The bell above the door chimed a soft, melodic greeting as Kage pushed it open. He stepped from Oakhaven's muddy, torchlit streets into the warm, aromatic sanctuary of The Verdant Apothecary. The air hung thick and pleasant with the layered scents of dried lavender, sharp mint, and the earthy aroma of freshly ground roots. It was a world away from the damp, metallic rot of the Goblin Mines.
For a fraction of a second, the calm of the place was a balm. Then, the ghost of a notification flickered in the corner of his vision. A five-figure number that made the digital gold in his inventory feel like children's play money.
He suppressed the thought with the efficiency of long practice. One problem at a time. The most immediate problem was standing behind the counter, humming softly as she arranged a series of coloured glass vials.
Old Anya looked up, her wrinkled face crinkling into a smile. "Ah, the young Poet returns! And in one piece, it seems. I trust the mines were... inspiring?"
Kage walked to the polished wooden counter. He didn't bother with pleasantries. The optimal path to a reward was a straight line.
"Quest items," he stated, and a stack of dark, spongy moss appeared in his hands. He placed it carefully on the counter.
Anya's eyes lit up. "Oh, my! You found it! And so much of it!" She counted the clumps. "One, two... thirteen! The quest only asked for five. You are a diligent one, aren't you?"
Kage's face remained a neutral mask. His internal monologue was anything but.
Extra materials provided. Positive NPC disposition achieved.
Potential for reward modifier: high.
Anya picked up a standard piece of the Gloom-moss. It was a drab, dark green. "This will do wonders for Herman's poultice," she murmured, her expert fingers probing its texture. "The damp-chill of the mines gets into the bones, you see. This little fellow coaxes it out."
Then, her eyes fell upon the final piece he'd harvested—the high-quality one. It was different. Where the others were merely dark, this one seemed to drink the light around it. A deep, velvety black-green, with faint, silvery veins that pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence.
Her humming stopped. She picked it up with a reverence that startled him.
"By the First Sapling," she whispered, her voice filled with awe. "Where did you find this? This isn't just Gloom-moss... this is the heart of the gloom itself. It's what we call a 'Pristine Specimen.' I haven't seen one in thirty years."
She looked at him, her gaze sharp and intelligent. "You didn't just stumble upon this, did you?"
Kage met her gaze. He gave a single, noncommittal nod. A lie through omission was efficient. No need to explain the mechanics of his harvesting to an NPC, no matter how advanced her AI.
A system window materialized in his vision.
[Quest 'A Stubborn Ailment' Complete!]
[You have delivered Gloom-moss x13.]
[Hidden Objective Complete: Deliver a Pristine Specimen.]
[EXP Gained: 400]
[LEVEL UP! You are now Level 6!]
[You have unspent attribute points.]
He immediately opened his character panel to assign the points, but stopped. One of the quest rewards was a weapon. And he needed to be extremely careful with the requirements.
[Reputation with 'Old Anya' has increased to: Respected.]
[Reputation with 'Oakhaven' has increased by 50.]
[Fame has increased by 10.]
[You have received 15 Silver.]
Anya pushed the quest reward—a small, heavy pouch of silver coins—across the counter. Then she added another, smaller pouch next to it. "The town pays for the quest. I pay for quality." Another ten silver coins clinked into his inventory.
25 silver. Exceeds initial projection. Good.
"Thank you for this, Kage," she said, her tone sincere. "This will do more than just heal Herman's injury. This will restore some of the vigor the mine has stolen from him over the years."
She straightened up, a determined glint in her eye. "A standard reward won't do. Not for this. The agreement was for a weapon, yes? But for a service of this quality, you deserve a choice."
Anya bustled to the back of the shop, returning with a heavy, iron-banded wooden box. She placed it on the counter with a solid thud and unlatched the front clasp. The inside was lined with worn velvet, cradling three distinct items.
"Most adventurers see a problem and look for the biggest tool to smash it with," she said, her gaze sweeping over the items. "A bigger axe, a fancier staff. But a Poet... a Poet understands that the right tool isn't always the most obvious one. Your spirit is... flexible. Choose what speaks to you."
Kage's eyes scanned the contents, his mind instantly parsing the data.
The first was a shortbow of pale, almost white wood, its string shimmering with a faint magical energy. [Whisperwood Shortbow]. His brain supplied the probable market data. Easy to sell, likely for a premium.
The second was a wand carved from a twisted piece of obsidian, with a single, unblinking rune glowing near the tip. [Runic Apprentice Wand]. Mage gear. Always a high-value commodity. A safe, profitable option.
The third item was a sword.
It was... plain. The blade was a hand-span longer than his current iron sword, forged from a dark, matte steel that absorbed the lamplight. There were no glowing runes, no elegant curves. It was a thick-spined, brutally practical tool for cutting. The crossguard was a simple bar of steel, the grip wrapped in dark, oiled leather. It was completely unadorned, save for a small, stamped mark near the hilt: a tiny, perfect anvil.
His analytical mind, the Operator, screamed at him. The bow or the wand. The sword is a low-value archetype. The market is saturated with common sword drops. Resale value is minimal. Take the gold.
But his hands... his hands felt a familiar itch. The calluses on his palms, a legacy from a life before this one, seemed to tingle. He saw the balance in its plain design, the purpose in its forward-weighted blade. This was a weapon made by someone who understood that a sword's only job was to be a sword. Perfect form, perfect function.
The Prodigy, the part of him he kept buried, made the decision.
He reached into the box, his fingers closing around the leather-wrapped hilt of the Dwarven shortsword. The weight felt right. Solid. Real.
Anya smiled, a knowing, satisfied look on her face. "An excellent choice. May it serve you well."
A new window appeared.
[Dwarven Steel Shortsword]
Quality:Uncommon
Type:One-Handed Sword
Stats:
Physical Attack: +48
Attack Speed: +10%
Armor Penetration: +5%
Durability: 75 / 75
Requirements:
Level 10
Strength (STR): 22
Description:A prime example of early Dwarven metalsmithing. The blade is thick-spined and forged from a single billet of folded steel, eschewing a polished gleam for a practical, matte finish that won't betray its wielder with an errant reflection. The balance is weighted slightly towards the tip, designed for powerful, decisive cuts rather than nimble fencing. Each of these blades is stamped with the simple maker's mark of a clan anvil, a quiet promise of quality and endurance.
The stats were a massive jump. His [Novice's Iron Sword] offered a paltry +19 attack. This was more than double. The extra speed and armor penetration were good enough bonuses.
Then, another line of text faded into view beneath the main description. It was written in a faint, silver-grey italicized script, as if the stone it was forged from was whispering a secret only he could hear.
An anvil's promise, kept in steel.
Kage's eye twitched. An inefficient decoration forced upon his UI by his bloated Artistry stat.
But then his eyes locked on the requirements. Level 10. He was only 6. And Strength 22. His was at 13.
He needed nine more points in Strength. He gained two attribute points per level. That meant for the next four levels, every single point would have to be dumped into Strength. Level 10 would grant him the final point needed. It was a complete deviation from his ART-stacking build. A massive investment.
For a moment, the Operator reasserted itself. This is inefficient. A five-level stat commitment for a single piece of gear. Sell it. Buy something usable now. Optimize the present.
Then, the red numbers from the hospital bill ghosted across his vision again. Eight thousand dollars. A debt that felt like a mountain. He did a quick, dirty calculation. This sword, an Uncommon Level 10 weapon, might fetch 80 silver, maybe a one and a half gold on the player market if he found the right buyer. Eighty silver translated to... roughly seven hundred dollars.
It wasn't bad. But he was already commited.
The only way this sword—this game—mattered was if he could exploit the system. If he could turn a 80-silver item into a 10-gold one.
He needed to make it worth more. And fast. The RMT prices were dropping with each passing hour.
The thought solidified in his mind. He had the [Concept: Chained Fury]. He had a theory. Now, he had a vessel. The sword's plain, unadorned nature was perfect. It was a blank canvas.
His internal turmoil settled. The choice was made. The path was set.
He dragged the [Dwarven Steel Shortsword] into his inventory, the slight chime of the system confirming the action.
The unassigned points went into investment.
Strength: 13-> 15
"The injured miner," Kage said, his voice as flat as ever. The pivot back to the quest objective was jarring, but Anya didn't seem to notice. "Herman. What's his status?"
"Ah, yes. Old Man Herman," she said, carefully wrapping the pristine Gloom-moss in waxed paper. "I'm just finishing the poultice now. It needs to steep for a bit to draw out the potency. I'll be heading over to the Miner's Bunkhouse myself to apply it. Best to have a skilled hand for these things."
She glanced at a large, sand-filled hourglass on a nearby shelf. "Meet me there in, say, an hour? That should give it enough time to be ready. He'll be glad for the company. The old man loves telling stories."
"Understood," Kage said. An hour. Perfect.
He gave a short nod, turned, and walked out of the shop, the bell chiming his departure. The warmth and fragrant air gave way to the cool night and the smell of damp earth.
His inventory felt heavier now, not just from the weight of the silver and the Dwarven steel, but from the crushing pressure of his plan. He had a weapon, a concept, and a one-hour window before his next objective.
It was time for the Poet to learn the art of the forge.