Chapter 104 An Unexpected Truth
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Morning light filtered through the curtains as I washed my face and stepped into the living room. Outside, Yohira and Tatia—who’d stayed over last night—were already in the yard, sparring with their chosen weapons. The house itself was still and silent; no one else had woken yet.
It felt strange not seeing Mother-in-law beside Yohira, or Master stretching nearby. Funny how, in just a week, those small, ordinary sights had started to feel like home. The emptiness left behind a faint ache of loneliness. I shook it off and headed to the kitchen.
The Acting Head of Family had gifted us extra rice yesterday, so I rinsed it and set the cooker humming. I should’ve prepped it last night, but both Ichika and I had been too busy with cooking and serving. Fortunately, Ethelena had made plenty of beef stew, so breakfast would just be a matter of reheating. After a night’s rest, the flavors would have deepened—the sauce silky and rich, perfect with rice, though perhaps a bit too thin to cling properly. Still, it would work. Just in case, I sliced some baguette too; people like Ethelena and Tatia seemed more the bread type than rice eaters.
As I lost myself in thought, I noticed Ichika had appeared beside me. Reliable as ever—though judging by her movements, she too hadn’t quite shaken off yesterday’s routine.
”Morning, Ichika.”
”Good morning-degozaru, my lord.”
Her polite bow came with a bright smile—too pleasant a sight for this early hour. Still, I had to ask.
”By the way, today it’s just Tatia staying over, right? Are you sure you’ve got the portions right?”
”…Ah.”
She froze mid-motion. Turns out she’d started preparing the usual amount for everyone, including Mother-in-law and Master, out of pure habit. I’d suspected as much from the number of eggs. It was a cute mistake, really.
”Uu, since Hinagiku didn’t come home last night-degozaru, it seems we’ll just have leftovers-degozaru…”
”Wait—Hinagiku-san didn’t come back?”
Now that was a surprise. Either that idiot finally made some progress, or she got cornered by Alvard’s group. If it’s the former, I’m absolutely teasing her later.
By the time Ethelena joined us and started on the salad, the table was nearly set.
”Good morning, Master.”
”Morning, Dahlia.”
And then—what? I blinked.
Dahlia, the habitual oversleeper, walked in perfectly dressed, posture flawless.
”Eh? Dahlia, you’re… up?”
Both Ichika and Ethelena looked as stunned as I felt. Dahlia, of course, only lifted her chin and smiled like a model maid.
”Today is the field test for my new armor. Naturally, I would rise early.”
”Wow, that’s… convenient.”
”Like a grade-schooler who can’t wake up for class but leaps out of bed for a trip,” Ethelena murmured dryly.
Too accurate. I couldn’t help but laugh. It reminded me of kids back in my old world—up at dawn for Sunday cartoons, dead to the world on workdays once they grew up.
”…If Dahlia is awake already,” Yohira called from the yard, “perhaps we trained too long this morning?”
”Yohira-dono, that’s rather cruel… though, possibly fair,” Tatia admitted.
Even the diligent pair couldn’t resist poking fun. Dahlia, after all, had a reputation. I checked the clock myself—yeah, far too early for her usual standards. Still, with armor tests on the line, I couldn’t blame her.
”Well then,” I said, smiling, “let’s eat.”
Everyone nodded.
Letting stew rest overnight is more than superstition—it gives the flavors time to settle and blend. Done carelessly, it can spoil, but handled right, the vegetables and meat soak up the sauce, and the sauce, in turn, takes on their essence.
Ethelena’s beef stew, simmered in red wine, had mellowed overnight. Yesterday, the wine’s grape tang had stood out sharply; now, it had softened, letting the richness of the roux and the sweetness of the vegetables shine. Ethelena often simulated that depth by long simmering, but even she admitted it couldn’t quite match the natural melding that came after a night’s rest. Her mother, apparently, had found a way to skip the waiting altogether—but no one knew what kind of magic she’d used.
”It was delicious yesterday,” Tatia said after a spoonful, “but it’s even better this morning.”
Ethelena sighed in defeat. “I know. I wanted it to taste like this yesterday, but flavor just doesn’t settle that fast.”
I took a bite myself—the demi-glace thicker, the sweetness of vegetables mingling with beef fat into something rich and velvety. Ethelena’s cooking never failed. Paired with rice, the sweetness of the grains rounded it all out, warm and full. Ichika’s tamagoyaki, seasoned with nothing but salt, balanced the stew perfectly. Someday, I’d love to try her omelet with Ethelena’s demi-glace poured over it.
”My lord seems to be enjoying himself-degozaru,” Ichika observed fondly.
”Hard not to,” I said between mouthfuls. “This stew’s incredible—and your eggs make it even better. Is it really okay to eat this well in the morning?”
She smiled softly. “You prepare breakfast for everyone every day-degozaru. You’ve earned it.”
Her kindness always hit just right. I really didn’t deserve such peace.
”So then,” Tatia asked, “Tatara-dono, are you joining today’s expedition?”
”Nah, I’m opening the shop again. My classmates at the academy mentioned needing a few things, and I could use the extra coin.”
If I lived modestly, the royalties from the City Mayor’s translation project and patent fees would be plenty. But good food, new gear for the girls—it all added up. On a good day, I could make over a million, and since the shop had been closed for a week, even the nobles who depended on my ointments were probably anxious.
”Also,” I added, grimacing, “that damn… sword instructor starts overseeing their training today. I’d rather be home in case something happens.”
At that, Yohira made a face like she’d bitten into a lemon. Understandable—she still hadn’t forgiven him for that sudden attack yesterday. Hinagiku would be there too, thankfully, but from what I’d seen, that bastard might actually be stronger than her. A terrifying thought.
”In that case, my lord,” Ichika said gently, “I’ll stay behind to assist you-degozaru.”
Catching my unease so easily, she offered with quiet conviction. I couldn’t help but feel grateful.
”My level’s already at its cap-degozaru,” Ichika said with a calm smile. “So now, I just need to hone my skills. I can do that here without diving into the dungeon, so please don’t worry-degozaru.”
She always had a way of reading my thoughts before I even voiced them.
”Besides,” she added, eyes glinting faintly, “I have a trump card ready—something that can restrain that unstable man if it comes to it. Hinagiku will be there too-degozaru. We’ll manage.”
A trump card, huh? Maybe something tied to her true nature. I didn’t know what it was, but… I decided to trust her.
”All right, I’m counting on you, Ichika.”
”Understood.”
Yohira, who’d been quietly watching our exchange, tapped her chin in thought.
”Then today’s expedition will be the three of us—myself, Ethelena, and Tatia. Dahlia will be leaving town for her armor trials.”
”Just the three of us,” Ethelena mused. “Feels nostalgic.”
”In a way,” Tatia added, smiling faintly, “we’re the original lineup, aren’t we? Tatara’s been too busy lately, so this feels more familiar.”
That one stung a bit. Ethelena really didn’t pull her punches.
”Be careful,” I warned. “Without Dahlia, the thirty-first floor and below can get dangerous.”
Yohira would probably be fine—her artifact, the Yakuriki sealed within the ‘Temaribana’ concept, could nullify instant death itself. But the other two didn’t have conceptual gear. I didn’t want them taking unnecessary risks.
”No need to fret,” Yohira said lightly. “We’ll stop after defeating the Orichalcum Golem on the thirtieth floor.”
I handed her the Teleportation Crystal, still uneasy but trusting her judgment as leader.
”…Master,” Dahlia spoke up suddenly, “I’ve been wondering—couldn’t you use the formula in that Teleportation Crystal to create a simplified teleportation gate?”
”Ah, that’s the thing—it isn’t actually a teleportation formula.”
”…What?”
Her confusion was understandable, so I decided to elaborate.
”The teleportation formula, as far as I can tell, bends the space between two gates until the distance between them becomes zero. This crystal, on the other hand, works differently—it breaks through obstacles at ultra-high speed to reach a target point directly.”
”I… still don’t quite see the difference,” Yohira admitted.
”The gate shortens the distance,” I said. “The crystal ignores obstacles.”
”I see,” Dahlia murmured. “Then… how would that help build a simplified gate?”
She looked intrigued but skeptical.
”Well, I don’t actually know the teleportation gate’s exact spell formula,” I admitted. “This is all based on what I could decipher from the one I analyzed. So take this as theory, not fact.”
”So, in short,” Tatia summarized neatly, “it’s Tatara-dono’s hypothesis.”
”Exactly. Thank you.”
I really needed to stop speaking in such roundabout ways.
”The biggest issue,” I continued, “is the mana cost. Teleportation gates burn through an insane amount of mana.”
”How insane?” Ethelena asked, frowning.
”Enough to leave you gasping after one cast—using my mana alongside yours.”
”Then we’re talking about a range of… three to four hundred units?” she guessed.
”Pretty much.”
”That’s… excessive,” she said softly.
To put it in perspective, imagine being told you needed four full mana ‘eggs’ for a single activation—that’s how bad it was. That’s why mages capable of personal teleportation were considered top-tier. Ethelena, even with her immense mana capacity, barely exceeded four hundred total. The only other person who might manage it was Olive-san, the old man’s protégé.
”It’s just that connecting two points in space is incredibly difficult and mana-inefficient,” I went on. “So they fix the gates in place, align their coordinates, and force a connection through mutual interference between the two ends.”
I hadn’t fully decrypted the formula, but the coordinate-based structure hinted strongly at this. Plus, the fact that gates were always installed in areas of spatial distortion supported my theory.
”Then how,” Tatia asked, “does one travel toward a marker instead?”
”That’s where the escape spell formula comes in.”
”…Wait,” Dahlia said slowly, eyes narrowing, “you’re not suggesting that by treating distance and space itself as obstacles, we could leap across them in one direction, are you?”
”Exactly, Dahlia. That’s the idea.”
This world’s magic was systematic yet fuzzy, a strange mix of logic and intuition. From what I’d learned studying Mother-in-law’s spellwork, the more precise and purpose-focused a formula was, the more efficiently it used mana. Large-scale teleportation gates consumed massive energy because their destinations weren’t fixed—each possible endpoint created instability.
”Then wouldn’t that contradict what you said earlier?” Yohira asked. “If the crystal can’t perform teleportation alone, how would you combine the two?”
”By pairing them,” I replied. “The crystal’s formula alone can’t teleport, but together with the gate’s, it can.”
Let’s review the gate’s basic conditions:
1. A site with enough mana to activate the formula.
2. A place where space itself is already distorted.
Just those two. The first can be solved with an external mana source, and the second—well, dense mana fields often create distortions naturally. In other words, if you have enough mana, you can force a distortion.
A teleportation spell likely does just that: twisting space on the spot and bridging to a destination through that distortion. A simplified teleportation gate would apply this principle on a smaller scale—using either the user’s or a device’s mana to form a single distortion linked to one coordinate only. A “marker” would act as a beacon, generating its own distortion through emitted mana.
The narrower the purpose, the more efficient the formula. Thus, a one-way, fixed-coordinate teleportation gate would consume far less mana than a standard one.
”—That’s the gist of it,” I finished.
The others stared blankly, except for Dahlia, who at least looked like she was following. I couldn’t blame them; even I needed to see the equations written out to make full sense of it.
”Master,” Dahlia said at last, “isn’t that… a bit of a desk-bound fantasy?”
”If things stay theoretical, yes,” I admitted, “which is why—sorry, Dahlia—but I’ll need to use your family’s teleportation gate and this one here for the field test. Without asking first.”
Her brow arched slightly, but she said nothing. Honestly, I’d wanted to make the marker prototype yesterday, but after building her Arcane Armor and Chef’s magi-blade for tuna dissection, I’d run out of mana—and brainpower.
”No need to apologize,” Dahlia said, her tone steady but proud. “If it’s for progress and the future of convenience, we Automaton Maidens gladly accept.”
”…That’s surprisingly easygoing for an entire race,” I muttered.
She gave me a sharp look. “Just so you know, master, the only reason we’re so accommodating is because it’s your inventions we’re talking about.”
”Well, Tatara’s creations are all unorthodox marvels,” Yohira added dryly. “Hard not to be curious about where such madness leads.”
Her words made me chuckle. The City Mayor and my mother-in-law had both asked me to craft devices based on my theories, too—proof they saw genuine potential in the chaos I created. If this experiment succeeded, it could spark another wave of innovation.
”I can’t help but feel,” Tatia murmured, smiling faintly, “that one day, the Automaton Maidens might start worshipping you as some kind of deity, Tatara-dono.”
”Please don’t joke about that,” I said quickly. “That’s terrifying.”
Hopefully never. Right?
After that brief detour into speculative godhood, Ethelena and the exploration team departed. Ichika and I washed the dishes, then I began cleaning the shop before opening. Just a week without business, and the display cases and wall shelves had gathered a thin coat of dust. Sorry, my pretties.
I asked Ichika to lend the garden if any idiots or troublemakers showed up, then raised the shutters and flipped the sign to Open. Ten minutes later, the first customers arrived.
”Welcome—oh?”
Two people stepped inside. One was my usual big spender. The other, someone I’d met before—but never as a customer.
”…I’m running a legitimate business, you know,” I said wryly. “Head of Judiciary.”
”I’m not here to accuse you,” he replied calmly. “Next Chief Crafter.”
He wore plain clothes, but the quiet authority was unmistakable. The poor rich guy beside him was being held by the wrist, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
”…Shopkeeper,” the Head of Judiciary said, “I’ll take all the healing ointment you have in stock.”
”Understood. Currently, that’s four thousand eight hundred seventy-nine units.”
”You’ve multiplied them again!?” the young man yelped.
Our usual routine. He’d come often enough to know how this went. His delight made the long week of preparation worth it.
”You buy that many every time?” the Head asked suspiciously.
”It’s just friendly banter with a regular,” I explained. “We start this way, then he buys what he needs. Honestly, I enjoy it.”
The Head’s disapproving stare softened slightly. Please, don’t scold my best customer.
”Then, one hundred this time,” the young man said. “Who knows when the shop will open again.”
”Of course. That’ll be fifteen thousand.”
”Here.”
The same smooth exchange as always. I wanted to recommend armor again, but after being closed so long, it wasn’t my place to push.
”You buy so much,” the Head sighed, “you may as well commission armor.”
”Father, please don’t interfere!”
…Wait. Father?
”Eh—so you’re family!?”
Judging by his clothes, I’d assumed the young man was just a self-made adventurer with expensive taste. But no—he was a genuine noble. The Head of Judiciary must be in his sixties, which would make the son early twenties. A late-born child, then.
”Yes,” the Head admitted with a faint smile. “I had him quite late in life. Still not quite sure how to handle that.”
”My older brothers will inherit the house,” the son retorted. “You gave me permission to live freely, remember?”
An awkward silence followed. A complicated family dynamic, that much was clear. Maybe the father had simply wanted to see where his wayward son spent his days.
”He buys supplies for his party as their leader,” I explained gently. “Please don’t be too harsh.”
”I know,” the Head said. “But I’ve heard he serves as their shield. Protecting himself should come first.”
He wasn’t wrong. That same lecture was what had finally convinced this guy to get his armor updated in the first place. Now he couldn’t even argue back.
”I suppose I’ll just—”
”Don’t!” the son snapped. “I’m independent now. Don’t try to spoil me!”
The father froze mid-reach for his coin pouch. The hurt flicker on his face made my chest tighten. Parents just wanted to protect their kids. In this world, where life was so fragile, could you blame them?
”…Excuse me,” I said softly. “May I say something?”
”Eh—Shopkeeper?”
”Reconciliation and filial kindness,” I said, voice steady, “can only happen while both sides are alive. Once you lose that chance, it’s gone forever. So please—accept your father’s gesture while you still can.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then lowered his head.
”…All right, Father. I’ll accept—just this once.”
”…Thank you,” the Head said quietly, a weight seeming to lift from him.
The tension between them eased, faint but real. Overprotective? Maybe. But in this world, where a single misstep could mean death, love was the only armor that mattered.
”Next Chief Crafter,” the Head said suddenly, turning back to me, “what’s the most expensive material you’re allowed to sell?”
”That would be Demonsteel.”
”Oh? Not Mithril or Orichalcum?”
”Prohibited by both the Merchant Guildmaster and the City Mayor. I can take commissions using Adamantite, though.”
Truth be told, I’d been working with those very metals last night.
”I see… do you have a full set of Demonsteel armor in stock?”
”Father!” the son hissed, mortified.
”If it’s a gift,” I advised quickly, “it falls under the gifting exemption. You can still legally commission ironwork that way.”
That loophole was how I’d made Mithril gear for Ethelena and Yohira. Technically legal—though word was the laws might soon change to close that gap.
”For a full set,” I explained, “you’ll need forty kilos of iron ingots and forty small mana stones. My technical fee is thirty thousand per ingot.”
”Surprisingly cheap.”
”That’s just the baseline,” I said with a smile. “Anywhere else, you’d be paying a lot more.”
Apparently, my thirty-thousand coin technical fee had caught the merchant guild’s attention. A while back, one of their bird-shaped golems had delivered a handwritten complaint from the guildmaster herself—politely worded, but unmistakably a scolding.
”Don’t sell a material with twice the strength of iron so cheaply,” she’d written.
If I compared it to the fee for working with Mithril, I should probably be charging ten times more for Demonsteel. But I refused to raise my prices. My rates stayed at the minimum—for the safety of explorers.
This city revolved around crafters, yes. But its greatest resource was its people. Numbers meant strength, and from among those numbers, true transcendents were sometimes born. Craftsmanship existed to protect them—to protect everyone they, in turn, might save.
At least, that’s what I believed in.
”Then, two full suits of Demonsteel armor, if you please,” said the Head of Judiciary.
Two. Full. Suits.
”Understood,” I replied. “These will be for you both, then?”
”Yes. For the two of us.”
So, the old man was planning to take the field himself again. I hadn’t expected that.
”I thought you already owned magic-metal gear,” I said.
”I did,” he admitted. “A Mithril set. But I passed it on to my eldest son when he inherited the house.”
Ah, that explained it.
”Um, shopkeeper…” the younger man began.
”Keep your current armor,” I advised. “If you go exploring while your new one’s in maintenance, you’ll need it.”
He blinked, then nodded reluctantly. A spare set was never wasted.
”In that case,” the Head said, “you’ll need eighty kilos of iron ingots and eighty mana stones. Please confirm.”
He set them down with a heavy thud. I ran an appraisal spell—no fakes, no mistakes—and accepted the materials.
”All verified,” I said. “Let’s take your measurements.”
I measured both men carefully, jotting the numbers down in my mental ledger.
”That brings your total to two point four million.”
”…Father,” the son began hesitantly, “really, I can—”
”I’m your parent,” the Head said firmly. “Let me have this bit of pride.”
He handed over the full amount in crisp bills. Payment verified, contract sealed.
”When would you like them finished?” I asked.
”If possible… within a week?”
”That’s fine. Honestly, I could hand them over tomorrow—except tomorrow’s an academy day, so the day after.”
”…I’m sorry, what?”
”The day after tomorrow,” I repeated. “Tomorrow I have class.”
”Wait,” the son said, eyes wide. “Did you just say you could finish two suits of full armor by tomorrow if you didn’t have school?”
”Sure. A sword only takes me about an hour.”
They both stared at me.
’That makes no sense,’ their faces said in perfect unison.
Yeah, I got that reaction a lot.
Oh—right, speaking of armor.
”Head of Judiciary, will you be needing a hanger for the suits?”
”A… hanger?”
The son looked puzzled, but the father’s eyes lit up like a boy discovering fireworks. The man clearly hadn’t lost his spark.
”You can make one?”
”As a matter of pride, I prefer to craft a dedicated hanger for each armor I make,” I said. “If possible, I’d like to use the same material—either Demonsteel or what you normally use.”
”Then make it from the Demonsteel.”
When I mentioned a surcharge, he immediately offered sixty thousand coins. I stared at the money.
”…I only need ten.”
”Consider it an investment,” he said with a wry smile. “Otherwise…”
I frowned. “Otherwise what?”
”I’ll throw myself on the floor like a child and flail about.”
”Please, don’t.“
Our voices overlapped in perfect horror. Neither of us wanted to see that. Reluctantly, I accepted the extra sixty thousand. Total sales for the morning: three million. Profitable, yes—but not entirely satisfying.
”By the way,” the Head said, as if recalling something, “why do they call you Chief Crafter?”
”Oh, that.” I shrugged. “The City Mayor offered me the position. I’ll take over officially after I graduate from the academy.”
The son’s jaw dropped. He turned toward his father, seeking denial, but the Head merely nodded.
”You’re kidding… you’re serious?”
”Afraid so,” I said.
”Having multiple ‘chiefs’ in your life must be confusing,” the Head murmured dryly.
I snorted. “You’re telling me.”
They left soon after—father composed, son dazed—and I went back to manning the counter.
A few minutes later, the door burst open.
”Yo! Mind if I drop in?”
”If you’re here to be a nuisance, you can turn right back around.”
”Cold as ever, aren’t you?”
It was that bastard sword instructor—the one supposed to be training the idiot in the yard. What the hell was he doing here?
”Well,” he said, grinning lazily, “who wouldn’t be curious about a shop run by the direct disciple of Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto? Besides, that tuna-slicing blade you made gave me ideas.”
His grin didn’t reach his eyes, though. Beneath the levity, something sharp and calculating gleamed. I stayed alert.
”So,” I said, “what exactly did it inspire?”
”Conceptual armament,” he said easily. “A blade that can’t kill. I’d like a few of those.”
A blade that refuses to take life—nonlethal steel.
Makes sense. For someone obsessed with the sword, it’d be a treasure.
”How many?”
”Three.”
”Three?” I frowned. “You fight with two blades.”
He leaned against the counter, tone casual. “The boy you asked me to train—he’s not ready. If he doesn’t get used to striking people with a blade, he’s going to freeze when it matters.”
”…Such as?”
He tilted his head slightly. “You can feel it too, can’t you? The tension in the city. When things turn violent, if he can’t swing that katana at a living opponent… he’ll die.”
So he had sensed the unrest brewing—student agitation, the air thick with it. Rotten as he was, the man didn’t hold his position in the Torakuma household for nothing.
”Fine,” I said quietly. “Three blades. Nonlethal conceptual armament. Ready by tomorrow.”
”Well, that was easy.”
”I don’t care what happens to you,” I said flatly, “but I won’t let anything happen to him. Whatever happens to you is irrelevant.”
He grinned. “You said that twice. Must be important, huh?”
Say it a hundred times if I had to. I meant every word.
”What’s the payment?”
”Ah, that’s the thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m short on coin right now. So… this instead.”
He placed five ingots of Adamantite on the counter. Fair trade, considering the market rate.
”Accepted,” I said. “You’ll have them tomorrow.”
”Appreciate it,” he said with that infuriating smile. “A disciple who doesn’t mix emotion with his craft—Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto must be proud.”
That bastard always managed to get under my skin. Infuriating man.
After he left, the shop stayed quiet for a while—until the next visitors arrived: my classmates, the ones who’d asked when the store would reopen, along with a few of their friends.
I’d assumed they were here for equipment fitting, maybe for magic users, but no—they were dressed for a casual outing.
The girl in front, though… she caught my eye.
White short-sleeved blouse, pale pink skirt, dark tights, loafers, and a flower-shaped hairpin glinting against her black hair. She’d changed her hairstyle, and now I could see her slightly pointed ears. Half-nightfolk, probably.
”G-Good eve—good after—uh, good hello!!”
”Welcome,” I said, trying not to laugh.
She was so tense she could barely speak. The girls behind her—likely her party—wore matching expressions of “oh no.”
”So,” I began, “you mentioned you wanted to commission a mana catalyst. What kind of item did you have in mind?”
”Yes,” she said, steadying her breath. “It’s a bit of a special request…”
From her inventory, she produced a spiraling horn. I blinked. Not a unicorn’s—too long. A narwhal’s, then.
Rare material, that.
”I’d like you to use this,” she said, “to make a… sword-staff.”
A sword-staff? Interesting.
A hybrid weapon that combined blade and catalyst—usually crafted when a magic amplifier’s performance exceeded that of the blade itself. Tatia’s Andreia and Yohira’s Temaribana both bordered on that category due to their materials.
”With a narwhal horn, though,” I said, frowning, “I can’t recommend it.”
That drew immediate protest from her friends.
”What do you mean you can’t!?”
”Then why even have a shop!?”
”Are you underqualified!?”
The sorceress herself, however, only watched me calmly.
”May I ask why?” she said politely.
”Simple,” I replied. “Narwhal horn isn’t good as a mana conductor. It’s hard, sure—but transmission rate’s poor.”
If it were a unicorn horn, I could have made a spearhead from it depending on length. But narwhal horn? Without Mithril reinforcement, it’d be useless—and at that point, you’d be better off just making a full Mithril rapier.
She covered her mouth thoughtfully, clearly analyzing the problem rather than complaining. A researcher’s mindset. Meanwhile, her entourage wouldn’t shut up. I bit my tongue to keep from snapping, then make it yourselves.
”…If one were to use a narwhal horn as a weapon,” she asked, “what would you suggest?”
”With this size?” I said. “Either a thrusting sword or a spear. For you, I’d say a spear—it’d still handle like a staff.”
She thought for a moment longer, then nodded once.
”Then please make it a thrusting sword. I’ll use this horn, and reinforce the core with iron ingots for durability.”
She pulled the ingots from her inventory, and I had to blink. Combining monster material with iron—a legitimate, if unorthodox, crafting technique. Clever girl.
”And,” she added, “I don’t mind paying extra if you have any good mana catalyst materials.”
Extra, huh? Then…
”If price isn’t a problem,” I said, “may I recommend the Shroud of the Undead King.”
I pointed to the display behind me. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the dark robe.
”This is… made from Lich material, isn’t it?”
”Exactly. Genuine Lich fiber.”
Its price hadn’t changed—2.5 million. A steep tag for a student, normally.
”How much?”
”Two hundred fifty thousand times ten—2.5 million. Certified by the merchant guild.”
”…That’s cheap,” she murmured.
Cheap!? What kind of life did this girl lead?
Her friends were all muttering “that’s insane,” of course. The only way to think 2.5 million was cheap was if you knew what it really cost.
The records in Whirlwind mentioned that the last known sale of Lichcloth, excluding Olive-san’s case, had been eighty years ago. And this girl… she wasn’t a fellow crafter.
”The reason it’s cheap,” I explained, “is because of its elemental weakness.”
”…You mean the Undead trait?”
”Exactly.”
She even knew that term. Most students didn’t—especially those who’d never made it past the 30th floor.
Definitely not an ordinary mage.
”Then why recommend it?” she asked.
”Two reasons. One, its magic attack boost is significant. It’s not a sword-staff, but it’s a strong substitute.”
She nodded slowly, thoughtful.
”Two, that same Undead trait you mentioned.”
”Didn’t you say that was the downside?”
”I did. But the price now—one-tenth of its original million-coin value eighty years ago—is fair.”
”…Then why 2.5 million instead of one?”
”That’s the lowest price the merchant guild would authorize,” I said flatly.
Her lips curved in satisfaction. “Understood.”
Her friends, of course, started begging for a discount. I ignored them.
”Then I’d like to commission the weapon—and buy the robe,” she said.
She produced 2.5 million in cash without blinking. Definitely some kind of noble daughter.
After verifying the payment, I handed over the robe. She slipped it on immediately—then blushed, sniffing at the fabric.
…Okay, what?
”Um,” I said, “about the commission fee—”
”Eh!? I—I mean, uh—that’s…!!”
And there went the composed scholar act. Total collapse. Guess both sides of her were genuine.
”So, a thrusting sword using the narwhal horn and iron core,” I said. “That’ll be fifteen thousand total.”
”T-that’s way cheaper than normal, isn’t it?”
”Call it a classmate discount.”
Anywhere else, she’d be charged twenty times that, since they’d sell it as a ‘pure narwhal sword.’
By combining it with iron, I was technically using a loophole—same trick I’d used for that idiot’s armor.
If she hadn’t been so flustered, she probably would’ve realized it herself.
I accepted the payment and handed her a numbered claim tag.
”This is your pickup ticket. If I’m not here, someone else might be, so… may I have your name?”
I’d made a habit of recording new client names—Head of Judiciary and his son were known quantities, but this girl was a mystery.
”Yes,” she said brightly. “Kalmia Scientia.”
”Kalmia… Scientia, you said? Wait—”
”Is something wrong?”
No. No way. That name—both given and family…
Oh, hell.
”…No, nothing at all,” I said quickly. “All fine.”
Notes:
• Yohira – Torakuma’s first name.
• Ichika – The fox girl. Kunoichi.
• Hinagiku – A tengu woman as Ranka’s potential companion. She stays with Tatara’s group after travels. Joins household scenes only. Linked to Ranka by shared gluttony jokes. No direct tie to Tatara beyond cohabitation. Cheerful eater.
• Dahlia – The automaton.
• Kalmia – a female student and granddaughter of the legendary god-slaying protagonist from the first game, who visits Tatara’s shop with a timid yet fascinated demeanor, occasionally sniffing his crafted gear with intense curiosity.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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