Not Yet Free
The forge stood empty once more after the two giants and the fairy-like woman departed, but the sake jar they'd left behind loomed large, exuding an overwhelming presence.
"Feels like a storm just swept through."
I let out a hollow yet oddly satisfying chuckle, staring at the wide-open front door. Guan Yu's heavy silence, Zhang Fei's booming laughter, and his sister's shy yet strangely captivating gaze that drew me in.
I rose from my seat and approached the brass basin in one corner of the forge, filled with clear water. I splashed cold water on my face, wiped it dry with a towel, and absentmindedly gazed down at my reflection in the still surface.
"I've... changed a lot."
As the ripples settled, the man's face sharpened into view. It wasn't the wretched face of Aman—the malnourished porter who'd nearly died like discarded trash in the mud, gut sliced open by a bandit's blade just days ago. His gaunt cheeks, once sunken from constant hunger and malnutrition, had filled out nicely, forming a firm, sleek jawline. The dull, dirt-caked skin, marred by illness and grime, had been tempered daily by the forge's blistering heat and sweat, now glowing with a healthy bronze sheen.
But the most striking change radiated from his entire body. Strength 13, Agility 11, Vitality 55. In this brutal, merciless era, these stats—forged through bone-grinding hammer strikes solely for survival—had perfectly rebuilt my flesh into the muscles of the most efficient, destructive predator. Through the sweat-soaked rough hemp shirt, glimpses of broadened shoulders, bulging forearms taut as if ready to burst, and a rigidly straight spine projected an innate intimidation and raw masculine allure that could bind any onlooker's gaze, even standing still.
Gazing into those cool, piercing eyes, I keenly felt the truth: in harsh times, overwhelming vitality and strength could become the very standard of allure.
About an hour after Guan Yu's group left, still before the sun had fully climbed to midday—it was late morning.
The first customer of the day arrived, signaling the start of serious business. As the door swung open, a fragrant, luxurious plum blossom scent wafted in. She wasn't just flashy on the surface; her opulent silk robes screamed old nobility from Xu Province's elite families. Accompanied by a neatly attired maid, the noblewoman stepped lightly into the forge.
"Welcome."
As I approached the oak table with the damp towel slung casually over my shoulder, her steps faltered. The moment her eyes landed on my sweat-glistened, forge-hardened body and sharp, icy gaze, a faint blush rapidly spread across her pale cheeks.
"My... I never imagined the master craftsman from the rumors would be so young and handsome. I pictured some wretched wretch since they said he was a former porter."
Half-hiding her mouth with an ornate fan, she scanned me up and down with a gaze thick with blatant, sticky affection. The rumors sweeping Xu Province's markets—that the Mi Merchant Guild's backed genius blacksmith, who mended broken swords flawlessly and shattered steel like glass, was a strikingly capable warrior—were more than enough to stir the secret curiosities and springtime longings of high-society ladies.
"We don't forge steel with looks. What item are you seeking, madam?"
Unfazed by her lingering stare, I asked curtly in a cold, dry tone. That unyielding arrogance only seemed to stoke her interest further; her eyes grew even more sultry.
"The roads are so unsafe these days. I need a small, sharp dagger to conceal in my skirts for self-defense—one sharp enough to pierce a grown man's thick leather armor in a single thrust."
"Possible. From ornate engravings to blade angle, I'll tailor it perfectly to your delicate grip. Not mere scrap, but top-grade steel, custom-made. One nyang of gold."
One nyang for a dagger. At a common market forge, a few silver coins—or a pile of coppers—would more than cover it. But the noblewoman glanced at my face and broad shoulders, then without hesitation drew a gleaming gold nyang from her bosom and placed it on the table with a clink.
I lit the furnace without delay. Pulled top-grade steel from the storeroom and heated it white-hot. Lifting the D+ grade hammer, my muscles—perfectly attuned to reading steel's grain—allowed no margin for error in each strike. Balanced extremely toward the hilt for her small hands, the blade tapered thin and pointed like an assassin's stiletto. Quenched in pig fat, the dagger exuded a chilling, razor-sharp killing intent.
The task was done in no time, fulfilling her order.
As the sun passed midday into afternoon, the forge door burst open roughly. This time, a man in heavy leather armor, long sword at his hip, stomped in. His breastplate bore the clear emblem of a unit under Governor Do Geom of Xu Province.
"You the young smith the Mi Guild's pushing?!"
A brigade commander under Do Geom. A high-ranking officer handling military logistics with plenty of subordinates.
"That's me."
"Heard the hype's insane, so I came to see for myself—call it a loss if I'm fooled. They say you're sturdy-built and handle steel like a ghost. End of the month, we're mopping up Yellow Turban remnants nearby. Need a hefty, tough ring-pommel sword to guard my neck and lop off an enemy captain's head in one go. Think you can manage?!"
Arms crossed, he peered down arrogantly with a dismissive glare—the typical swagger of Xu Province's military brass. To me, just another gold-dispensing machine. I scanned his build and the worn hilt of his sword.
"Judging by your frame and arm length, you favor overhead strikes loading your full weight, not thrusts. Strong grip too. I'll forge a practical ring-pommel sword—wide blade, spring steel spine for clash-proof resilience. One nyang of gold."
His eyes flickered at how I'd pierced his sword style and habits with one glance.
"Hah... Porter, huh? Sharp eyes, at least. Fine! Here's your nyang—get to it! I'll watch with my own eyes. Show me that ghost skill they rave about!"
He slammed the gold on the table and plopped arrogantly into a reception chair.
I headed to the furnace behind the leather curtain. Shoved two heavy steel ingots in, cranking the blaze to hellish inferno with raw Strength 13. As they glowed blue-white, I stacked them on the anvil and unleashed merciless hammer blows.
Claaang!Clang!Claaaang! Brutal, violent strikes rent the air without pause. From beyond the curtain, the commander's fake coughs grew sparse, then silent as a grave.
Any warrior would instinctively sense the overwhelming beastly power in that rhythm and pressure—pure predator force shaping the steel.
Impurities purged, quenched in clear water for max hardness: a battle-ready E+ grade steel ring-pommel sword. Handing it over, he was overwhelmed by the perfect balance hugging his wrist and its blue killing edge. His earlier arrogance vanished; wide-eyed in shock, he nodded mutely and fled the forge.
Sunset painted Xu Province's bustling streets in deep crimson as the sun dipped toward the western hills.
I banked the furnace embers and dropped the oxhide curtain. Two gleaming gold nyangs from the day's hammer strikes—wealth aplenty. Money wasn't the point. Their status and power visiting my forge? That fortified my shield for survival.
"Shop's closed for the day."
Locking the front door and preparing to leave, my gaze lingered on the sake jar in the reception corner—the one Zhang Fei had thrust into my arms with a guffaw that morning.
Too much for one man.
Cracking the lid, a sharp, heavy aroma of fine sake assaulted my nose—not the murky rice wine from cheap inns, but the clear, potent white liquor for the wealthy elite.
One face flashed in my mind. The man who'd given a bottom-rung porter like me my first forge access and taught me the hammer's way when my guts nearly spilled in this hellish era: old man Yeom Cheol.
Never forget a favor. That's what separates man from beast.
I hoisted the jar onto one shoulder and headed to Yeom Cheol's forge deep in the Mi Merchant Guild's compound.
The vast courtyard grew quiet as dusk fell completely, workers dispersing after the grueling day. Yeom Cheol's forge fire was out, faint acrid smoke lingering.
Clinking sounds came from inside. He was alone, tidying soot-streaked hammers and tongs to end his day.
"Old master."
At my call, he startled and turned.
"Ah, Aman, eh? What brings ya here this late? Heard yer forge is swimmin' in customers, and here ya are slacking off already?"
He hid his delight behind a gruff bark, but joy etched deep into his wrinkled, sunken eyes. I set the jar on his workbench.
"Just finished for the day. Big fella this morning left a whole jar of white liquor. Too much for me alone—and who else to share fine free booze with but you?"
"Booze... white liquor?"
His eyes bulged. He shuffled over, sniffed greedily at the lid's gap, and smacked his lips.
"Ya mad bastard, smells like top-shelf namju! Ya lugged this heavy thing here just to pour it down this old codger's gullet?!"
"Free booze—drink till ya drop tonight. If ya hadn't given me that first forge, how could've I opened my own? First pour's yours by right."
Yeom Cheol stared blankly a moment. Then his tough eyes reddened faintly; he roared with laughter and slapped my back hard with his soot-blackened hand.
"Kehahaha! Thought ya just pounded iron like a brute, but ya got manners too! Alright! Tonight, this old timer'll drink yer gift till I keel over!"
We sat facing each other on a rickety bench in the forge corner. Two chipped clay bowls brimmed with clear white liquor. The sharp alcohol stung my nose.
"Bottoms up!"
Clink! The dull thud echoed as fiery liquor scorched down my throat.
Over tales of steel and gossip about the haughty noblewoman and swaggering commander who'd visited, we drained bowl after bowl. Yeom Cheol's face flushed beet-red like glowing coals; my Vitality 55 kept the buzz light, but a pleasant haze enveloped me.
"Aman... ya rascal."
Jar half-empty, Yeom Cheol slurred slightly, leaning forward over the table. His eyes—boisterous moments ago—turned abruptly cold and grave, sobriety snapping back like a whip.
"Yes, old master."
I set down my bowl and straightened. Even through the buzz, I sensed the heavy, chilling warning in his voice.
He wiped sake droplets from his bushy beard with a rough hand, scanned the forge, then locked eyes with me.
"Ya caught Mi So-jeo's eye, snagged that prime custom forge, and yer raking in elite gold. Looks like yer beastly smithin' talent pierced the heavens. Hell, seein' ya thrive feels like my dead kid made it big—makes my gut swell with pride."
His thick finger tapped the table.
"But, Aman. Never... never let yer guard down."
"Guard down...?"
"Mi Merchant Guild ain't some ragtag peddlers. They fund Governor Do Geom's massive army and grip Xu Province's economy like a vise—the heart of real power. And pullin' its strings from the shadows is Mi Chuk's right-hand, the young miss."
His voice dropped spine-chillingly low.
"Don't fool yerself thinkin' yer free just 'cause she laid out the board and unlimited prime steel. Ya escaped slavery, sure—but she can make ya a slave again or kill ya anytime."
I swallowed dryly in silence. His words pierced the faint unease buried deep in my chest—the cold truth.
"Just 'cause ya can't see it don't mean it ain't there."
A hammer blow to the skull thudded through my mind. I'd thought my custom forge meant pure, solitary freedom.
"Long as yer skill suits her taste and brings the guild fat profits, ya'll be treated well. But the instant ya stray or arrogance makes ya screw up and harm the guild..."
He topped off my empty bowl with the last of the white liquor.
"I'll etch yer heavy warning bone-deep, old master."
I downed it in one gulp. The alcohol—harsher, more bitter than before—scraped my throat raw. But my mind cooled colder than the liquor, sober as ice.
Invisible eyes.