Sewing Scissors

The aftereffects of the baekju coursed through my veins, wrapping my entire body in a dizzy haze, but my mind—drawing in the cold night air—was sharper and icier than ever.

"Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there."

Yeom Cheol's slurred, heavy warning echoed in my ears like an auditory hallucination the whole way from his forge to my workshop.

Mi Chuk. The greatest merchant in Xu Province, propping up Do Geom's military with his immense wealth. And behind that colossal power, at its very heart, Mi Chuk's younger sister, Mi So-jeo.

I wasn't independent. I was just a fancier figurehead trapped in the Mi Merchant Guild's gilded cage of capital and connections—a "pants boss" with pricier feathers. Most of the profits from my repairs and creations would be siphoned straight into the guild's coffers via the ledger, that noose disguised as accounting. All I'd get was whatever scraps they deigned to toss me.

Grateful to have risen from slave to this, sure. But they were just using my skills to line their pockets.

Still their slave. The ropes pulling the cart had merely changed to an invisible silk leash.

Thud, thud. Before I knew it, I'd reached the bustling heart of Xu Province's main street, where my workshop sat. The night was deep; most shops were shuttered tight, swallowed by pitch-black darkness. But across from my firmly closed front door, a faint lantern still glowed lonely in the street.

The dumpling shop. A shabby but sizable place in the perfect spot across the road, with a clear line of sight into my front door.

To fuel my late nights by the hearth or fill my empty stomach early mornings, the shop's plump, kindly auntie always tossed in extra dumplings for me.

"Young craftsman, hard work today too! Threw in an extra meat one—eat up and keep strong!"

Her warm, genial smile as she opened the steamer flashed in my mind.

Too many questions.

Memories shattered like fragments in my head. Her casual ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chatter, once dismissed while munching dumplings, now stabbed like daggers.

"Aigoo, Aman lad. This morning, that long-bearded, red-faced big fellow and the tiger-like giant came by again? What kind of pricey weapons are those guys commissioning?"

"Yesterday afternoon, some silk-robed merchant rolled in with a horde of guards? Stink of money wafting out the door—hope you charged 'em good for repairs?"

"Lad, you headed home early last night? Always hearing hammer strikes late. Young folks overdo it, and it's no good."

I'd taken it for nosy neighborhood gossip from a friendly, caring auntie. Ironclad belief. But now, post-Yeom Cheol's warning, my brain translated every bit of "chatter" into perfect "interrogation" and "reporting network."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

When I opened and closed the workshop. What nobles or warriors visited. How much I charged for repairs in gold. Even how long I hammered steel at night before resting.

Behind the dumpling auntie's genial smile lurked the chilling truth: Mi Merchant Guild spy. Under guild orders, she was the perfect, covert eye monitoring the uncontrollable variable I'd become, right in the middle of this busy street.

"Haha…."

A dry chuckle escaped me in the darkness.

I pulled the key from my pocket without a glance at the shop and unlocked the front door casually.

Creeeak—. The workshop was shrouded in pitch black. I stood blankly before the empty weapon racks.

My original plan: Open Subspace Forge nightly, forge D-grade or higher monster-slaying masterpieces, display them proudly on those racks. Lure the world's heroes to shower my place in gold.

Now aware of the watchful eyes, I knew that plan was suicide.

What if I never lit the hearth here at night, yet every morning those racks brimmed with new masterpieces?

Watchers staking out all night. No smoke from the chimney, no hammer echoes in the silence—and boom, finished weapons appear next dawn? That'd scream "I have secrets" to Mi So-jeo and the guild.

Absolutely not. The moment my system's existence—my greatest weapon and lifeline—leaked, I'd devolve into a true slave, forging endlessly in chains. No more figurehead; straight to some underground pit.

Never reveal everything. Split my hand and show only pieces.

Cold calculations spun wildly in my head.

Weapons for the racks: With my E-grade blacksmith senses and this hearth, I can still churn out rack-crushing arms from market scraps. Customers will go wild, and it'll cover the guild's tribute demands.

To fool Mi So-jeo and the surveillance net, I'd sweat here by day, hammering "show labor" in earnest.

And Subspace Forge… solely for my secret growth, crafting the most private, hidden things.

A training ground to vacuum experience, max my stats, level up. Ignore guild profits; absolute fortress to empower one man: Aman.

Double life. Day: Skilled figurehead fattening Mi coffers. Night: Dimension-hopping monster forging miracles.

With survival's path crystalized, my rattled mind settled. I parted the musk ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hide curtain blocking the reception, opened the iron door to my secret side room—the workshop's most secluded spot.

A windowless void, perfectly isolated. I sat cross-legged, breathing deep. My dantian brimmed with 11 mana, solid.

"Subspace Opening."

Whoosh—. Vision brightened; my level 3 sanctuary unveiled its grandeur. Towering brick hearth, twin mechanical bellows, flawless gleaming silver alloy anvil.

A red timer in the corner counted down from 11:00.

What to hammer today? No grand weapons. D-grade battle gear would net good exp, but I already had self-defense arms and tools. Hoarding high-end stuff risked exposure if pulled out—dumpling auntie's eyes questioning origins. Needed items to hide close or for private use.

A morning visitor's afterimage softly crossed my mind.

"I have no other talents, but I'm decent at sewing and dressmaking. I'd love to craft sturdy, heat-resistant craftsman's garb with my own hands…."

Guan Yu's sister, her pure eyes shy yet kind with goodwill.

Amid battlefield gore and rough metal, her fresh, warm voice lingered vividly through the forge's acrid heat.

"Sewing, huh…."

A soft curve touched my lips. Craftsmen shape crude ore; seamstresses need sharp, delicate tools for perfection. Especially for tough leather or thick cloth—scissors superior to blades, slicing precise and smooth.

Sewing scissors for Guan Yu's sister. Tomorrow, a needle set? If she sews for me, I'll gift her top tools.

Utterly unlike weapon forging. No bone-crushing brute force; demanded ultra-fine control, steel's elasticity meshing hair-thin precision.

One level 3 perk: Material nook with assorted stacks. I picked clean silver-white white lotus steel—balanced carbon for keen edges, rust-resistant.

[Remaining time: 09:10]

No delay: Tongs clamped the steel lump, thrust deep into the hearth. I pumped the bellows handles lightly.

Shiiiik—! Shiiik—! Level 3 facilities were flawless. No sweat-drenched heaving; bellows purred, blasting fierce winds into the heart. Flames blazed blue; steel glowed cherry-transparent.

"Alright, delicate work." Anvil-placed hot white lotus steel; hammer gripped.

Clang—! Clang—! Clang—! No prior violent blasts. Rhythmic, drum-like beats filled the forge.

Scissors: Twin symmetric blades pivoting on one axis. I split the lump into two slim, sleek steel bars with precise strikes.

Inner faces perfectly flat, outer curved fine. Ensures blades meet only at tips, slicing cloth clean without chewing.

E-grade knowledge guided my fingertips flawlessly. For rings: Hammered one bar-end broad, pierced center for elegant oval fitting a woman's slender thumb and forefinger.

Crude lump softened in heat, flowing into sleek silver swallow form.

[Remaining time: 06:30]

Blades mirror-matched, I drilled the critical pivot hole. Heated a wrought iron pin snippet, overlapped blades, hammered it through.

Tang, tang, tang! Riveting: Spread pin-head flat with micro-strikes. Too hard, blades bind; ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too soft, they loosen, cloth snags.

Strength 13 feathered light; fingertip sense alone tuned perfect tension.

[Remaining time: 04:00]

Form done; tongs dunked whole scissors into clear water beside anvil.

Ssssh—! No weapon-quench roar. Brief steam; hardness set cool.

Dried with soft leather, whetted blade-flat on fine whetstone dozens of times.

Finally, sleek elegant sewing scissors gleamed softly in my palm. Thumb and forefinger in rings; snipped air.

Snick— snick-snack—. Chillingly smooth. Near-zero resistance at cross; severance whistle hair-splitting keen. No brute arms' destruction—precision artistry from ultimate craftsmanship.

[Remaining time: 01:40]

Timer ample. Satisfied smile; scissors on workbench. Gazed expectantly for system's glittering rewards, stat ups.

But.

"……Huh?"

My eyes widened faintly in confusion. Blue system window held only sparse D-grade verdict and success note.

No awaited thrill: [Stat Increase: Vitality/Mana +1].

No stat up?

D-grade quality from Subspace Forge, yet no growth?

Why? Black iron buffer or Green Dragon Crescent Blade gave explosive vitality/mana boosts.

Pure RPG mechanics. Level 1: Slimes/goblins popped levels, stats soared. High level: Hundreds of same mobs barely nudge exp bar.

This blacksmith path followed suit.

Scissors masterful, but crafting lacked yesterday's muscle-tearing, mana-burning "breakthrough pain." Level 3 gear and strength 13 made it routine, safe—like a pro's daily grind.

"Survival system, not charity handing stats for casual work."

Reason clear; defiance surged instead.

My growth demands exponentially more exp per stat. Everyday tools or weapons won't budge my body anymore.

[Remaining time: 00:10]

Timer flashed red, return imminent. I rose, wrapped glowing scissors in hemp cloth, pocketed tenderly.

[Remaining time: 00:00]

Vision warped intensely; subspace's grand stone walls dissolved into ether.