Workshop Street (1)

Unless he wore the mask, it was obvious that operating an automaton on his current earnings would leave him unable to save a single penny.

"Hold on. That means your mana heart is that big, right? Or are you some rich kid from somewhere?"

"I'm no rich kid."

"Yeah, no way a pampered heir would wander the labyrinth alone. You look pretty used to camping, though."

Dennis finished speaking and picked up his empty soup bowl, heading toward the pot.

Allen watched his back. Then, characters appeared in his left field of vision.

His eyes were compiling information on Dennis.

Allen's brain—linked to his memories—was outputting the data. Naturally, it couldn't display anything beyond Allen's comprehension.

The eyes also included a memory-editing function, so there was no need to memorize every trivial detail.

To clear the question marks, Allen blinked.

It came out properly this time.

There were still shortcomings, but calibration would fix them. Once enough big data accumulated, the eyes would eventually analyze living beings and objects on their own, without Allen's input.

That would bring him one step closer to the "Akasha's Eye," which pierced through all things.

Having escaped the labyrinth, Allen scanned the throng of explorers. His eyes drew an arrow above the city walls toward one figure.

Something he'd normally pass without a second glance was now flagged like this. It meant he could detect entities outside his conscious awareness.

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

Allen cautiously eyed the figure he'd tentatively labeled a Breaker agent. It wasn't the woman from before.

Workshop Street (1)

The interior of Western Sky, brimming with magical herbs and seedlings, stayed pleasantly warm year-round, regardless of the season. He'd heard they maintained a special underground growing environment, but Allen had no reason to go that far.

"Phew."

The air Allen breathed was always warm. Removing his mask filled his lungs with air far cleaner than the city's.

Western Sky's popularity came not just from the herbs' efficacy, but from this rare, refreshing air city folk could never experience.

Still, mistaking it for a park or botanical garden would be a mistake. This was a business, plain and simple. The merchant-trained magical herbs chased off anyone who seemed like a mere gawker.

"Is it okay to treat a customer like this?"

"We let you loiter for a full two hours. This is a shop, not a lounge."

"Don't you know who I am? They're all filming this! With my subscriber count alone..."

"Yes, yes. Post it hard."

Just then, a black-hearted consumer was being dragged out by a server. He twisted in resistance, but it was futile against an elf druid.

Passing them, Allen gazed at the tree enveloping Western Sky in a dome of transparent leaves.

A fairy with folded wings waved from a hole in the remarkably translucent trunk, clear enough to see the sap flowing.

"Hello. Hello."

He waved back at the fairy—familiar after several visits—and headed to the area where the magical herb awaited.

As Allen approached, the guarding trees parted smoothly, making way.

Spotting the mask at Allen's waist, Yohwa clapped her hands.

"Doing just as I asked. Good boy, good boy."

"Does the air you inhale affect the test results that much?"

"As a researcher, don't you want to minimize variables for the best outcomes? Time to change the filter anyway. Hang it on that tree over there."

Allen hung up the mask, and a fairy appeared from somewhere, discarding the old filter and screwing in a new one like a bolt.

Despite her body being filter-tube-sized, she showed no strain. In a world where mystery lived and breathed, it was nothing unusual.

Sitting in the vine-crafted chair, dandelion-fluff-like seeds attached themselves to various parts of Allen's body.

Instead of opening a book as usual and staring at the ceiling, Yohwa—having sent off another test subject—spoke up after he didn't respond to her greeting.

"You ignore me when I'm talking because of that book, but what's up today? Got something on your mind?"

"I've been planning to reach the 11th layer."

"As a magitech engineer, just join a party hanging around there. They'd welcome you with open arms, even if you're below average."

"I'd prefer to go with my own abilities alone."

"A magitech engineer fighting in combat? It's not unheard of, but..."

Yohwa trailed off. Long life had taught her not to judge others' circumstances lightly.

Allen fell silent too.

Ranka. And Nobak.

After those events at such a young age, his convictions had solidified.

Raw power was absolutely necessary. When dangling from a cliff toward the abyss, only he could save himself. Relying on others' help would eventually mean plummeting below.

Yohwa smoothly changed the subject. With a gesture, a butterfly fluttered over, and she plucked its downy fluff from her leg, placing it on her palm.

"This is the upgraded deathslay flower, improved with data thanks to you. Its tonic effect is even stronger now—big spenders love it."

"You've finally named it. Is 'deathslay' from the Eastern Continent language?"

"Yep. Maze City's rich folk get excited over Eastern Continent words. It's targeted naming for that taste. What do you think?"

"Shouldn't the effect come before the name?"

"The efficacy is top-notch, obviously. Doubting my skills now?"

"My apologies."

Allen answered earnestly, and Yohwa waved it off.

"No, no. I'm joking. You're taking it too seriously—you're making me feel bad. Truth is, everything the wealthy and powerful want is premium quality."

"So, in fine detail, their effects and potency are similar?"

"Exactly. Unless it's truly exceptional, they're all about the same. To stand out, you need a unique name, form, or story. Want to extend your arm?"

Yohwa carefully dissected the fluff, revealing a sesame-seed-sized seed. Placing it on his skin, it grew rapidly, feeding on his mana just like before.

Unlike previously, the red petals were now transparent enough to see through.

The beautiful flower, like carved red crystal, withered quickly, flooding Allen's body with vitality.

Its effect seeped into and around his overworked mana circuits, reinforcing the damaged areas—like amalgam over a cracked tooth.

His body felt much more at ease.

"How's that?"

"Definitely better than last time. If we compare it to a dam, it's way higher and thicker now."

No matter how strong Allen's mana control, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his circuits took damage. Mana leaking through wounds harmed his body too.

Mana excess syndrome was no pushover. As Allen's control grew, his internal mana would swell again, as if saying, "You can handle this much now, huh?"

His mana heart growing just from breathing was a blessed talent—overly so. Like essential vitamins causing illness if overconsumed.

Yohwa, gathering data through the fluffs on Allen's body, brought up the earlier topic.

"You said you're heading to the 11th? How'll you get gear and materials?"

"Using Saramang's online shopping mall. Even capsule hotels get deliveries—super convenient."

"That's a perk, but for truly outstanding stuff, you gotta shop in person. Mass-produced items are great these days, but for precise tuning, meeting the maker is best. Artisans don't survive in a world of stamped-out gear for nothing."

"I'm a magitech engineer too."

"Did I bruise your pride?"

Yohwa covered her mouth, chuckling softly. She exuded the vibe of a grandmother smiling at a cute kid.

It made sense. Western Sky had stood here for 40 years, Yohwa its owner from the start.

No malice—just genuine fondness. In parched Maze City, such warmth between people—or family-like bonds—drew customers.

Or maybe Allen was a precious specimen to her.

As Allen stayed quiet, Yohwa's smile deepened.

"Your face doesn't change, so I thought you were an emotionless golem. But nope. Good—people should take pride in their field. Tests are done anyway, so you're free to go."

"You usually try to keep me seated longer, but not today."

"Since you're here, I'm being generous—go check out the neighborhood."

Allen extricated himself from the vine chair, and Yohwa showed a map on her terminal.

"Why that look? I can handle terminals too. How else would I promote the shop these days?"

"Do you disguise yourself as a customer to post efficacy reviews?"

Allen's sharp question flew like an arrow, but Yohwa deflected it casually, brushing hair behind her ear.

"To hit the 11th solo, you'll need more gear. Visit the workshop district marked here. Seeing various equipment will spark ideas on weapons or armor you need."

"I will."

Allen nodded. Even without buying, viewing others' work could inspire his own crafting.

Donning his mask and grabbing his explorer's medkit, Allen stepped out. A monorail station for the workshop district was nearby.

Where there's demand, there's a station.

Waiting briefly, a monorail coastered in between buildings and halted.

As expected, it was packed. The faint mana flows suggested everyone was headed to the workshop district.

Even without mana sight, it was obvious.

Dwarves in arm-type magitechwear that could turn into machine guns anytime, an orc with a mana sword hilt poking from his waist, full-body modders thudding with each step.

All lived by force. Too heavily armed for civilians.

As predicted, passengers poured out at the workshop district station. Allen descended the overpass-like stairs, turning his head.

His first impression of Workshop Street:

Chaotic.

Visitors streamed in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and out endlessly, buildings crammed like sardine cans. Heights and shapes varied wildly—even a 2-story next to a 15-plus-story skyscraper.

Allen's gaze went to a street vendor in the center.

City-permitted street stalls kept magitech in sturdy, transparent display cases. Easier to browse than indoor shops, but the accessible location meant lower-grade gear.

Two or three rune letters per item, but strokes are sloppy, low mana stone content in circuits—won't perform at full potential.

As Allen X-rayed the magitech, the owner on a plastic chair snapped.

"You stealing internal designs right now?"

Allen melted into the crowd. Even at Nobak Clinic, he wouldn't have made something that shoddy—but no need to stir conflict.

After touring several shops and workshops, Allen decided to set a clear goal.

Something novel or standout design triggered his occupational disease: the urge to dissect, analyze, improve.

Keep browsing like this, and it'll be night.

The immediate task: soloing a water elemental. That meant overwhelming firepower to crush it, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or mobility to dodge attacks.

The first was impractical. Gear to one-shot it would cost a fortune, and even if bought, it wouldn't suit Allen's skills.

So his thoughts leaned toward mobility. Like Dennis, installing prosthetic legs—