I Thought It Was a Blacksmith
"Ah, right."
Mariel, sorting through a mountain of paperwork at the inn's dining table, twirled her pen and suddenly asked,
"Sir Zick, how do you plan to handle the proceeds from the last Arachne nest reconnaissance mission?"
"Didn't we already get the mission success reward?"
Zick tilted his head. Mariel set down her pen and slid a document across to him.
"That's just the base reward. What I'm talking about now are the byproducts from the Arachne Queen. The remaining beasts were handled through subjugation missions issued by the Bureau, but you took down the Queen solo, right? So the Queen's byproducts belong entirely to you. Sell them and you'd fetch a pretty decent price."
Beside her, Reno's eyes glittered as he worked through the ledgers. He snapped the book shut with a crisp sound and smiled smoothly.
"Lord Zick, byproducts from high-tier beasts are extremely valuable goods. Even a straightforward sale, if we get a good price, would easily cover nearly half a year of our party's operating expenses. So why don't we sell them quickly before their value drops and put the money toward our activity funds?"
It sounded like a suggestion, but an unspoken pressure hung in the air—refuse, and the corner of that ledger might find his forehead. Zick broke into a cold sweat and sneaked a glance at the sword at his hip.
It was a mass-produced blade Reno had bargained hard for at a reputable workshop in the capital. Decent enough gear, yet the last mission had taken its toll; chips marred the edge in places. The leather grip and scabbard were worn and fraying as well.
Zick shifted his gaze and casually scanned his companions' equipment. The shoulder of Gerard's armor was badly dented. Several of Drake's daggers had tips that looked subtly dulled. A fine crack ran through the jewel set in Ainz's staff, and even the cover of Noah's scripture and the leather cord of Reno's ledger were thoroughly worn. Not a single one of them carried gear in good condition.
Zick lifted his head with resolve.
"No. All proceeds from the Queen Arachne's byproducts go toward reinforcing the party's equipment."
"What? All of it?"
Reno's voice jumped a beat higher.
"Lord Zick! I know gear is important. But if we blow the entire profit, what about next month's operating funds? You should at least keep half. We need a reserve, don't we?"
Zick shook his head firmly and shared what he had heard during his last interview with the Director.
"Actually, when I spoke with the Director, she mentioned something. A designated mission might be coming our party's way soon."
"A designated mission? For a rookie hero party?"
Mariel, still organizing papers, slapped the desk and went wide-eyed. Designated missions were exceptional work usually reserved only for mid-tier or higher veteran hero parties with strong records and renown, so her shock was only natural.
Zick scratched his cheek sheepishly and added,
"They must have liked that we took down the Queen Arachne alone. The mayor of Orten nominated our party directly for the request."
The related paperwork would reach Mariel soon enough. As a mission too high-grade for a rookie party to handle easily, the difficulty would clearly be on another level.
"So this time, let's pour every last coin of the byproduct profits into proper gear maintenance. We can always earn more money later."
Faced with Zick's earnest persuasion, Reno—who had been clutching the ledger tight—finally looked weakly up at the ceiling. It was the gaze of a man who had lost everything.
"Bye-bye. My next month's operating funds. It was short, but you made me happy."
As Reno sniffled while hugging the ledger, Zick smiled awkwardly and patted his shoulder.
"Don't worry too much, Reno. Once we finish this designated mission well, our party's reputation will rise. Then the Bureau's support funds will jump way higher than now."
"May I write that down in the ledger? We need clear accountability later."
"Terrifying."
Until then Gerard had been listening quietly, arms folded. Now he spoke, his sharp eyes stabbing a chill down Zick's spine.
"In that case, we should train even more rigorously until the designated mission arrives. Drake, Ainz. For a while, we double the usual training intensity—no, triple it."
"Why did the number suddenly go up?!"
"Keh heh. At this rate we might have to prepare the hero's funeral before the designated mission even shows up."
"From what I saw last mission, you were reading and modifying the internal formula of a magic tool on the spot. Focusing on that part this time should be perfect."
Then Noah, who had been silent, clasped his hands together with a smile so dazzling it bordered on grotesque. An unreadable hunger and madness flickered briefly behind his eyes.
"Then I should come up with a new training method for your Authority, Sir Hero. After the last mission, I finally have a rough outline of how it works."
"Even you, Noah?! Your face is scary! I'm actually going to die at this rate!"
Watching Zick wail, Mariel could only flash a thumbs-up in admiration.
A few days later, Zick had not died.
He merely looked like a dead man.
Slumped in a chair in the inn's dining room, Zick stared blankly into space. His eyes were unfocused, his shoulders sagged, and his soul seemed half-gone from his body. Gerard's hellish strengthening regimen that pushed him to the absolute limit. Drake's surprise ambushes that came without warning, forcing constant evasion. Ainz's formula interpretation that made his head feel ready to explode, and Noah's endless Authority research that treated him like a lab rat. It had been several days of reducing one human being to a rag.
At least today Gerard had taken his monthly day off, so Zick could finally breathe.
"I'm alive. Long live the monthly holiday."
When Zick muttered it under his breath, Reno—gathering the ledgers beside him—replied evenly,
"Please don't forget that the party finances are shaky thanks to that very system. Appraisal on some of the Queen Arachne byproducts is already finished. We'll prioritize urgent gear first and put the rest up for auction, so today we will not waste a single coin."
And so the two of them headed for the capital's commercial district to reinforce their equipment.
The scale of the Empire's capital commercial district far exceeded anything Zick had imagined. Shops lined both sides of the broad avenue without end. In the forges of short, heavily muscled dwarves with bushy beards, hammer blows rang without pause. Long-eared elf craftsmen of mysterious air had customers queued up to examine their bows. Beastfolk merchants waved leather armor and called out to passersby, while orcs hoisted axes as big as themselves and bellowed about cheap, sturdy goods. The scents of every spice, roasting meat, and molten metal mingled with the lively shouts of the crowd and the clatter of carriages.
"Whoa, the Empire really is the Empire. There are so many people."
When Zick marveled, Reno—walking ahead—pushed up the frame of his glasses.
"This is where every good in the Imperial capital passes through. The place we're headed is the workshop street other heroes frequent most often."
"So which shop are we going to today? The one where you hammered the price down last time and bought a sword for almost cost?"
"I didn't hammer it down; I bargained. The merchant was simply moved to see his goods find their proper value."
Zick quietly shut his mouth. The vivid memory of the shopkeeper nearly weeping as he handed over the sword made him think, privately, that merchants really were terrifying.
Reno continued,
"That shop isn't bad, but for superior goods we need to go elsewhere. The place we're visiting this time is one that supposedly carries dwarf-made equipment."
Zick's eyes widened. The words "dwarf-made equipment" set his heart racing for no reason. But the reality that a single dwarf-forged sword cost more than a hundred of the blades he currently carried quickly returned, and he asked worriedly if they weren't overreaching.
"Heh heh. There's always a way, so just trust me and follow. I get stronger when I'm broke, you see."
Caught between expectation and anxiety, Zick trailed after him.
At first the dazzling white marble signs of weapon shops and high-end stores displaying magic swords lined the street, dazzling the eye. But Reno passed every gleaming shop without a glance and kept walking deeper, into quieter corners where the streets grew older and more worn.
"Reno. We are heading to workshop street, right? The shops have been looking worse and worse for a while now."
"You're imagining things. Fine equipment is always hidden in unexpected places."
At last the two stopped before an extremely dilapidated building. A crooked signboard, walls blackened by soot, a roof that looked ready to collapse at any moment—it resembled a ruin more than a shop.
"This is really a place that sells dwarf-made gear? From the outside it looks too run-down even for a vagrant to stay."
Faced with Zick's reasonable suspicion, Reno claimed he had heard it from a reliable source and, without so much as a blink, gripped the iron ring of the old wooden door and shoved it open.
With a hair-raising creak the door swung wide. Contrary to its ruined exterior, the interior of the shop was surprisingly tidy. Zick glanced around at the unfamiliar air.
Behind the counter deeper inside sat an elderly man reading a newspaper in a daze. Even when the door opened, the old man merely turned a page with indifference and never once looked their way.
Customer service is completely nonexistent.
Zick muttered inwardly and tugged lightly on Reno's sleeve.
"Reno, are we really buying gear here? The inside is cleaner than I expected, but I don't see any equipment worth mentioning. Is this even actually a gear shop?"
"Heh heh, just leave it to me."
Reno strode confidently to the counter with a self-assured smile. Standing before the old man, he murmured in a low voice,
"Black iron does not fear the fire."
The old man's hand, mid-turn of the page, froze. Slowly folding the newspaper, he fixed Reno with cloudy eyes. Only after a heavy silence did his dry lips part.
"Who is the introducer?"
"Come now. Revealing the source of information is a merchant's taboo. Instead, take a look at this."
Reno drew a small iron token stamped with a red seal from his coat and set it on the counter with a soft clack. The old man examined the token, then looked the two of them over again. His brow furrowed especially at Zick, who wore a chipped mass-produced sword at his hip.
"I'll open the door for you, but if you don't want to get hurt, you'd best turn around now. This is no place for greenhorns to come sightseeing."
The heavy warning carried weight, yet Reno only smiled gently without so much as a twitch.
"It's fine. You need not worry about our hero. He handles most problems on his own."
Suddenly finding the hot potato tossed his way, Zick's eyes went round with shock.
"Huh? Me? What am I supposed to do?"
He asked in bewilderment, but Reno only beamed without answering. The old man quietly shook his head and pushed heavily against the soot-stained wall behind the counter. With a dull scrape, a hidden door to a secret passage slid open. He jerked his chin briefly.
"Follow."
The old man walked first into the darkness, and Reno followed without hesitation. Zick scratched his head, then finally trailed after them in silence, stepping down the old wooden stairs.
The moment they passed the door, the chill unique to underground spaces washed over them. The farther they went down the long, narrow corridor, the more the lively hammering of a forge gave way to low, furtive voices murmuring over bargains. A faint scent of blood brushed their noses, mixed with the sharp odor of unknown herbs.
At last they reached a vast underground plaza packed with customers whose faces were thoroughly hidden by black hoods and cloaks. On the display stands their gazes touched, military equipment bearing the clear Imperial Army standard marks and famous swords of unknown noble houses lay casually side by side. And that was not all. Unregistered magic tomes whose trade was strictly forbidden on the open market. Rare monster venom glands that could never be obtained through official channels. Illegal magic tools and mysterious forbidden drugs littered every side. In one corner of the wall, wanted posters were plastered thickly and being traded.
Zick's eyes slowly widened. An illegal scene unimaginable in broad daylight in the heart of the capital. He swallowed hard and looked at Reno, who was calmly examining the goods on a stall as if nothing were amiss.
There was a place like this right in the middle of the capital?