My Custom Forge Opens Its Doors
Leaving the splendid pavilion of the inner quarters behind, my footsteps back to the forge felt as light as feathers. I had completely shed the yoke of a lowly porter, and now my own grand stage had opened—one where I could sell weapons to the heroes of the realm.
In front of the blazing red furnace, Yeom Cheol paused his hammering and wiped his sweat, noticing my light steps and the unmistakable gleam in my eyes. He furrowed his bushy brows.
“From that look on your face, seems like the young lady gave you a proper scolding. Did she stuff your pockets with silver at least?”
I stepped up to the anvil blocking his path and laid it all out—the conversation I'd just had with Mi So-jeo, how she was granting me my own custom workshop in the bustling heart of Xu Province city, dealing exclusively in the finest weapons, no holds barred.
“……”
After I finished, the only sound in the forge was the crackling of the firewood. Yeom Cheol set down his heavy tongs with a clatter beside the furnace. His weathered, wrinkled face flickered with shock and a deep sense of emptiness.
“Going independent… and not just any forge, but a high-end custom shop catering only to rich merchants and armed warriors.”
The old man let out a bitter chuckle, rubbing his rough palm over his face.
“From the moment I saw that hefty ring-pommel sword you hammered out all night yesterday, I had a feeling you wouldn't stick around this cramped side shed by the merchant guild for long. When you snapped that guard captain's blade and reforged the foreman’s prized sword from scratch, your eye for steel was already way above my head. But…”
Yeom Cheol's steely gaze fixed on me. In those eyes burned the deep regret of an old craftsman who wouldn't get to nurture a disciple with genius talent any longer.
“I never thought you'd up and leave my furnace after just a few days.”
I bowed my head silently. In this hellish age of chaos, when I'd possessed this porter's body gutted by bandits, when everyone treated me like a beast, the only one who saw me as human, took me in, and let me touch the forge was the man standing before me.
“I won't forget your kindness, Master Yeom. Your hammering techniques and the way you handle steel are etched into my eyes—that's how I made it this far.”
At my heartfelt bow, Yeom Cheol's stiff expression softened, and he burst into a hearty laugh.
“You rascal, drop the groveling porter act already! You're about to be the master of a forge backed by Xu Province's top merchant guild!”
The old man clamped his pot-lid hand on my shoulder.
“That lady has a devil's eye for talent. She's laying out this huge stage for you because she's dead certain the weapons you'll forge will drive the heroes of the land mad. Go on, unleash your skills. In my decades as a smith, just having worked the fire with a monster like you for a few days is the proudest boast I'll ever have.”
“Master Yeom…”
“But if you half-ass some lump of metal and tarnish my name, I'll grab my hammer and chase you down to smash your whole damn shop to bits—got it?!”
Rough words, but they sank into my bones like warm fire. For the first time since possessing this body, I bent at the waist and offered my deepest, truest bow to Yeom Cheol.
A few days passed like flowing water. Mi So-jeo, the real power behind the guild, moved with the speed of lightning. In the prime heart of Xu Province city—where wealthy merchants and volunteer army warriors poured in daily—a new workshop bearing my name rose up in the blink of an eye. A sturdy wooden building boasting a heavy, overwhelming presence that didn't pale next to the flashy inns and silk shops around it.
From early morning, I flung open the doors of my new forge and meticulously inspected every corner of the space that would be my hands and feet, happily arranging everything to my liking. The layout was redesigned entirely to my taste, optimized ruthlessly for my survival and work efficiency.
Stepping through the front door, the first thing you met was the reception room. The floor was laid with luxurious black bricks, and the walls held massive ebony weapon racks ready to display the famed swords and spears I'd forge one day. In the center stood a massive oak table thick enough for three grown men to lie on. This was the space for dealing with arrogant warriors placing orders, haggling deals, and raking in their gold.
Beyond the reception, a thick, tough rhinoceros hide curtain hung from ceiling to floor, perfectly sealing off the space. It blocked the forge's scorching heat, flying sparks, and hammering echoes from leaking forward—a defensive barrier. Pushing through that curtain revealed the main forge in all its majestic glory, where steel lived and died by my hand.
“Perfect.”
I ran my hand over the enormous silver steel anvil embedded dead-center in the workshop—smooth and flawless, without a single nick—and let out a sigh of admiration. A massive furnace built from precisely stacked bricks to minimize heat loss, a huge leather bellows. Flanking the anvil were two enormous wooden quenching tanks at waist height for an adult—one filled with clear water, the other with pig fat—arranged in perfect workflow.
Pick up the hammer, turn, and fire, water, oil were all within arm's reach—no margin for error. A flawless engineering design. But the true heart of it all was elsewhere.
At the far back of the workshop, beyond a heavy reinforced iron door, lay my secret side room. Pitch-black and cool, windowless and utterly cut off from the outside, this space served as storage for the top-grade iron ingots and rare metals shipped in by the guild. It doubled as my private bedroom—and above all, my absolute sanctuary. When mana was full each night, I could lock this door and open my Subspace Forge without a soul knowing. The moment that door clicked shut, I was safe from any threat, forging miracle weapons under the system's blessings.
“Now materials, space—everything's perfectly in place.”
Back in the reception, I wiped down the oak table with a rag, humming contentedly. At my right hip hung the black iron shortsword I'd poured my soul into crafting, strapped tight. On my back rested the D+ grade oak-handled hammer, custom-fitted to my grip in Yeom Cheol's forge.
The weapon racks stood empty for now, but that was fine. This wasn't some mass-production sweatshop. Word would spread, powerhouses would come begging, pay upfront, and I'd craft lethal weapons tailored to their exact build and frame. As I fussed over the displays, waiting for that first customer—
BAM—!! The heavy oak front door of the reception flew open with a violence that threatened to shatter it.
“Hey!! Who's the owner here!!”
A thunderous roar like a mountain beast's bellow shook the forge to its core. At the same time, a colossal shadow—like a bear rearing on hind legs—blocked the bright morning sun outside, plunging the reception floor into darkness. I stopped wiping and slowly raised my head.
“……”
The instant I saw the man standing there, I barely restrained the instinct to grab the hammer handle on my back. This wasn't a man—it was a honed engine of pure violence.
He towered well over eight chi (nearly 190 cm), shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe. His wild mane of hair spiked out like a lion's, his jet-black beard stiff as an enraged tiger's fur.
But what overwhelmed most were his eyes. Sun-baked bronze skin framed bulging, bloodshot orbs like massive copper bells, gleaming with a feral hunger for slaughter.
The crude killing intent from guild mercenaries or guards seemed child's play compared to this—a predator who'd bathed in hundreds of men's blood on the battlefield, crushing bone and flesh firsthand.
The absurd pressure of this era's heroes crushed my chest, choking my breath. Even with stamina at 54, my puny strength of 12 couldn't bend one of that monster's arms. I knew it bone-deep, a chill certainty.
But I didn't crumple like porter Aman or grovel with a sycophantic grin. A smith doesn't fight with raw force. He crafts and controls the fangs and claws in a monster's hands. I straightened my back and met the savage beast's gaze head-on.
“I am the master of this forge.”
At my calm, unflinching reply, the giant's bulging eyes twitched with faint interest. He slammed the long, heavy something wrapped in filthy cloth from his shoulder onto the oak table before me with a thud. The table groaned in protest under the weight. Peeking from the cloth: a brutal steel shaft scarred like a badge of battle, ending in a jagged, ruined blue steel spearhead.
The man stroked his tiger beard and growled like a beast.
“Heard someone here fixes fancy toys real good, so I came.”
His callused fingers tapped the wrecked spear on the table.
“Can you fix this spear for me?”
The first uninvited guest at my grand custom forge—and he was anything but ordinary. But my eyes weren't on his ferocious face. They were locked on the broken steel spearhead's core on the table. The absurdly thick shaft was subtly twisted from its owner's insane grip strength, the blade torn apart after forcing through rock or steel plate, stress maxed to destruction. To an ordinary smith, scrap metal fit only for the furnace. But to me, its heavy, innate grain shone clear as day.
The skeleton of a true battlefield weapon, enduring insane loads and mass. A volcanic urge to dismantle this savage lump and reassemble it in perfect balance surged in my chest—a mad creator's hunger.