The Performance Testing Center
The day after I packed the dagger into its box, Choi Minseok—the one who had taken the shield—called.
“Boss, I reserved a slot at the Association testing lab. I want to put the shield through its paces.”
He said he wanted to know exactly how much it could take before he carried it into a Tower. For a man of his size, he was more careful than I expected.
“I’d like you to see it yourself, Boss.”
Grandfather’s eyes flicked toward me while he was still on the phone.
“Would it be all right if I brought our Ihyeon along?”
When the call ended he asked me, “Want to go?”
“Yeah.”
There was no reason to pass up a chance to look at a whole roomful of hunter gear at once. More than anything, I wanted to know the real limits of the shield I had made. The sandbags at the ironworks were nothing like the Association’s impact testers. If the results came in worse than expected, I would simply fix it. Not that I expected that to happen.
The moment we stepped into the Hunter Association Performance Testing Center, the air smelled nothing like the ironworks. Instead of oil, a sharp disinfectant stung the nose. Walls and floors were pure white; every door carried a red warning placard. The visitor badge they issued me at the entrance had the words “Accompanied by Guardian” printed in letters that looked deliberately oversized.
“Ihyeon, hold Grandfather’s hand.”
“I won’t get lost.”
“Grandfather might.”
I had no choice but to take his hand. Passing hunters glanced our way, but I had no attention to spare for them. The equipment lined up along both sides of the corridor was already keeping me busy.
The first piece that caught my eye was a collapsible spear with a carbon-fiber shaft. Light, length-adjustable, and locked solid. Its durability fell short of the spears from my previous life, yet its portability was far superior.
Next came a full-body hunter suit. Pull a small handle on the back and every latch at the shoulders and flanks released at once—designed so a wounded wearer could be extracted quickly. The masters of my past life had obsessed only over making armor tough; how to get the person out of it had been an afterthought. Worth remembering.
Of course not every piece was good. One longsword had six mana stones jammed into it. The circuits clashed so badly the entire blade flickered like a broken neon sign. Swing that thing and the user’s mana would run dry long before any monster did. An axe hung nearby with so many ornaments on the grip that no one could hold it properly. Whether past life or present, people still mistook decoration for performance.
“What are you staring at so hard?” Grandfather asked.
“There’s a lot to study.”
“Our Ihyeon comes to a testing center to play and still ends up studying.”
It wasn’t schoolwork, but I didn’t bother explaining.
Park Doyun and Choi Minseok were already waiting outside Impact Testing Room 2. Minseok clutched the new shield to his chest as if someone might snatch it away.
“You’ve arrived, Boss.”
Doyun bowed to Grandfather, then held out a carton of strawberry milk to me. Strawberry milk had apparently become part of his standard kit.
“Thank you.”
I took it. Grandfather eyed the carton in my hand.
“Ihyeon, didn’t you already drink one this morning?”
“This is from a client.”
“Ah. Then there’s nothing to be done.”
Food offered by a client seemed to fall under a separate set of rules.
The testing officer looked to be in his thirties. He checked the shield’s registration data and tilted his head.
“Square Shield of Accumulated Force. C-class, correct?”
“Yes,” Minseok answered.
“No registered workshop, and the maker field is blank.”
“It was made in a private forge.”
The officer’s gaze shifted to Grandfather.
“Are you the craftsman?”
“It was made at our ironworks.”
Grandfather had grown skilled at letting misunderstandings stand without outright lying, and the officer took the statement as confirmation.
“We’ll begin with D-class impact standards.”
Sensors were strapped to wrist, elbow, shoulder, and waist; more small sensors dotted the back of the shield. In front of the testing rig hung a steel mass roughly the size of an adult torso. Minseok settled into a low stance behind the shield.
“Ready.”
Warning lights flared; the mass was drawn back. The first strike simulated a D-class monster’s charge.
Clang!
The suspended steel slammed into the center of the shield. The internal joints folded in unison, channeling the force out toward all four edges. Minseok’s body shifted only half a step.
“You all right?” the officer asked.
“Yes. Barely felt it.”
“Barely?”
The officer’s finger froze on the measurement screen.
“Impact transmitted to the wearer is under thirty percent of the baseline.”
“Could the sensors be wrong?” Doyun asked.
“Sensors are fine.”
He double-checked the ones on the shield’s reverse; nothing was amiss.
“The equipment is dispersing most of the force.”
Exactly as designed. That was why I had built it.
When the intensity rose to C-class, a far heavier mass was hung. Another crash. Minseok slid a full step, yet the shield did not buckle, and a second red line filled the Bulssiseok inside. The officer’s eyes flicked between the screen and the shield.
“Even under C-class impact, wearer load remains below tolerance.”
“Can we do it once more?” Minseok asked.
“The gear looks fine, but—”
“I need one more hit to test the function.”
The officer’s expression turned odd.
“There’s a function you haven’t tested yet?”
Minseok pointed to the red glow gathering at the shield’s center. Another identical C-class strike landed.
Clang!
The metal joints shed the force; light from the Bulssiseok raced across the entire face of the shield. Accumulation complete. Minseok carried the shield over to the test target—a D-class dummy of layered composite resin and steel plate.
“I hit this?”
“Would you explain the function first?”
“It returns the impact it absorbed straight forward.”
The officer cleared the area and checked the target’s mounts, then stepped behind thick ballistic glass and raised a hand. Only then did Minseok squeeze the trigger on the grip. The face of the shield flared crimson. He drove it into the target.
BOOM!
The entire testing chamber shuddered. The target tore free of its mounts; the stacked steel plates crumpled inward. While Minseok and the officer stood frozen, only Doyun clenched a fist, face alight with excitement.
I kept the straw in my mouth and studied the shield. When the accumulation circuit released its force, the upper-right section had lagged a fraction, but it was still serviceable. Something to correct next time. Perfect gear never came from a single forging. That was why tests existed.
After the test they inspected the shield again: no dents, mana circuits still running clean.
“We’ll keep the C-class rating.”
“Not B-class?” Doyun asked, disappointed.
“Durability and base defense are C-class. We can’t raise the grade on the accumulation function alone.”
A fair judgment. Even if the structure performed perfectly, the materials themselves only went as far as C-class. The officer jotted something on the report.
“However, I’ll register it separately as special-function equipment. Counter-output is near the upper limit of C-class.”
While Minseok hugged the shield with open satisfaction, Doyun’s interest had already jumped to the next piece of gear.
“Boss, next time maybe my armor—”
“We agreed on one piece at a time,” Grandfather cut in.
“I remember. Just asking.”
His face did not look like that of a man who remembered. When we left the testing room, people who had heard the earlier crash were already gathering in the corridor. Among them one figure stood out: a short-haired woman leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on the shield. She wore a form-fitting black combat suit with only light protectors over it. I had not noticed when she arrived. A matte-black dagger hung slanted at the small of her back; the registration badge on her chest read S-class. Nearby hunters quietly made way, and even the testing staff bowed first—clearly one of the handful of S-class hunters in the country.
Without thinking I lowered my goggles—the Mana Observation Goggles I had brought to examine the center’s equipment. Mana was leaking from her dagger. Amplification circuits had been layered three times along the spine; each cycle sent blue light bleeding past the thin edge. Not a weapon for someone who needed to stay hidden. It was closer to a torch advertising “Here I am.” That was not the only problem. A mana stone set too near the tip threw the balance badly forward. The tang that ran into the hilt narrowed abruptly halfway down; a hairline red crack marked the transition.
“Whoever made that dagger must have a grudge against rogues.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. The woman turned her head toward me.
“My dagger?”
“...Yes.”
“Mind if I ask why you think that?”
There was no anger in her voice—only the look of someone who had just heard something interesting. I pointed to the spine of the blade.
“The circuit dumps too much mana. Even if you go invisible, the dagger will give your position away.”
Her eyes shifted slightly.
“When I actually draw it, my stealth duration shortens.”
“The mana stone’s too far forward, so your wrist will lag when you change direction.”
“That’s true too.”
She pushed off the wall and crouched in front of me.
“Anything else?”
I indicated the junction of hilt and blade.
“There’s a crack inside.”
The amusement left her face.
“I bought this A-class dagger last month.”
A testing officer brought over a portable scanner and ran it several times along the join. A sharp beep. A red warning lit the screen.
“Micro-fracture in the tang,” the officer said. “Under heavy impact it could snap inside the hilt.”
The woman slowly slid the dagger back into its sheath.
“It wasn’t even visible from the outside.”
Her gaze moved to my goggles.
“You saw it with those?”
“They let me see it.”
“That’s an even stranger answer.”
She smiled. Grandfather stepped smoothly between us.
“My granddaughter likes looking at equipment.”
I had heard that explanation somewhere before. The woman did not press further. Instead she rose and offered Grandfather her hand.
“Baek Seorin.”
“A pleasure.”
They shook.
“Did you make that shield, by any chance?”
“It was made at our ironworks.”
“I see.”
Seorin pointed to the dagger at her back.
“Then could you repair this as well?”
Grandfather looked at me. I did not nod. Repair was possible, but far too many things were wrong from the start. Strip the circuits, relocate the mana stone, remake the hilt entirely—and all that would remain was the blade. At that point it would be faster simply to forge a new one. Reading my expression, Grandfather spoke carefully.
“I’d have to examine it myself, but it may be difficult to repair.”
“In that case,” Seorin said after a brief pause, “do you happen to have a better dagger?”