A Shield Nothing Can Pierce?
Vulcan's face twisted into a strange expression as he clutched the preliminary theme for the blacksmith artisan contest.
"Make a shield that nothing can pierce?"
Themes were always a bit abstract like this, but this one felt especially vague. No, it was downright impossible from the start.
Blacksmiths competing in the artisan contest were capped at level 199, so the best they could craft were items under level 300. A shield nothing could pierce? That was absurd.
Idiot. It's just a theme... Ahem. Never mind. Do whatever you want. Heh heh!
Tud started to butt in with a mutter but clamped his mouth shut. He'd promised not to help this time, but Vulcan had seen that coming anyway.
"Make a shield under level 200 that blocks anything, right?"
It wasn't just literal. It had to account for context—craft something that transcended the words.
"Still a problem... Can't catch two rabbits at once."
Even so, it wasn't easy. The ultimate shield specialized in one damage type. Armor great against physical hits rarely handled magic perfectly, and trying both often birthed mediocre junk. Even if successful, it wouldn't excel at either.
Unless it was a Legendary item or ultra-high-level gear, no way.
Among the crafting recipes in his Dragon Eye, some resisted both physical and magic damage well, but they weren't top-tier.
Go all-in on one?
Focus entirely? With his materials, level, and skill, crafting a masterpiece blocking both was impossible. Aim for a shield excelling at physical or magic?
Tud gave zero hints even as Vulcan listened to the receptionist and headed out. He'd have to hammer away solo for the remaining week.
"At least the forge rental's free."
Grateful for the monthly artisan contest perk saving costs, but Vulcan knew bigger expenses loomed. They provided space and basics—no materials or consumables. So he shopped first.
In the artisan city of Smell, rivals were also customers and sellers. Endless items of every type and effect had Vulcan buzzing as he opened his pouch.
Saving was fine, but for bigger leaps, you had to spend.
Stupid, chomp chomp, bastard, chomp chomp. So you're, gulp, just gonna submit crap?
"...Eat or talk. Pick one."
The happiest from Vulcan's hefty shopping wasn't Vulcan. It was Tud, lips smeared with chocolate feast remnants like a brag.
Artisan city meant cooking artisans too—including chocolate specialists. Vulcan's pouch emptied unexpectedly, but Tud stayed pissed.
It felt unfair, but this was growth fodder. Tud wouldn't assign impossible or harmful quests, so Vulcan kept hammering.
"Ugh. Not easy."
No shield hit the mark. He'd tried high physical defense, high magic defense, high elemental—nothing clicked.
Some reached Rare grade. He layered magic-resistant metals or coatings atop physical-heavy ones, but durability tanked or weight ballooned. No satisfaction.
Three days gone. Four till prelim deadline, but this pace? Might not submit.
A Rare shield might squeak through prelims, but finals combined prelim and main scores. Half-assing prelims could doom mains.
Main theme's probably the opposite.
Prelim implied mains: a weapon piercing anything. Classic pair—every artisan's dilemma.
Contradictory, but "impenetrable to others" and "pierces all foes" worked.
Why gladiators use them.
Following the grand finale of the main scenario, a new era emerged where high-ranking adventurers began to exclusively wield custom gear meticulously crafted by master artisans in their life-or-death battles. The prestigious monthly contest was no longer a mere comparison of raw character stats; instead, the final rankings were determined by a comprehensive scoring system that combined the rigorous "gear evaluation" of the preliminary and main rounds with the high-stakes Live Combat (Shizhan) evaluation in the gladiator arena.
Gear needed synergy (not full sets), practicality beyond numbers. Useless if unh wieldable.
Weight's no issue then...
Vulcan needn't fret weight. Others recruited gladiators; he could fight himself.
But solo-use was pointless. Heavy-thick didn't guarantee top defense.
"Sigh. Head's spinning. No clue on the anvil's song."
Plus Vulcan's job quest: hear the anvil's song. Tried rhythmic hammering, singing like a madman, Dragon Eye focused on it—nothing.
Anvils didn't sing literally; metaphorical. Frustrated, he'd tried everything.
"Gotta ask if I don't know."
After wracking his brain, Vulcan finished work and left the forge. Solo dead end—time for hints.
"Anvil's song? What's that?"
"Anvils singing? Fun idea. Give it a mouth."
"Trap a live monster in ore? Maybe its soul wails."
Smell teemed with top-aspiring artisans. Vulcan grilled them on anvil songs.
Tud wanted self-discovery, but hadn't banned asking.
Answers? Useless mockery. No one knew.
Not like Emile's bells...
Some sparked thoughts—like melting live monsters into gear. Brutal soul-infusion method, but Tud wouldn't quest that. Dragons or not.
No anvil noise anyway.
Questioned endlessly—no leads. Suspiciously, no one knew anvil songs.
If someone knew, I'd steal a peek with Shadow Fairy Tale.
Zero hints frustrated him. Risky, but tempting now.
"Damn. This doable?"
Glared at smirking Tud, sighed, wandered to more smiths—and a building.
"Oh, here...?"
Artisan Hall. Smell's second fame spot. Legends' masterpieces displayed—like a gear museum/gallery.
Untouchable views only, but 30 gold entry? Vulcan skipped it before.
Go in?
Desperation bought the ticket. Hooked, he entered.
Clang clang clang clang.
Iron song greeted. Sections per artisan showed gear with magic-recorded workshop sounds.
Vulcan relaxed instinctively. Hoped for anvil songs here. Legends likely heard them.
Eyes sharp, ears open, he toured slowly.
"...Master smiths make this stuff."
Gear shocked him anew. Past visits: "Cool item, what level?" Now producer eyes: strikes needed? Materials? Processes? Why this way?
Hero tales with gear once sparked user envy. Now: belief he'd craft them too. Absorbed max info, anvil songs aside, contest aside.
"This rhythm? All different items, similar but unique..."
Memorized hammer rhythms per item, strike sounds per spot—mimed in air.
Few visitors—contest loomed. Stares? Immune long ago. Looped sections, grasping faint insights.
"Fun guy."
"Huh?"
"Sorry to interrupt. Your moves amused me."
"No, I embarrassed myself publicly."
Suddenly, someone approached. Manager vibe—Vulcan scratched head, apologized.
Eh? Gremori?
Then Tud, lounging overhead, whipped head—named him like old acquaintance.
You still alive?
Tud spoke to the unheard man.