The Price of a Failure

A blue window unfolded above the dagger.

I read the window twice. I hadn’t misread it.

“It records them?”

An unexpected function. The dagger already contained a circulation circuit that drew ambient mana. Most magical tools from my past life simply pushed mana in one direction—from the user into the blade. Simple and reliable, but it forced more mana through than necessary. I had mixed in a structure I’d seen in modern current-control devices: the channel width adjusted according to the resistance on the blade, and any leftover mana returned to the circuit. That was why the user didn’t need to supply their own mana, and why none of it was wasted.

But I had never designed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it to remember a structure it had cut once.

Did the circulation circuit memorize the resistance?

Mana that had flowed repeatedly through the same path left a trace in the circuit. The system had recognized that phenomenon as a single ability. A function that would never have appeared if I had built it with past-life techniques alone. Even though I had made the thing myself, I was seeing the result for the first time. It didn’t feel bad. I liked it a little.

“I’ll bring a new measuring device.”

The staff member picked up the machine he had dropped. His ears were bright red.

“And I think we need to call the supervisor as well.”

“You need a supervisor for a single test?”

“B-class equipment just destroyed an A-class barrier. If it isn’t a measurement error, it’s a reportable incident.”

He hurried out. Baek Seorin rested the dagger on her palm and studied the blue lines.

“Was this not a function you intended?”

“I put in something similar.”

“Similar how?”

“A function that automatically regulates mana at the moment of the cut. I just didn’t expect it to remember anything.”

Seorin’s expression turned odd.

“That sounds like a function even the maker didn’t know about.”

“I just found out, so now I know.”

It wasn’t a lie. Grandfather’s muffled laugh reached me.

A moment later the staff member returned with a middle-aged man. The name tag on his chest read Equipment Testing Lab Director. He finished the greetings quickly and went straight to the measuring devices—swapping sensors, examining the sliced target, then rereading the dagger’s information three times.

“It’s definitely B-class.”

“Could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the grade be wrong?” the staff member asked.

The director shook his head.

“Equipment grade is calculated from materials, base output, and durability combined. An outstanding single function doesn’t automatically raise the grade.” He pointed at the dagger’s black blade. “This dagger is held back by its materials. Functionally it’s A-class or higher, but the blade won’t endure that output for long.”

He had seen it correctly. His eye for equipment was solid.

“May we test it once more?” Seorin asked.

“Against the same A-class target?”

“Yes.”

The director looked at me. I checked the dagger’s flow again. The circuit was stable. No cracks showed on the blade.

“Just once more.”

A new target was set up. Seorin gripped the dagger. This time she didn’t use stealth. She took a single step and swung in a short arc—neither fast nor overloaded with force. The black blade touched the A-class barrier. At first, spiderweb cracks spread. The second time was different. The dagger already knew the barrier’s weakest grain. Blue lines slid along that seam.

Shrrk.

The barrier split without a sound. Even the outer shell behind it parted cleanly. No one inside the testing room spoke right away. The new measuring device displayed the results.

It hadn’t smashed through with raw power. With nothing more than B-class impact, it had severed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bonds of an A-class barrier.

The director enlarged the numbers.

“The impact force is actually lower than the first test.”

“Yet the target was cut even cleaner,” the staff member said, still disbelieving.

“Adaptive Severance remembered the barrier’s structure. On the second attack there was no need to waste force.”

Even as he spoke, the director checked the screen several more times. Plenty of weapons had high output. Some poured the user’s mana into breaking higher-grade barriers. This dagger did the opposite. With little force it cut only the precise point. Exactly the method I had wanted.

I lowered my goggles. A new branch had formed in the dagger’s circuit—the trace absorbed from the A-class barrier moments ago. Every time it met the same structure it would grow more precise. The tougher the opponent, the more it would learn. If the materials could keep up, there was no telling how far it might develop.

Should I cancel the ‘failure’ label?

I considered it for a second. Not yet.

“I want to buy this dagger.”

Seorin broke the silence. I had expected the words. I no longer planned to put it back in the box. Still, I couldn’t simply hand it over.

“There are conditions.”

“Name them.”

“You can’t swing it at full power.”

Seorin’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Meaning it can’t withstand my strength?”

“The materials are insufficient. Even if it can cut mana structures, if you bring it down with force on a monster’s bone the blade will break first.”

“I’ll separate its uses.”

“And send me every usage record.”

“Usage records?”

“What you cut, how the function changed, what felt inconvenient. Don’t leave anything out.”

A function I never would have discovered if the weapon had stayed inside the workshop. If a weapon was going to be used, the artisan needed to see the results—so the next one could be made properly from the start.

Seorin didn’t hesitate.

“If those are the conditions, I’d like to request them myself.”

The director cleared his throat.

“There’s something you should know before the transaction.” He turned the measurement screen toward me.

“If it goes through formal appraisal and is put up for auction, I expect a minimum of four hundred million won. Once the growth potential of Adaptive Severance becomes known, it could go higher.”

The number was so large it took a moment to register. The money I’d received for repairing Park Doyun’s sword had been one million won. I’d thought that was generous for a first commission.

“I’ll pay five hundred million.”

Seorin spoke. This time Grandfather coughed.

“F-five hundred million?”

“Considering auction fees and the fact that the ability would become public, it’s not a bad deal for me either.”

Seorin remained calm. An S-class hunter operated on an entirely different scale of spending. I looked at the dagger. Tool steel. Ironclad boar carapace. Good materials, but nowhere near five hundred million. The value hadn’t come from the materials. It had come from my skill—something so natural in my previous life that I had never thought to put a price on it.

“In return, if it breaks you can’t take it anywhere else.”

“I’ll bring it straight here.”

“And no disassembling it.”

“Understood.”

“And the commission for a new dagger isn’t cancelled, right?”

Seorin shook her head.

“I’ll use this weapon when facing mana structures. But I still need a primary weapon that can fully accept my strength.”

She meant to separate their roles. She wasn’t the type to swing something she liked at everything in sight.

“I’ll send the materials list as planned.”

“I’ll obtain everything that can be obtained.”

“Then I’ll sell it.”

Seorin smiled brightly for the first time. The transaction proceeded under Grandfather’s name. Even though I had made the item, no one was going to transfer five hundred million to an eight-year-old. The director held out the equipment transaction confirmation. Baek Seorin’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠name went in the buyer field. The maker field was blank.

“How should I list the maker’s name?”

Grandfather’s hand stopped. Seorin’s and the staff member’s gazes naturally settled on him. I had no intention of announcing that an eight-year-old had made it. I tugged lightly on Grandfather’s sleeve.

“Put the ironworks’ name.”

Grandfather looked down at me for a moment.

“Please write Daeseong Ironworks.”

It was the name still left on the faded sign above the shutter. The director entered the ironworks’ name in the maker field.

A new line appeared beneath the equipment information. This was the first weapon in this life to carry the maker’s name. When the deposit notification arrived, Grandfather’s hands trembled.

“Ihyeon.”

“Yeah.”

“Grandpa isn’t misreading the number, is he?”

“You’re right. Eight zeros.”

Grandfather counted the digits on the screen again. I thought of everything that money could buy. A new workbench. A precision lathe. Equipment that could measure mana stably. And a proper forge—something the ironworks currently lacked. I would need a furnace capable of handling Hoeseongcheol ingots from the start. There were too many things I wanted.

Seorin slid the black dagger into its sheath. Even the sheath was still a temporary piece.

“Will today’s test results remain with the Association?” she asked.

“All results conducted in an official testing lab are transmitted to the Equipment Management Division,” the director answered. “Especially equipment that produces readings more than one grade above its displayed rank, or that reveals a unique ability, is automatically flagged for review.” His gaze moved to the name written on the transaction form. “Is Daeseong Ironworks a registered equipment workshop with the Association?”

“No,” Grandfather answered honestly. “It’s an ironworks that closed several years ago.”

The director’s hands stopped mid-input.

“You’re saying a closed ironworks made this?”

Grandfather looked at me instead of answering. I pushed my goggles up onto my forehead for no particular reason. It felt like something bothersome was about to start.

At the same time, a red alert appeared on a monitor in the Hunter Association’s Equipment Management Division.

The Equipment Management Division officer opened the report. At first he assumed it was a testing-machine error. The attached footage showed a black dagger slicing an A-class barrier without a sound. Results from three separate measuring devices matched. When he checked the buyer’s name, his back straightened.

S-class hunter Baek Seorin. Equipment that had already been sold for five hundred million won.

“There was a workshop like this?”

He searched the maker information.

The screen showed a small ironworks with a faded sign. The officer hesitated briefly, then raised the report’s priority.

The next morning, the name Daeseong Ironworks rose to the top of the Equipment Management Division’s priority confirmation list.