughly three hundred thousand won.

The moment the word 'free' dropped, the atmosphere flipped on a dime.

They had chosen to compromise with harsh reality. Once the forum users' attention was fully locked on, the dwarves accepted a submission from one lucky commenter.

Roughly ten minutes trickled by.

The polished fruit of their labor was returned straight to the forum user who had submitted it.

"Oh, that's right. Those guys can't buy dwarven gear, can they?"

Elves possessed extraordinary combat instincts. Their agility was undeniable, and their situational decision-making bordered on optimal. The glaring flaw, however, was their abysmal gear.

They lacked any foundational metallurgy or smithing knowledge. And did the dwarves sell them armaments? Not in a million years.

"I mean, the dwarves were one of the primary factions beating the crap out of the elves during the Great War, so that explains everything."

During that historical catastrophe, the elves accumulated more sheer racial karma than even humanity. The fact that they couldn't reap benefits from this service, despite the gallery's revitalization, was likely just cosmic retribution catching up to them.

Conversely, my own notification inbox was utterly swamped with enhancement solicitations. Likely because I had been—and remained—their sole pipeline for commercial liquor.

"Didn't the Kingdom of Kilgroth nearly collapse back then precisely because they refused to stop brewing beer?"

During the Great War, hordes of demonic beasts laid siege to the dwarven kingdom. Yet even amid that apocalyptic onslaught, the dwarves kept their breweries operating right up to the bitter end. That told you everything you needed to know about their priorities.

To me, it was merely releasing supplies into the marketplace, but to their sensibilities, the gesture carried monumental weight.

Setting aside their enthusiasm, I had zero interest in weapon upgrades. I had no practical reason to wield one, nor any intention of doing so.

Yet despite my polite refusal, the meticulous, debt-abhorring dwarves refused to drop the matter. Repay every debt in full—that dwarven creed yielded to no one. Not even to the creditor in question.

"Look, I just shoot guns. I don't need a sword."

Judging by their fervor, they looked ready to flip the entire forum upside down if I didn't comply. Rummaging through my underground storage room to see if there was anything remotely metal I could toss their way, an idea finally struck me.

"Oh, wait. I actually do have a weapon."

Huuuum.

Sitting in the corner was a long-forgotten desk lamp—or rather, the Old Holy Sword, the renowned divine blade of the Adrian Empire.

"This should shut them up."

I reached out to scoop up the holy relic.

Thud.

"What the hell?"

It wouldn't budge. As though digging in its heels and bracing against the floor, the sword had suddenly grown freakishly, unnaturally heavy.

"Hrrngh...!"

I threw my back into it until my face flushed bright scarlet, but the sacred sword remained completely immovable, mocking my efforts.

Huuuuum—pfffft.

"Why does that sound so insulting? Can this thing actually talk?"

Realizing that brute physical strength was entirely out of the question, I decided to shift tactics.

"What, you chicken?"

Wuuuung.

The weight evaporated instantly. The hilt felt as light as a feather once more.

I promptly dispatched the sword over to the dwarven smiths, receiving a booming declaration of confidence in return.

Exactly one hour later.

Every single piece of forging equipment within the dwarven workshop had been thoroughly demolished.

Wuuuung.

The Old Holy Sword returned to my bunker without a solitary scratch on its gleaming edge. Unintentionally, I had ended up totally wrecking someone's business.

As I stared blandly at the sword resuming its humble post as my storage room lighting fixture, I couldn't help but sense an aura of smug, triumphant swagger radiating from its crossguard.

"To our fortunes, cheers!"

"Cheers!"

Clink!

A massive, raucous banquet unfolded within the royal forge of the dwarven kingdom. They had just raked in an astronomical sum of profit.

"Gwah! Now this is the life!"

"To think I'd live to lay my hands on this much coin..."

"Is Head Mod truly a god among mortals?!"

Dwarven metallurgical refinement was undeniably the greatest in the world. However, due to Kilgroth's inaccessible mountainous terrain and their notoriously prickly racial temperament, turning a substantial profit had historically been nearly impossible. To make matters worse, land routes had been completely severed since the Great War, grinding their economy to a halt.

That isolation was now a thing of the past.

The gallery served as a direct conduit to the entire continent.

"He demands a mere five percent platform fee!"

"And he supplies us with such an endless variety of premium spirits..."

More specifically, it was entirely thanks to the bunker-dwelling administrator who managed the gallery. From intoxicating brews to burgeoning business ventures, he was their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finest commercial partner and greatest benefactor. Head Mod had embedded himself deeply into the very foundation of dwarven life.

"Ought we not grant Head Mod an executive seat within Kilgroth's high council?"

"The prestigious mantle of Grand Minister of Spirits would be exceedingly fitting!"

"What say you to canonizing Head Mod as one of the Three Great Sages of the Dwarven Realm?"

When liquor flows freely, tongues loosen with equal abandon. Secret thoughts and outlandish sentiments that pride usually kept bottled up poured out unchecked across the tavern tables.

"Even if the rumors ring true and Head Mod truly is a beautiful half-elf archmage maiden, I wouldn't give a damn!"

Her face would undoubtedly be hideous to dwarven eyes! And being a half-elf made it worse! Yet what did that matter in the face of such glorious achievements?

"Gwahahaha!"

At this moment, nothing else mattered. Celebrating their first grand festival in ages, the stout artisans slung their heavy arms around one another's shoulders and downed mug after mug of frothing ale.

It was precisely then that an unfamiliar smithing commission pinged through the system interface.

"Look here, a new tempering request has arrived!"

"Ho, the base weapon seems remarkably fine."

"Pah, fine or not, it's merely a human trinket. A plain piece of scrap."

Yet the reason every dwarf's eyes widened had nothing to do with the weapon's craftsmanship—it was the staggering fee attached.

The client had pledged an eye-popping bounty of one million Mana Dumplings!

That was more than enough wealth to buy out nearly every single bottle of alcohol registered on Head Mod's marketplace!

"Who among us shall take it?"

"I'll handle it!"

Under ordinary circumstances, an exorbitant sum like that would arouse immediate suspicion regarding the client's identity. But with heads swimming in alcohol, caution was tossed to the wind.

One of the drunken smiths boldly stepped forward, accepted the delivered armament, and fired up the furnace without hesitation.

"Gwahaha, a simple task like this is child's play!"

Letting out a hearty roar, the dwarf raised his heavy hammer and struck a thunderous blow.

CRACK—SHATTERRR!

With a single strike, the commissioned sword shattered into a blizzard of glittering fragments.

"..."

"Hmph..."

"Uh."

The forge plunged into dead silence. The festive buzz died instantly.

Yet the awkward chill lasted only a heartbeat. The smith tossed his hammer aside with a grin, picked up his tankard, and guzzled another mouthful of ale.

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

"Well, shame it turned out that way!"

"Aye, that's just how the cookie crumbles! Gwahahaha!"

Had they not clearly stated the terms from the very start? Caution: The weapon may be destroyed upon failure.

Thinking nothing of it, the indifferent dwarves swept the shattered fragments into a bundle and shipped the remains right back to the client.

"Y-Your Grace! Calamity has struck!"

"What is it? What could possibly warrant such undignified panic?"

"The ancestral blade of the ducal house! It has been returned in shattered shards!"

"Wh-WHAT?!"

The patron behind the commission was none other than Duke Isaac of the Adrian Empire.

His face flushing a violent crimson, the duke kicked back his chair and surged to his feet. What had he entrusted to their hands? The priceless family heirloom wielded by the founding duke himself. And that legendary heirloom had just been returned looking like swept-up shards of a broken mirror?

"Y-Your Grace...?"

Duke Isaac stood frozen, trembling violently from head to toe. Only after an agonizingly long silence did words seep from his clenched teeth in a venomous hiss.

"...War."

"Pardon? What sort of—"

"War! I shall declare total war upon those subterranean wretches! WAR!"

"N-No, Your Grace, you mustn't! Please, compose yourself!"

A war against the dwarves? There was no strategic nightmare worse than attempting to breach their subterranean mountain fortresses. The terrified subordinate frantically waved his hands to intercede.

"Th-there must be some terrible misunderstanding! I-I shall write a post on the gallery immediately to demand an explanation!"

Convinced that an error had occurred, the retainer frantically drafted an inquiry on the forum. If he failed to placate his lord right this second, the duke looked ready to marshal the imperial legions on the spot.

Please, by the gods, just apologize and say it was a mistake...

Cold sweat soaked through the man's tunic as he refreshed the screen, praying for a conciliatory response.

The replies arrived almost instantaneously.

Disaster had finally broken loose.