Synthesis-type adventurers

Chapter 10 I'm Here to Talk Business

The candle burned out on the rusty candlestick, the last embers disappearing into the cooled grease.

Avira's breathing gradually stabilized, and new skin was covering the charred wounds, with granulation tissue struggling to crawl among the necrotic tissue.

After a few more rounds of stripping away the negative keywords, Rod will be able to completely heal Avira, ensuring that, except for her hair, she will look exactly the same as before.

A bluish-green ray of morning light shone through the narrow, high ventilation opening of the cellar.

Rod left a pot of water and two pieces of black bread, enough to break teeth, by the bedside, and casually grabbed the bag full of "trash" from the corner.

In this world where only interests are exchanged, a woman lying in bed does not yet have the ability to monetize her position.

He needs to arm himself to the teeth to take on truly profitable commissions, fill this bottomless debt hole, and incidentally, make himself look like a human being.

Rod pushed open the rusty iron door to the basement and disappeared into the perpetual gray fog of Rust Harbor in the early morning.

The fog was filled with the sour smell of burning low-quality coal and the salty smell of seawater.

The stone path underfoot was slippery and greasy, and the buildings on both sides looked like rows of giants suffering from skin disease, with peeling paint revealing the blackened bricks underneath.

Rhodes lowered his hat brim to avoid several unfriendly patrolling guards, his mind racing as he calculated the cost of survival.

A set of half-body armor made by a proper blacksmith costs thirty gold dukats, while a set of knight plate armor that can protect vital organs costs one hundred gold dukats, or 10 guild orim.

The book "Basic Rune Analysis" that Rhodes had been longing for only cost 40 Orim, even though the value of magical items far exceeded that of ordinary equipment.

Most of the equipment with exorbitant prices bear the sealing wax mark of the guild, and the excess price all goes into the pockets of those fat-headed guild inspectors.

"I now have a total of 56 gold six-cent coins..."

Rhodes pondered.

These fifty-odd gold coins were his source of confidence and the lever he used to acquire better equipment.

He needs a collaborator, a skilled but down-on-his-luck genius trampled underfoot by the existing order.

He recalled the gossip he overheard while buying grain at the market.

The drunken mercenaries in the tavern complained that the swords sold by the guild lacked resilience and were far inferior to the old dwarf who had been kicked out.

Rumors and gossip swirled in the shadows of Rust Harbor, and Rod sifted through fragments of memory:

Stubborn, he refused to pay coal tax and was once imprisoned in a water dungeon for assaulting a guild tax officer. In the end, he was forced to fend for himself in this slum.

Tolin Iron Furnace.

The name, according to rumors, signifies trouble, but it also represents the only fulcrum that Rhodes can currently leverage.

A quirky master craftsman is usually more reliable than a shrewd businessman, as long as you can offer him irresistible benefits.

Thinking of this, Rod quickened his pace and a few minutes later turned into an alleyway filled with clanging and knocking sounds—Black Iron Alley.

This place is a gathering place for low-end handicraft workers in Liugang, and also a lawless area under the monopoly of guilds.

The rusty anvil hanging at the door and the soot-blackened banners have replaced the bright and shiny signs.

Rod stopped in front of a half-collapsed stone house.

There was no sign at the entrance; tar had drawn a crooked hammer symbol on the door panel.

The chimney on the roof spewed out intermittent black smoke, like the last gasps of a dying person.

"Clang—clang—clang—"

The heavy, angry clanging of metal came from inside the house, each strike sounding as if it were about to break someone's bones.

Rhodes pushed open the heavy oak door, the hinges whistling sharply, but the sound was instantly drowned out by the violent thumping from inside.

A wave of scorching heat, carrying the smell of rust and sulfur, rushed towards him, dispelling the morning mist from Rhodes' body.

The room was dimly lit, with the only source of light being the roaring furnace in the center of the room.

A figure less than 1.5 meters tall, resembling a cube, stood in front of the anvil.

His bare upper body was muscular and his skin was a bronze color from years of exposure to fire, crisscrossed with countless tiny burn scars.

The black iron hammer, heavier than his head, was raised high and then brought down heavily.

"when!"

Sparks flew everywhere.

The dark red metal strip on the cutting board did not become denser after being hit; instead, it cracked with several fine lines, and large pieces of black residue fell off its edges.

"Damn guild scum! What kind of garbage are they selling?!"

The dwarf roared in anger, grabbed the broken iron bar with his tongs, and hurled it against the corner of the wall.

A hill made of twisted scrap metal has been piled up there.

"Sizzle—"

The scrap metal fell to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The dwarf turned around, his thick, gray beard covered in soot and sweat, and he wore a pair of goggles with cracked lenses.

He saw Rhodes at the door, who hadn't put down the forging hammer in his hand; instead, he gripped it even tighter, the veins on his arm bulging and writhing like earthworms.

"Didn't you fucking see the sign at the door? Closed today! Whether you're here to fix the pot or to collect a debt, get out of here!" Torin Ironforge's angry voice was rough and grating.

Rhodes did not back down.

He closed the door behind him, blocking the curious gazes of passersby, and walked towards the pile of scrap metal on the ground covered with iron filings.

"I've heard that Torrin Ironforge is the only master craftsman in Rust Harbor who can forge adamantite equipment, even in this slum where rats wouldn't even bother to dig a hole."

Rhodes bent down, picked up a piece of iron slag that Torin had just discarded, touched the rough surface, and activated [Analysis Vision].

Inferior iron ore slag

Entry:

[Sulfur impurities (grayish inferior quality)]: Extremely high content, resulting in extremely poor ductility and easy breakage after heating.

[Brittle structure (gray inferior quality)]: The internal crystal structure is chaotic and it breaks easily when subjected to force.

[Low Iron Content (Gray Inferior Quality)]: Contains only 17.5% iron.

It really is garbage.

The guild's vampires control all the high-quality mines, leaving only this kind of waste that has been refined several times in the hands of the black market and these independent craftsmen.

Tolin, who was targeted and ostracized, could only buy the junk that others looked down on.

Using this stuff, let alone Torin, even if the dwarven god of forging descended to earth, without the aid of magic, he could only create a lump of mud.

"That was before!" Torin strode over, his hammer pointed at Rhodes' nose. "Now I'm just a piece of trash who can't even forge a horseshoe properly, all thanks to those bastards who control the ore! If you came here specifically to humiliate me, then you've succeeded. Now—get lost!"

The dwarf's spittle splattered on Rhodes' face, and all that followed was boundless rage.

Rod pulled a piece of prepared material from the bag—a discarded axle, also full of impurities, that he had picked up along the way.

"I'm not here to humiliate you, I'm here to discuss a business deal."