In that instant, a stale gust of air hit me—a cocktail of moldy paper, desiccated lizard tails, and some acrid, nose-burning spice. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but compared to the open-air sewage system outside, this air was practically high-society perfume.
The shop was dimly lit and claustrophobic. From the floorboards to the ceiling rafters, every square inch was crammed with inexplicable garbage: chipped clay pots, skulls of unidentified fauna, bundles of dried herbs, and rusty iron cages swaying ominously overhead.
“Welcome! Welcome to the Hall of Miracles!”
A shrill, raspy voice scratched from behind the counter.
A green-skinned goblin, standing no taller than four feet, hopped into view. His skin looked like wrinkled old tree bark, and he wore a comical monocle that magnified one eye to disturbing proportions. His silk vest was stained with grease and clearly tailored for someone twice his size.
This was Old Gob. According to Lyn’s intel, he was the biggest profiteer in Rustwater Port—and the most connected information broker.
I watched Gob’s cloudy yellow eyes perform a rapid spectral analysis of the four of us.
His gaze lingered for half a second on Brad’s massive right arm, hidden under a cloak but still hinting at its mechanical bulk, before sliding quickly to me—the one who looked the most "harmless."
“Outsiders?”
Old Gob rubbed his long, withered hands together, his fingernails caked with black grime. “Looks like you lot just crawled out of that damn desert. What’s your poison? I’ve got dried Red Lizard to put the lead back in a man’s pencil, or maybe something to smooth a lady’s skin… Oh, wait.”
His nose twitched twice. His gaze bypassed me and locked onto Zayla, who was standing in my shadow.
despite being wrapped in a thick tactical jacket, her innate regal aura—and the lethal radiation of a predator—didn't escape the old fox. I saw his pupils constrict.
“It seems you aren’t typical tourists,” Old Gob dropped the clownish salesman pitch. His voice dropped an octave. “Buying, or selling?”
“Selling.”
I walked to the counter, my fingers lightly tapping the wood surface, which was scarred by countless knife marks. “But before that, we need to verify your liquidity. I don’t want to bring out goods that will give you a heart attack… or bankrupt you.”
“Hah! Scare me?”
Old Gob laughed—a sound like metal grinding on glass. He yanked open a drawer under the counter with a loud Bang and slammed a gleaming short sword onto the table.
“Boy, look at this! Dug up from the Northern Dwarven Ruins! The ‘Iron-Cutter’! Forged with lost meteorite techniques! Even a knight’s plate armor is like wet paper before this beauty! This is my purchasing power!”
The sword did look decent. The blade featured cloud-patterning from the folding process, and the edge shimmered with a cold blue light.
Brad leaned over, took one look, and sneered. “Looks okay. It’s crooked though.”
“Crooked? What do you know!” Gob hopped up and down, swearing. “That is the soul of hand-forging! Every blade is unique!”
I didn’t speak. I simply activated my ocular interface.
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“45 HRC (Rockwell Hardness).”
I whispered the number, shaking my head with the genuine disappointment of an engineer. “Too soft. You call this an Iron-Cutter?”
I reached into the pocket of my tactical jacket—a cover for withdrawing an item from my Inventory—and slowly pulled out an object.
It wasn't a sword. It wasn't a knife.
It was an 18-inch Heavy-Duty Dual-Use Wrench.
Forged from Chrome-Vanadium Steel, heat-treated to perfection, and coated in a precision Mirror Chrome Finish. In the dim, grimy shop, the wrench looked like a solidified bolt of lightning. It reflected a cold, pure, flawless silver light.
Compared to the cloudy, yellowish sheen of the "Iron-Cutter," the visual difference was like comparing a 4K OLED screen to a faded black-and-white photograph.
“Wha… What metal is that?”
Old Gob’s eyes bulged. I could tell he had never seen a metal surface so geometrically perfect, so bright it looked like liquid mercury. “Is that… Mithril?”
“No. It’s called ‘Industrial Standard.’”
I smiled, standing the wrench vertically on the counter. It made a solid Ting sound.
“Old Gob, here is the bet. Strike this with your ‘Iron-Cutter.’ If you leave a single scratch, this artifact is yours. If your sword fails, then for the rest of this transaction, I set the terms.”
“You’re joking?”
Old Gob stared at the "silver stick," greed flickering in his eyes. It didn’t look that thick. “Fine! You asked for it!”
He grabbed the short sword, took a deep breath, and with all the strength his wiry frame could muster, he swung viciously at the center of the wrench.
Everyone held their breath.
CLANG—!!!
A sound of absolute metal-on-metal violence rang through the shop, crisp enough to vibrate the teeth.
There were no dramatic sparks. Just the cold, hard judgment of physics.
Old Gob yelped, nearly dropping the sword as the vibration traveled up his arm. He looked down, and his green face instantly drained to a pale grey.
The "Iron-Cutter" he had bragged about now sported a massive chip in the center of the blade. The kinetic energy had nowhere to go but back into the softer steel, causing the blade to bend visibly to the left.
And the wrench...
I reached out and wiped the point of impact with my thumb.
Not a scratch. The chrome plating remained mirror-perfect, reflecting Gob’s terrified face.
Chrome-Vanadium steel, when properly heat-treated, easily exceeds 60 HRC. Combined with the structural geometry designed to handle high torque, pitting it against a hand-forged carbon steel blade full of impurities was never a fair fight.
“This… This is impossible…” Gob trembled, reaching out to touch the wrench as if it were the skin of a god. “Indestructible… smooth as a mirror… What kind of divine enchantment is this?”
“It's the magic of Industry. We call it ‘Heat Treatment.’”
I stored the wrench away—it was just a prop to establish dominance. The real merchandise was coming next.
“Now, can we talk business?”
I snapped my fingers.
Rin, who had been waiting for her cue, stepped forward. Like she was presenting a crown jewel, she carefully unwrapped a small square block covered in oil paper.
As the layers of paper fell away, a scent exploded into the air—a smell that had likely never existed in this rotting, festering world.
It wasn't a heavy, cloying perfume. It was a sharp, cool, aggressive scent that felt like it was scrubbing your lungs clean.
Mint and Sea Salt.
It was a bar of industrial soap I had mass-produced back in Skydome City.
Inhale.
This time, it wasn't just Old Gob. I heard Zayla, who had been holding her breath to avoid the shop’s stench, take a deep, greedy lungful of air.
It was the smell of "Clean." In a world defined by filth, that scent was more intoxicating than gold.
“This… this…” Gob stared at the pale blue brick, salivating. “What alchemy potion is this?”
“This is the ‘Brick of Purification.’”
I started my marketing pitch with a straight face. “It washes away all filth. Physical… and spiritual. In the North, only High Priests are permitted to use it before prayer.”
I slid the soap toward Gob.
“I don’t need gold coins, Gob. I want that.”
I raised my hand and pointed to a black wooden box suspended from the highest rafter, wrapped in layers of chains.
Since the moment I entered, my System had been screaming about a high-energy signature coming from that exact spot.
“I want the intel on that ‘Flying Stone.’” I lowered my voice, my gaze sharpening.
Old Gob’s hands shook.
He looked at the soap. He looked at where the indestructible wrench had been. Finally, he glanced at the terrifying woman (Zayla) standing behind me, her nostrils flaring slightly as she basked in the minty aroma.
As a goblin who had survived sixty years, he knew exactly when to be greedy and when to fold.
“Deal.”
Gob gritted his sharp teeth and snatched the soap.
“But you have to tell me… this ‘Brick of Purification’… how many more do you have?”
I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose, the lenses catching a gleam of calculated light.
“That depends entirely on how much your intel is worth.”
Question of the Day: Gob is going to spill the beans on the "Flying Stone" (Anti-Gravity Core). How should we handle the negotiation for the rest of the soap?
(Click to choose)
?? A) The Monopoly Strategy.
Result: "Supply and Demand, baby." We drip-feed the market. Prices skyrocket. Rin becomes the Soap Queen of the wasteland.
?? B) The Intimidation Tactic.
Result: "Zayla, smile." We threaten to burn his shop down if he doesn't give us the core for free. High risk, high reward.
?? C) The Engineer's Trade.
Result: "I need scrap metal." We trade soap for his junk pile. I can recycle that trash into automated turrets. Efficiency is key.
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