Filo rolled into a nearby town, not just to sightsee. Black umbrella in hand, she stopped at a blacksmith’s shop.
“Master, why’re we here? Making gear? Human stuff’s useless for us…” Chiyan muttered, puzzled, beside Filo.
Not that human tech sucked—their levels were just too high. Gear makers needed to be close to their strength, or it was trash.
In this backwater human town, Chiyan doubted any blacksmith hit that level. Truth is, they didn’t.
Local smiths capped at level 50-60, their gear barely passable for normie adventurers.
But that’s exactly why Filo came.
“When in Rome, do as Romans do. Grab some human gear. If we gotta fight, weapons hide our real strength. Fists? Too easy to flex,” Filo said, gesturing grandly.
Even shitty weapons worked if you stuck to the thug logic: I’m not strong, my gear is.
Punching’s too raw. Whacking with a spiked club? Classy.
Filo led the crew into the shop. Tiny, maybe 20 square meters, packed with gear. The quality? Shockingly good!
Chiyan and Bingpo felt their faces metaphorically slapped. Not top-tier, but way above this podunk town’s paygrade—big city level, maybe higher.
The blacksmith, pushing up his glasses, glanced at Filo’s group.
“A bunch of girls? Scram, this ain’t a boutique,” he said, waving them off.
Chiyan and Bingpo’s foreheads twitched. What, sexism?
“Old man, you…” Chiyan rolled up her sleeves, ready to throw hands, but Filo’s arm shot up, stopping her.
Filo eyed the smith calmly. “We’re here for gear.”
“Huh? Kid, you’re not mad?” the smith asked, curious.
“Sure I’m mad, but I’m shopping, not scrapping,” Filo said coolly.
Surface: chill. Inside: this dude’s a hidden big shot, yo! Classic adventure trope—meet a master in a starter town, score epic gear or skills.
As a reincarnated Earth nerd, Filo knew the drill. Miss this? She’d lose face as a transmigrator.
There’s gotta be some OP gear in this pile.
Filo hid her hype, keeping a poker face. Show excitement, and you’re cooked.
They locked eyes. Just as Filo thought she’d nailed it, the smith dropped his gaze, hammering away.
“…”
“…”
Did I win?
Or flop?
Filo blinked, baffled. A young woman stepped out, rushing to Filo’s group, bowing. “Sorry, my dad’s like that. You want gear? May I ask… your budget?”
Asking budget first? Confident in their stock, huh. And they had reason to be.
“Show ‘em the cash… I mean, money.”
“On it!”
Bingpo pulled out a sack, opening it—full of big gold coins.
Human world math: one gold coin = a year’s average income. One big gold coin = ten. This sack? A decade’s worth for a normie, or two-three years for an adventurer, no expenses.
“Enough?” Bingpo asked smugly, ready to whip out another sack if needed. She’d looted tons from foolhardy dragon-slayers over three centuries—maybe a thousand big coins. Chiyan had less, 500-600.
The young woman gawked, never seeing this much cash. It was beyond her call.
She spun to the smith, hands on hips, yelling, “Dad, get up! Big business!”
The smith sighed, setting his hammer down, eyeing Filo’s group. After a pause, “I don’t sell to weaklings. Can’t see your levels—using [Disguise]? Show me your real ones.”
Filo’s face stayed cool, but inside? Jackpot! This guy’s damn sure a big shot. Special quirks like that? Either rich, noble, or no ordinary NPC.
For her salty fish future, she needed a dragon-slaying blade from him. Not one-shot-9999, but at least 999!
Showing levels, though… Bingpo and Chiyan could only toggle between level 1 or 600—no middle ground.
Guess it’s on me.
Filo closed her eyes, tweaking her level display.
How much is normal? Bingpo and Chiyan are too wild, so… lower. Level 300—not too high, not too low. Let’s roll!
Filo dropped her disguise. A level 300 aura blasted out, hitting the smith square in the face.
He stood stock-still. A hidden master, unfazed by 300-level pressure… or not?
Filo stepped closer, waving a hand.
No reaction.
Waved again.
Still nothing.
Whoa… whoa…
You passed out standing?!
Filo’s calm shattered. Eighty percent chance… this guy’s no big shot, just a chuuni uncle with a side of scrub.
Tftc!