Synthesis-type adventurers

Chapter 16 What is a Surprise?

Inside the quest hall of the Rust Harbor Adventurers' Guild branch.

Rod threw the still-dripping blood-soaked burlap bundle onto the counter.

The crocodile heart was flung out of its package, bounced twice on the hardwood table, leaving a pool of dark red, murky blood.

The clerk, who was in charge of submitting tasks and collecting materials, frowned and used two tweezers to pick up the heart with disgust, as if he were holding a dead rat carrying the plague.

He raised his monocle with his other hand and examined it closely to his heart. The deep nasolabial folds at the corners of his mouth resembled the furrows left by years of harsh treatment of others.

"The heart of a Black Iron-grade mutated giant crocodile..." the clerk drawled, his tone full of arrogance and pickiness, "is of very poor quality. Look at these veins, the color is dark. And the smell is wrong too, not only is it stinky, but it's also sour, very stale."

He loosened his grip, and his heart slammed heavily against the counter, splashing juice everywhere.

"And these hides, they smell like rotten mud. This beast must have eaten a lot of alchemical scraps before it died." The clerk took off his glasses and wiped the condensation off his velvet vest. "The alchemy workshop would never accept such defective products. But since you're new recruits, I'll give you a fixed price—four trading silver ingots, including the hides and teeth."

Four silver ingots are equivalent to four hexagonal gold coins, which is equivalent to 0.4 Guild Orim.

On the black market, a perfectly intact mutated creature heart starts at at least 10 gold coins.

"This was just taken out, it's still warm, how could it have spoiled?" Rhodes emphasized, tapping the wooden counter. "Even on the black market, it wouldn't be this cheap."

"You know it's the black market." The clerk scoffed, leaning back in his chair and refusing to look at Rhodes again. "Selling things on the black market means paying protection money, having to watch out for being stabbed in the back, and worrying about your body floating in the stinking sewers of the lower city the next day. The guild may offer lower prices, but it's safe, stable, and legal. What, you're not happy about it?"

He raised his eyelids, his gaze disdainful, as if looking at an insignificant ant.

"You can take it if you don't want it. But I'm warning you, once you're outside this door, the guild won't take it back anymore. This thing will be worthless if you leave it unused."

This is blatant monopoly and hegemony.

They know you have no sales channels and you desperately need money, which is why they dare to recklessly drive prices down to rock bottom.

Rhodes stared at the heart.

Within the [Analysis View], the vibrant white halo inside the heart—[Strong Myocardium]—remains clearly visible.

This is the only valuable part of this pile of rotten flesh; the rest has been filled with negative and gray-tongued terms.

If you don't sell to the guild, you can definitely earn more gold coins on the black market.

But Rhodes' current identity is too sensitive.

Victor has just accused him of "murdering a nobleman." Although the official arrest warrant has not yet been issued, at this critical juncture, if he appears on the black market with mutated biological materials, those "rats" who sell information to nobles for bounties will immediately come knocking on his door.

Moreover, once this term is removed, the heart will immediately lose its vitality and become a truly dead piece of flesh.

Those black market merchants aren't fools.

This is a dead end, a difficult dilemma.

You either get ripped off by the guild, or you risk losing your life to earn that little bit of profit.

Rod suddenly laughed.

That's the standard professional fake smile that only a corporate slave would wear when facing an unreasonable client.

"You're right, safety is the most important thing."

Rod reached out, pretending to organize the pile of materials, but his fingers paused the moment they touched his heart.

peel off.

Before his mental energy could instantly penetrate his heart, the white light representing [strong heart muscle], visible only to Rhodes, was instantly extracted and disappeared into his brow.

At the same time, he casually touched the [tough outer skin (white ordinary)] on the crocodile skin and the [mild poison (white ordinary)] in the teeth.

In an instant, the once full heart visibly shrank, its color changing from dark red to ashen gray, and a strong, sour smell erupted from its center.

The crocodile skins completely collapsed, turning into rotten rags that had been soaking in the water for half a month, with no resilience whatsoever.

All the essence had been consumed by Rhodes; what remained was merely a pile of biological waste.

"Pay up." Rod withdrew his hand, feigning a compliant and considerate demeanor, and pushed the pile of trash further into the counter. "Four gold trade ducates, cash on delivery."

The clerk didn't notice this subtle change. He impatiently counted out four gold coins and threw them on the counter.

"Take it."

Rod grabbed the coins, stuffed them into his pocket, and turned to leave without even looking at them.

A moment later, the clerk's curses and mutterings came from behind: "Damn it... what's that smell? How can this heart rot so fast? What bad luck..."

Rhodes stepped out of the guild gate, and the cold rain lashed down on his face.

He pressed the few gold coins in his pocket, still warm from his body, through his clothes, and his consciousness swept over the newly added entries in his mind.

Buying a pile of rotten meat for 4 gold coins is a huge loss for the guild.

But this is far from enough.

This insignificant "spiritual victory" cannot break the deadlock that is about to tighten around their necks.

He needs more power, a more outrageous plan.

Rod pulled up his collar, covering half his face, and plunged headfirst into the rain-soaked Black Iron Alley.

-----------------

Inside the iron furnace workshop.

The faint fire pulsed weakly in the cracks between the stones, the coal forming a hard, grayish-white crust, emitting only a meager amount of heat, far less intense than it used to be.

The torrential rain pounded against the wooden roof tiles, and due to certain unspoken reasons related to the current political situation, there were no other guests in the workshop besides the owner.

Tolin Ironforge sat on an old oak barrel that looked like it could crack at any moment, holding a shiny leg of lamb in his hand.

He tore at the muscles and bones, the splattering grease and beer foam hardening into clumps on his tangled beard.

Rod pushed open the heavy wooden door, and dampness rushed into the room.

The dwarf blacksmith merely lifted his heavy eyelids before turning his attention back to the piece of meat in his hands.

"If you're here to deliver some rare materials, just throw them in that pile of junk in the corner." Torin's mouth was full of meat, and his muffled words were indistinct. "If you're here to repair equipment, get lost. I haven't slept for seven whole days to help you forge that coffin-like set of equipment. My bones are oozing acid. I'm exhausted."

Rhodes shook the water off his tarpaulin raincoat, ignoring the dwarf's rudeness.

Tolin's temper was like the slag in this furnace pit—stinky and hard—but the physical exertion he had expended over those seven days was real.

Rod walked to the fire, letting the heat dry his damp clothes, then took out a bottle of cheap ale he had just bought from a roadside tavern and placed it on the greasy cutting board next to him.

"I'm here to discuss business."

"Business?"

This word made Tolin freeze for a moment.

Immediately afterwards, he let out a cold snort from his nose, grabbed the bottle, roughly bit off the cork with his teeth, tilted his head back and gulped down a third of it, as if he were using the spicy liquor to extinguish the sudden fire that had risen in his chest.

"This is the word I hate the most right now. A few days ago, those pigs wrapped in silk—the Hohenheim family's butlers—staggered in with their bellies sticking out, asking me to forge a ceremonial sword for their eldest son that was 'fitting his status' and 'fitting to maintain appearances'."

The dwarf slammed the wine bottle down on the table, his cloudy eyes instantly turning bloodshot, his weariness replaced by a sharp, fierce glint.

"That idiot actually pointed his finger at me and said, 'As long as it looks shiny, practicality doesn't matter.' He even wanted to drive the price below cost!"

"Screw 'fitting one's status'! I almost stabbed that red-hot pair of tongs into his dermatitis!"

Tolin turned his head and spat, the thick phlegm falling into the fire with a sharp hissing sound.

Rhodes leaned against the cold anvil base, watching the blue smoke swirling in the furnace.

"Those arrogant nobles who hold their chins to the sky are only truly clean when they're dead," he quipped. "If you hated him so much, why didn't you just kill him back then? You even dared to beat up the guild's tax collector; swallowing your anger isn't your style."

"Kill him? Ha!" Tolin wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth and sneered repeatedly. "Crushing a butler is easier than blacksmithing, but the Hohenheim family behind him can tear my workshop to rubble. I hate those bastards, I wish I could burn their bones to charcoal, but I still have to beg for food on this street."

The dwarf took another swig of wine and added angrily, "As long as it doesn't involve me, I don't care if they live or die. I hope all these nobles are dead, just don't spill their blood on my boots."

Upon hearing this, Rod's lips curled up slightly.

This undisguised, naked hatred is the most stable adhesive for the plans to follow.

"What a coincidence."

Rod pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket; one corner was already soaked by the rain. He had sketched it hastily in his basement hiding place before coming to the workshop.

He slowly spread it out on the greasy cutting board, pressing it under the bottle of ale.

"There's a business opportunity here. Not only can you make money off the Hohenheim family, but you can also fulfill your wish from earlier. I guarantee the fire will only burn them, not you."

Tolin glanced at the drawings casually.

At first, it was a dismissive look, like that of someone looking at graffiti.

But when his gaze fell upon the strange structural marking in the center of the drawing, he stopped chewing.

Calloused, rough fingers traced the scribbled yet sharp lines, finally settling on the cross-section of the sword hilt.

"What the hell is this drawing?" Torin frowned deeply, tossing down the half-eaten lamb leg. "You want the exterior to be extremely luxurious, but the hilt is hollow... and there's this lead seal?"

As a blacksmith who has spent his entire life working with metal, the physical properties of various materials have long been ingrained in his instincts.

"Lead is as soft as a woman's waist, and its melting point is pitifully low. Used as a seal for the inner lining of a sword hilt? It would melt or break if exposed to even a little heat, or even if magic were to be conducted into it..."

At this point, Tolin's voice abruptly stopped.

He suddenly looked up, staring intently at Rhodes. The shock in his eyes quickly cooled, giving way to a fervent and trembling feeling of enlightenment.

“That’s right,” Rhodes explained calmly. “The person who will wield this sword is none other than the young master of Hohenheim you just mentioned. He’s an expert at playing with fire. When he unleashes the fire elemental magic within him to show off his power, that heat is the perfect fuse for this sword.”

"Once the lead seal melts and the cavity opens..." Torin stared at the arrow pointing to the core on the blueprint, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then the contents will flow out?"

"It's not just leaking out." A playful smile curved Rod's lips as he spread his fingers in mid-air, creating a flower-like motion. "Boom—"

He didn't explicitly mention the filling material, but Tolin's mind had already conjured up countless possible scenarios of destruction.

This is a sword, but also a tomb.

"Damn, that's insidious," Torin grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, "but I like it."

He raised the bottle of cheap ale and laughed loudly, "As long as we do it cleanly and they can't figure out the specific cause of the accident, as long as those pigs suffer, I'll take the job!"

Rod casually picked up another uneven iron cup on the table, poured himself some wine, and a calculating, cold glint appeared in his eyes.

"I'll take care of the materials." Rhodes tilted his head back and drank the bitter liquor in one gulp. "As for the appearance, I'll use special methods to treat the scrap iron, ensuring it's even more dazzling than mithril, absolutely meeting the aesthetic standards of those idiots. You just need to focus on the precision of that lead-sealed cavity."

"Leave it to me." Tolin thumped his chest, sending dust and chest hair flying. "I've been forging iron for over a hundred years. This kind of delicate work, besides me, no one in the entire Rust Harbor can do it! Even if I had to lick it with my tongue, I could lick out a perfect cavity for you!"

"very good."

Rod put down his wine glass.

"Two days." He held up two fingers. "I want to see the finished product the night after tomorrow. Victor gave me seven days, but he doesn't deserve to live that long."

"Two days?" Tolin's eyes widened. "Do you think I'm a steam-powered machine tool from the gnomes? Just grinding that cavity would take..."

"Two bottles of the finest Thunder Spirits, plus priority in selecting all future new materials," Rhodes offered. "And this is to send those swine on their way."

"make a deal!"

Without further hesitation, Tolin threw the lamb leg bone from the plate into the fire, grabbed the hammer by the stove, and his previous dejected and tired state vanished.

"when!"

The heavy hammering echoed in the dimly lit workshop, and sparks bloomed like blood-red flowers.

This is the sound of forging, and also the prelude to a death knell.

By the time Rhodes stepped out of the ironworks, the rain had subsided.

But the fire in his chest burned ever brighter.

He glanced back at the window that emitted a red glow, listening to the rhythmic clanging of blacksmiths coming from inside, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

A good start.

With Torin's technology and the brilliant trigger of "physical heat melting," it's time for him, the "alchemist," to make his appearance.

He intended to use this sword to teach Viktor von Hohenheim a lesson.

The topic is titled: What is a surprise?