Subspace Blacksmith: "Sheathe Your Sword. I'm Not Dead."

"Sheathe your sword. I'm not dead."

The dry, calm voice slipping from my lips cut through the night air with chilling clarity.

Silence.

The guards encircling the corpse cart froze in place for a moment. The flickering red light of the torches illuminated their shocked faces in stark relief.

"Y-you damned bastard…."

Breaking the silence was the burliest man in the group. His bushy beard, thick like a bandit's, marked him as the caravan's guard captain. He stomped forward with heavy footsteps toward the cart.

Clang! A gleaming blue blade caught the pale moonlight. The guard captain aimed the tip of his ring sword at my throat. The icy chill of the metal crept right up to my chin—a distance where a mere flex of his wrist could sever my fragile lifeline in an instant.

"What the hell are you? I saw it with my own eyes during the day—your gut sliced open by those bandits' blades, entrails spilling out. No man comes back from the dead. Are you a living soul or a vengeful ghost risen from the grave?!"

Killing intent. It was a thick, viscous pressure that no one in modern Korea could ever experience—something only a true battlefield killer could exude. Cold sweat poured down my back like rain, but I forced myself to meet the beastly glare of the guard captain without flinching.

I frantically sifted through the memories of the porter 'Aman' implanted in my mind. I instinctively calculated how this wretched body had survived in the caravan, how to act toward superiors to deflect their reasonable suspicions.

Slowly, carefully—ensuring the blade hovering at my throat didn't nick my skin—I knelt on the pile of corpses and prostrated myself flat on the ground.

"A ghost, captain? I'm just Aman, the caravan porter. Sure, I got cut by those bandits' blades and collapsed, but it wasn't my gut split wide open—it was just a shallow flesh wound."

"A shallow cut? You little shit, trying to pull some trick…!"

"It's true! The wound was shallow, but I lost so much blood I passed out. Then the jolting cart woke me up, and here I was, lying among the corpses. Thanks to you leading the charge and slicing those bandits down in one stroke, I miraculously survived!"

My glib nonsense perfectly blended modern memories with Aman's signature groveling tone. The guard captain furrowed his thick brow and stepped closer, still not lowering his blade.

"Show me your gut."

"Pardon?"

"I said lift your clothes and show me that belly wound right now. If your gut's pierced and you're some real ghost still breathing, or if you've pulled some shady sorcery, I'll hack your limbs off and burn you right here."

My heart plummeted, but feigning nonchalance, I gripped the hem of my stiff, blood-crusted hemp shirt with both hands and slowly lifted it.

The guard captain thrust his torch close to my abdomen. Naturally, there was no horrific deep gash across my belly. The resurrection skill had already perfectly reconstructed my body. Only the dried black blood—mine and others'—formed ugly scabs and stains.

"……."

The guard captain's eyes widened like they might tear. He shook the torch up and down, inspecting every angle. In truth, not even a scar remained, but the crusted blood and dirt artfully obscured the view.

"Well, damn. It's true. You just bled like a pig, but the wound's barely more than a scratch on the skin."

"That guy's one tough, lucky son of a bitch."

The other guards, poised to draw weapons, muttered in dazed relief. The captain cleared his throat gruffly and irritably sheathed his raised sword.

"You jinxed bastard. Making us haul a perfectly alive guy on the corpse cart. Sneaky prick. Tomorrow at dawn, you'll pull double cart duty as punishment for dodging work."

"Thank you, captain! Thank you for sparing me!"

I bowed my head repeatedly.

"Tch, what a pain. Hey! Drag this guy out and toss him with the laborers. Bury the corpses in a shallow pit on that hill ahead for the beasts to eat, then we move out immediately!"

At the captain's irritated command, the guards dispersed.

I survived. A profound relief washed over me at averting the crisis, and as the tension released, my screaming muscles began to howl in protest.

'Strength 10, Vitality 50.' The status window numbers I'd checked earlier hit home like a bone-deep truth.

The caravan roughly finished disposing of the bodies and pressed on through the deep night without halting. My feet were wrapped only in tattered straw sandal scraps. Every sharp rock and jagged branch pierced through, sending excruciating pain up my spine.

'This is it? This bottom-feeder life of dragging supply carts is what an Awakened one's existence amounts to?' I bit my lip until it bled. Right before dying impaled on a monster's spear in the modern world, I'd dreamed of a flashy, overwhelming hunter life. But the reality unfolding before me was one of constant dread over the next bandit's blade.

Limping along the dark night path, I kept summoning the status window to my retina.

Every time the blue holographic window materialized in the air, I clung desperately to this single lifeline amid the miserable, nauseating reality.

'Mana 5. Subspace Opening.' Just five minutes. I had to test my abilities, forge something—anything—in that brief window.

When the night deepened to the point where even the faint moonlight vanished behind thick clouds, the lead guard captain finally raised his hand in a halt signal.

"March ends here for today. Circle the carts in a defensive ring and light a bonfire inside! Take shifts on watch and rest till before dawn!"

At the command, the porters dropped their ropes and collapsed in unison, as if rehearsed. I too unslung the coarse rope from my festering shoulders and sprawled flat on the hard dirt.

One guard tossed fist-sized lumps of hardened mixed-grain rice to the laborers like animal feed. Rock-hard and reeking of sour rot, but I cradled it preciously in both hands and wolfed it down like a beast.

Once the animalistic meal ended, the laborers curled up under carts or against tree trunks, sleeping like the dead. Soon, harsh snores and pained groans filled the chilly night air.

The guards huddled by the bonfire, dozing fitfully, or half-heartedly patrolled the perimeter.

'Now.'

"Subspace Opening."

The quiet words dispersed into the night air.

A blue system window flashed red in warning. Simultaneously, a vicious vertigo hammered the back of my skull.

No grand swirl of magical lights or massive blade tearing space—no flashy portal effects. I just blinked, and the sensation of cold night dew underfoot and the surrounding air shifted like a lie.

A merciless countdown began in the corner of my vision.

"This… is my forge?"

Panting raggedly, I dazedly surveyed the space before me. A vast, mystical realm from childhood fantasy films? A modern workshop pulsing with blue mana? Nothing so grand met my scrubbed eyes.

This was a cramped, shabby 'mud hut'—barely enough for one adult man to turn around uncomfortably. The floor was roughly packed dirt; the walls, crude clay mixed with straw. The ceiling loomed so low that raising my head slightly brushed hair against the wooden rafters.

Assaulting my nose wasn't mystical mana fragrance, but dank mold, earth, and acrid smoke that stung like hell.

In one corner squatted a crude hearth of mud and rough stones. Astonishingly, glowing embers blazed within, filling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tight space with fierce heat. Beside it lay a large, patched bellows of sewn beast hide. Before that, a blackened anvil—pitted, chipped, scarred by ages—squatted on a tree stump. Rusty, blunt hammers and stiff tongs hung forlornly from nails in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wall.

It was a perfectly ordinary, dingy blacksmith shop—one you'd find tucked in some poor Three Kingdoms village corner. Not a speck of magic or supernatural aura.

'True to its name, just a forge. No fancy gadgets—an outdated relic.' Disappointment hit first. For a hunter system-granted subspace, I'd vainly hoped for an automated smelter or titanium anvil. Expectation shattered.

I stepped across the dirt floor and gripped a rough hammer's handle. The splintery wood and hefty head felt vividly real in my palm. No illusion. The hearth's heat thawed my frozen body. This tiny, pathetic mud hut was a tangible, physical sanctuary—untouchable ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠by the outer world's gore, bandit threats, or guards' brutality. My perfect refuge, no matter how meager.