Production Success
Even if it was a pathetic little setup, this was my perfect sanctuary—a flawless escape from the gruesome stench of blood in the outside world, the threat of bandits, and the merciless violence of the escort warriors. Nothing could touch me here.
But there was no time to bask in this miraculous sense of relief. In the corner of my retina floated a red timer, squeezing my throat second by second, urging me to survive.
04:21
The duration was only five minutes. I'd already burned nearly one just looking around and grasping the situation. If it ran out, I'd be forcibly sent back to that cold, dangerous forest, and with my mana at zero, I wouldn't be able to return until tomorrow dawned.
No time. I have to make something right now.
I had to figure out exactly how this forge worked and how the 'Blacksmith' system assigned to me operated—by trial and error.
I grabbed the rusty tongs hanging by the pitch-black anvil and a blunt-headed hammer. Then I started frantically rummaging through the cramped dirt hut for anything I could hammer.
No kind status window handed out items, no material crates dropped from the sky. This damn system had only tossed me the bare minimum—a furnace and a hammer—and the rest was up to my own labor.
"Damn it, what's the point of a forge without a single scrap of metal!"
I bit my lip in frustration and kicked the dirt floor hard.
Clang— From beneath the dust cloud, a dull, familiar metallic ring struck my ears. My eyes snapped wide. I flung the hammer aside and dropped to my knees like a beast, clawing at the dirt with both hands. Black soil jammed under my nails and scratches tore my skin, but I didn't care. Soon, hard objects caked in dirt surfaced at my fingertips.
"This is…"
What I unearthed were utter junk—worthless scrap metal. Crude iron chunks the length of my fingers, a dozen thick nails with heads smashed flat and rusted red, and bent horseshoe fragments from who-knows-where, discarded and twisted.
Even a modern scrap dealer wouldn't weigh them. They must have been buried in the floor of this level 1 cramped forge from the start. But right now, to me, these pathetic rusted scraps shone more precious than any gold or jewels. They were the lifeline to save my neck.
03:40
I picked the thickest, most intact one—a rusted iron nail as thick as an adult man's thumb. Way too small for a longsword or ring-pommel saber, but enough to sharpen into something deadly for self-defense right now.
I snatched the tongs from the dirt and clamped the nail's end tight. Sizzle. As I approached the crude furnace belching heat, a scorching blast hit my face like it would singe my eyebrows. I plunged the tongs into the pile of glowing charcoals. With my free hand, I gripped the handle of the massive beast-hide bellows beside it and pumped rhythmically, throwing my weight into it.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Each stroke sucked fierce winds into the furnace, igniting the dormant coals into a roaring blaze that spiked the temperature wildly. The cramped hut turned oven-hot in seconds, sweat pouring from every pore like rain. Without the endurance honed from endless modern-day grunt work, I'd have fled the infernal heat on the spot.
02:55
Just dozens of seconds of bellowing, and the nail buried in the coals shed its red rust and impurities in black char, glowing cherry-red. Perfect temperature for smelting metal.
I wrenched it from the furnace with the tongs. The softened, molten lump went straight onto the black anvil. I hefted the blunt hammer in my right hand—the rough wooden grip bit into my palm, the head's weight straining my shoulder muscles taut.
Neither as my past self Kang Do-yoon nor as the original owner of this body, the porter Aman, had I ever worked a forge. No knowledge of how to strike iron, what angle to apply force for the desired shape. But the instant I raised the hammer, a faint but clear sensation flickered through my mind—like instinctively knowing how to pedal a bike on your first try. The F-rank Blacksmith job was injecting subtle knowledge and instincts into my muscles and nerves. Where to strike to purge impurities, how to hammer for dense compression—that vague yet sharp sense tingled through my fingertips.
"Hup!"
I exhaled the acrid air from my lungs and slammed the raised hammer down on the glowing nail on the anvil.
Clang— A sharp, crisp crack shook the hut's walls. The impact rebounded viciously up the wooden handle, battering my wrist, elbow, and shoulder joints mercilessly.
"Kuh…!"
A grunt escaped me. Instinct in my head was one thing; this wretched body's limits were another. Strength 10. The porter's feeble frame couldn't fully absorb the shock. The first blow glanced off the anvil's edge, sparks flying to sting my forearm and cheek. But I didn't stop. The pathetic memory of dying on the run in my past life, the beastly contempt heaped on porter Aman. That horrific powerlessness fueled rage and venom into my hammer grip.
"I won't… die like a dog again!"
I licked the blood from my bitten lip, regripped the rebounding hammer, and reset my stance.
01:40
No time. Had to shape it before the iron cooled. I braced my legs firm on the dirt, swung the hammer high using my waist's torque, and drove my full weight down on one precise point.
Clang!! Clang!! Craaang!! Violent hammering filled the forge. The erratic strikes steadied into rhythm after three, four blows.
My ears rang only with the hammer's friction on metal and my beastly grunts. Sweat stabbed my eyes like rain, but no time to wipe. Each strike ejected black impurities, compressing the softening metal denser, sharpening into a point.
My muscles screamed to tear, yet my mind sharpened eerily clear. Not killing or destroying, but creating from nothing—from junk to something useful with my own hands. Pure, heavy labor's thrill.
"Just a little more, just a bit more!"
00:30
The nail's tip honed razor-sharp into a lethal awl. As the heat faded to dull red, I summoned my last strength for the most precise strike.
Craaang!! Perfect hit. The final blow shaped it fatally as desired. I snatched it with tongs and plunged it into the murky water barrel in the corner without hesitation.
Ssssss—!! Quenching—the rapid temperature shift maxing the metal's hardness and locking its structure.
I carefully lifted it from the water. The rusted junk rolling on the floor had transformed into a black, solid awl the length of an adult's finger—sharp and heavy. No ornate decoration or magic. Crude and ugly. But more than enough to pierce a throat or eye in a real fight. A practical hidden weapon. And that instant—
00:05
As the timer raced to zero, dazzling blue system windows flashed across my vision one after another.
Crude Iron Awl (F-rank) completed.
The core system of the Blacksmith job activates.
You overcome the limits of your body through creative labor.
The moment I read it, my breath caught. This wasn't just visual text. The right arm and shoulder muscles, screaming from hammering, softened like soaking in hot springs, regenerating in seconds.
And more. From deep in my heart, through the innermost veins, an unknown warm, heavy energy surged like a waterfall, spreading to every peripheral nerve. The chronic pain from cart weights crushing my shoulders, the blisters stabbing my soles, the gut-wrenching malnutrition from days of starvation—all that bodily torment and fatigue ebbed away like a receding tide, subtly but undeniably.
Filling the void was dense, bursting vitality. My bones subtly thickened, loose muscles under skin compressed tough like rubber bands—a vivid, overwhelming sensation.
Numerically, +1 seemed trivial, but on this porter's rotting, fatigue-wracked body, Stamina +1 was miraculous salvation and vigor. I clearly saw the status window update.
Stamina: 50 → 51
No lie. No overwork hallucination. This was the true nature of my power. No need for bloody monster fights or dungeon death traps. In my safe, isolated Subspace Forge, the sacred labor of hammering metal and creating raised my stats permanently. An absolute cheat system.
00:00
Returning to the real world.
The system window blinked red, and my vision warped sharply again. The furnace heat, acrid smoke stinging my nose, cramped dirt walls—all vanished into thin air.
Pop— I blinked, standing once more in the pitch-black, bone-chilling forest of the Three Kingdoms era, wind whistling eerily.
"Just by making things… I get stronger."