The Great Smithy loomed ahead, the heat shimmer already dancing over the cobblestones. Rufus was standing outside the massive iron-bound doors, his thick arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a boulder with a beard. When he saw us, his face split into a grin so wide I could see the gold rings in his teeth.
He stomped forward and delivered a back-pat that would have shattered the spine of a lesser man. "Arthur! Lad! You're alive!" He paused, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air. "Is that... lavender and burnt sulfur? And why are you sparkling like a bride's veil?"
"Occupational hazard," I grunted, checking to make sure he hadn't left a handprint on my "Divine" leather. "Met some 'fans' in the alley. They were very excited about the Orange Relic."
Rufus's expression darkened instantly. "The glitter-bomb? The merchants were squawking about it ten minutes ago. Said some thugs were causing a riot in the lower district. Was that you?"
"Thugs? Rufus, those were Royal Spies disguised as the world's worst pharmacists," I said, leaning back with a smirk. "They tried to play with fire—literally—so I gave them a taste of the 'Internal Logic.' Let's just say they're currently finding glitter in places glitter shouldn't be."
Rufus let out a booming laugh that rattled the nearby weapon racks. "Royal Spies! Hah! You've been in the city for few days and you're already making the Queen's shadows look like circus clowns. I love it!"
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, reverent rumble. "But forget the spies. Come inside, Arthur. I've spent all night working on the 'Secret Project' with my half of the Divine Vessel. I've created something... well, I've never seen anything like it. It hums, lad. It actually hums."
Behind us, Elsa let out a tiny gasp. "The Vessel... he's already forged with the Sacred Crinkly Skin?"
"Move it, you two," I said, waving them toward the forge. "I want to see if my trash really did become your treasure. And remember what I said about the wheelbarrow, Rufus. I'm not here for a chat; I'm here for the gold."
I followed Rufus into the back of the forge, stepping past massive anvils and glowing coals. I was prepared for the worst—maybe a sad, lumpy DIY project held together by dwarven spit and hope. But when Rufus pulled the "Secret Project" from a velvet-lined box, my jaw actually hit the soot-stained floor.
It wasn't a pouch. It was a masterpiece of masculine luxury.
He had taken the orange Cheetos plastic and somehow fused it with reinforced dragon-leather and enchanted silver filigree. The "Chester Cheetah" logo was front and center, encased in a polished crystal lens like a holy relic. Around the edges, he'd inlaid tiny, glowing amber gems that pulsed in sync with the "Divine Pouch's" heartbeat.
"Arthur," Rufus whispered, his voice trembling with religious fervor. "I tried to soften the material with the Great Forge Fire—the fire that melts titan-steel. It didn't even singe. The Sacred Orange Skin laughed at my flames!"
I stared at the pouch. Well, yeah, Rufus. It's non-biodegradable microplastics. That stuff survives for one million years in a landfill; your little campfire didn't stand a chance.
"And then," Rufus continued, his eyes wide, "Elsa's kin tried to freeze it with a Seventh-Tier Ice Glaze. The frost slid off it like water off a duck's back. This material... it ignores the elements themselves!"
My merchant brain started spinning at roughly 4,000 RPM. Wait a minute. If a $0.05 plastic bag is an indestructible, element-proof 'God-Skin' in this world... I'm not just a snack dealer. I'm an arms manufacturer for high-grade armor plating! I can sell the heart-attack-inducing puffs for gold, and then sell the trash they came in for even MORE gold! "Now that," I muttered, a dark, greedy smirk stretching across my face, "is what we call a sustainable business model."
Just as I was about to ask if he could make a matching wallet, Helga swept into the room, her silk robes billowing. She stopped dead when she saw me. Her eyes traveled from my face down to the sleek, matte-black "God-Skin" jacket.
"Arthur!" she shrieked. "You're... you're not dissolved! Elsa sent a message saying you were drenched in Royal Dragon-Bile!"
"Mistress Helga, it's true!" Elsa chirped, stepping forward with dramatic flair. "The liquid melted the very stones of the street, but when it touched Arthur's mantle, it simply... vanished! Not a single stitch was harmed!"
Rufus dropped his tongs. He walked over to me, his thick fingers trembling as he touched the sleeve of my China-made leather jacket. He looked like he was touching the face of a god.
"The Alchemist's Bane..." he breathed. "A garment that denies the corrosion of the Heavens."
Suddenly, the two most powerful business titans in the district—and one rainbow-haired elf—dropped to their knees. They weren't just showing respect; they were bowing so low their foreheads were hitting the dirt.
"Forgive us, Master Arthur!" Helga wailed, her usual merchant pride completely evaporated. "We knew you were a genius, but to walk through dragon-bile in a mantle of the gods... you were truly sent from the Heavens to lead us!"
What the hell are they talking about?
I was shocked. NO! Shock was not the right word.
"Okay, okay, get up," I said, waving my hand dismissively while trying to hide how much I was enjoying the ego boost. "It's just a jacket. It's got 'reinforced polymer,' which is basically 'Heaven-speak' for 'I'm better than you.' Now, quit the head-butting with the floor. We have gold to count and more 'divine snacks' to summon."
I looked at the "Divine Pouch" again. I could already see the headlines: Local "Scholar" Crashes Economy with Divine Relic and Spicy Orange Mana Boost.
*****
A few minutes later.
The golden morning light filtering through the Smithy's soot-stained windows suddenly felt very cold. I was leaning against a crate, mentally calculating how many bags of Oreos I'd need to buy to purchase a small villa, when the door to Rufus's office didn't just open—it was practically demolished by a terrified apprentice.
"My Lord! Lord Rufus!" the boy gasped, his face the color of bleached parchment. He was clutching his chest, breathing so hard I thought he might pull an Elsa and pass out. "Bad news... a Royal Scroll! The messenger... he wears the Crimson Seal of the High Inquisitor!"
The air in the room vanished. Rufus, who had been grinning at his "Divine Pouch," turned stone-cold. Helga's fan stopped mid-flutter. In any world, the government showing up at your door is never a "Welcome Wagon" situation. It's either a tax audit or an execution.
Rufus and Helga hurried outside, leaving me in the shadows with Elsa. Minutes later, they returned, their faces grim. Rufus handed me the scroll. The parchment felt heavy, smelling of expensive wax and ancient bureaucracy.
I unrolled it. The script was beautiful—loops and swirls that screamed "I am better than you"—but the content was a nightmare.
"By the Decree of the Solar Throne: A full audit of all 'Unregistered Divine Manifestations' within the Merchant District is hereby ordered. Rufus of the Great Smithy and Helga of the House of Trade are to surrender all records regarding the 'Orange Mana Shards' and the 'God-Skin Mantle.' Any individual claiming ownership of said relics without a Royal Patent is to be detained for High Heresy and Political Sabotage."
"Translation?" I asked, my voice dry. "They want the Cheetos and my jacket, and they want my head on a silver platter for not asking permission first."