One Inch Tall, One Power a Day - The Forge in the Tree
She scooped the fried eggs out of the pan, laid them over a bowl of warm jasmine rice she’d pulled from her refrigerator, and drizzled a spoonful of dark soy sauce over the top.
She ate standing up by the workbench, shoveling the rich, buttery eggs and salty rice into her mouth with fast, practiced movements. The rich yolk broke over the rice, coating every grain in hot fat that hit with the force of wave of pure heat.
Satiety Index: 10 / 10. Caloric Index: Fully Restored.
Wren swallowed the last mouthful of rice, rinsed her bowl in the slate sink, and turned off the stove’s brass fuel valve.
She checked her retinal clock: 5:58:30 PM.
Two minutes until the daily anomaly reset.
Wren stood in the center of her first-floor workspace, rolling up the sleeves of her gray Softscale suit, exposing her pale forearms and the dark bracers strapped over her wrists.
The room was silent, save for the low, steady hum of the automated water condenser and the quiet ticking of the brass wall clock.
06:00:00 PM.
A quick, familiar chime echoed behind her cheekbones.
The three-drum mechanical tumbler dropped into her field of view, the brass cylinders spinning with a loud, oily clatter that vibrated behind her temples.
Click. Click. Click.
Three glowing, diamond-faceted anvil icons slammed into alignment.
Anomaly confirmed: [Crafting Augmentation / Forge Master]. Duration: 24 Hours. Operational Parameter: All physical weapons, armor, and structural fittings synthesized during this operational window receive a flat +100% material yield multiplier, zero failure probability, and a 25% chance to trigger high-tier bonus stat procs.
System Commentary: You are currently an industrial assembly line disguised as a ninety-five-millimeter human. Please try not to crash the regional economy with excessive ironmongery.
Wren stood straight, a sharp, cold smile spreading across her face behind her mask.
“A forge trait,” she whispered, her hands curling into tight, eager fists. “Double yield on every craft.” Five minutes of thinking would have been wasted on it.
She pulled up the Regional Trade Grid, opened her public merchant interface, and set up three mass buy orders:
Pennyroyal: Buying raw Structural Iron Ingots. Rate: 1 Cup Purified Spring Water (50ml) for 5 Ingots. Unlimited Stock. Pennyroyal: Buying dry Timber Logs / Hardwood Scrap. Rate: 1 Sweet Bread Roll for 10 Logs. Unlimited Stock. Pennyroyal: Buying raw Copper Wire / Scrap Fasteners. Rate: 1 Paper Cup Purified Water for 20 Wire Units.
She linked her automated water condenser and her storage bins directly to the trade escrow conduit and hit Publish.
The response across District 6699 was an absolute, blinding avalanche.
Thousands of survivors who had survived the arctic freeze were sitting in cold burrows with plenty of raw dirt, rocks, and iron ingots they’d dug out of ditches, but zero clean drinking water and zero carbohydrates. To them, five raw iron ingots sat on the floor like useless chunks of rock, while half a cup of ice-cold, pure mountain spring water was the difference between living through the night and dying of dry kidney failure.
The transaction log on her retina began scrolling so fast the text blurred into a solid, blinking green wall:
Trade Complete: Received 50 Iron Ingots. Trade Complete: Received 100 Hardwood Logs. Trade Complete: Received 50 Iron Ingots. Trade Complete: Received 200 Wire Fasteners. Trade Complete: Received 100 Iron Ingots. Trade Complete: Received 150 Hardwood Logs.
Within fifteen minutes, the intake platform beside her Primary Multi-Function Workstation was completely buried beneath a mountain of raw metal, dark timber logs, and coiled copper wire.
Over four hundred structural iron ingots, six hundred hardwood logs, and two thousand wire fasteners sat stacked on the white ceramic tile.
Wren walked over to the workstation, rolled up her sleeves, and gripped the main hopper feed lever.
“Time to go to work,” she said.
She loaded twenty iron ingots and twenty hardwood logs into the intake hopper, tapped the chalk slate, and wrote: SYNTHESIZE: ONE-STAR HEAVY IRON CLEAVER.
She hauled the flywheel lever downward with both hands.
CLANG-CRUNCH-GRIND!
The machine’s internal reduction gearbox engaged with a deep, hydraulic thrum. The shredder teeth chewed through the raw iron and timber in three seconds flat.
Thanks to her active [Forge Master] trait, the double-yield multiplier engaged instantly.
Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.
Out of the discharge chute slid four broad, mirror-polished iron cleavers—each one ten inches long overall, forged with a dark hardwood grip, a polished brass bolster, and a thick, wedge-ground carbon steel blade.
Wren picked one up.
[One-Star Heavy Iron Cleaver (Forge Master Enhanced)] Base Attack: +1.0 -> +2.0 (Yield Multiplier Bonus). Edge Retention: Level 2. Condition: Pristine / Factory-Fresh.
Four cleavers produced from twenty ingots—double the standard blueprint yield.
Wren didn’t pause to admire the finish. She grabbed another bundle of iron ingots and hardwood logs, shoved them into the hopper, and hauled the lever down in a smooth, continuous, mechanical rhythm.
CLANG-CRUNCH! CLANG-CRUNCH! CLANG-CRUNCH!
The workstation worked non-stop for two solid hours.
The air inside the ground floor grew hot, smelling of machine oil, friction sparks, and hot iron dust. Wren’s gray Softscale suit was flushed with heat, sweat running down her neck and pooling in the cuffs of her gloves, but her 6.0 Strength and 6.0 Agility kept her arms moving—an industrial piston assembly.
She fed iron into the hopper, hauled the lever, cleared the discharge tray, and stacked the finished weapons along the stairwell.
By 8:30 PM, she had produced a staggering arsenal:
[One-Star Heavy Iron Cleavers (Atk +2.0) x60] [One-Star Precision Short Blades (Atk +2.0) x60] [One-Star Tactical Hand-Crossbows (Atk +2.5) x30] [Precision Micro-Bolts (Bundles of 10) x50]
One hundred and fifty high-grade steel weapons and five hundred steel-tipped bolts stacked against her wall in neat, glittering rows.
“Now,” Wren muttered, wiping a streak of iron dust from her forehead with her sleeve. “Let’s drain the market.”
She opened the Regional Trade Grid and listed the weapons in batch blocks:
Pennyroyal: Selling One-Star Heavy Iron Cleavers (Attack +2.0). Price: 80 Copper Bits or 1 Silver Coin each (60 Available). Pennyroyal: Selling One-Star Precision Short Blades (Attack +2.0). Price:
80 Copper Bits or 1 Silver Coin each (60 Available). Pennyroyal: Selling One-Star Tactical HandCrossbows (Attack +2.5). Price: 2 Silver Coins each (30 Available). Pennyroyal: Selling SteelTipped Micro-Bolt Packs (10 Bolts). Price: 20 Copper Bits per pack (50 Available).
The impact on District 6699 was an absolute, historic economic earthquake.
Up until this moment, ninety-nine percent of the survivors in the district were running around the weeds armed with nothing but five-inch sewing needles (Atk +0.1) or broken pocket knives (Atk +0.2). The few who had found vending machines were facing exorbitant prices—fifty-five copper for a flimsy +0.5 blade.
Here was Pennyroyal, the rank-one player on the global leaderboard, dumping one hundred and fifty factory-fresh +2.0 weapons onto the public board at prices lower than a standard vending machine.
The public channel exploded into an insane, roaring frenzy:
—HOLY HELL! LOOK AT THE TRADE GRID! PENNYROYAL IS SELLING PLUS-TWO
CLEAVERS FOR ONE SILVER!— —I BOUGHT A CROSSBOW! IT HAS AN AUTOMATIC
STIRRUP DRAW! IT’S PLUS TWO POINT FIVE ATTACK!— —BUY THEM ALL! BUY THEM
BEFORE THEY SELL OUT!— —Tyler_Judd: THIS IS MARKET MANIPULATION! PENNYROYAL
IS FLOODING THE SECTOR WITH MILITARY WEAPONS TO CRIPPLE REGIONAL
COOPERATIVE TARIFFS! DO NOT BUY— —Salty_Dog: SHUT UP TYLER! I JUST BOUGHT A
SHORT BLADE AND IT CUTS THROUGH FROZEN WEEDS LIKE BUTTER! GOD BLESS PENNYROYAL!—
The transaction log on Wren’s retina flared into a continuous, blinding stream of green confirmation chimes:
Trade Complete: Received 1 Silver Coin. Trade Complete: Received 80 Copper Bits. Trade Complete: Received 2 Silver Coins. Trade Complete: Received 1 Silver Coin. Trade Complete: Received 2 Silver Coins.
Within twelve minutes, every single one of her hundred and fifty weapons and fifty bolt packs cleared the market.
Wren sat in her leather wingback chair, pulling down her currency summary to review the net payout.
Net Income from Mass Manufacturing Run: Stamped Copper Bits: 9,600 Stamped Silver Coins: 120
One hundred and twenty silver coins and nearly ten thousand copper bits in pure, net liquid profit.
When combined with her existing cash reserves, her total net worth crossed a monumental threshold:
[Total Wealth Valuation: 12 Gold Coins, 45 Silver Coins, 820 Copper Bits]
She held the global #1 Rank on the Regional Wealth Leaderboard by an insurmountable, tenfold margin.
Wren leaned back against the tufted leather cushions, taking a long, slow drink of cold water, letting out a quiet, dry breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh.
“Twelve gold,” she said low to the quiet room. “Old man back in Beckley wouldn’t even know how to write that many zeros on a check.”
She set her glass down, stood up, and walked over to her primary workbench.
The public market run was finished. It was time to craft her own weapon.
From her haversack utility slots, she pulled out three items:
First, her existing Skystone Cleaver (+10 Attack / +4 Defense). Second, her two remaining chunks of raw Skystone Slag (rare meteoric alloy). Third, her newly synthesized [Tier-2 Universal Weapon Upgrade Card].
She placed the heavy black cleaver, the glowing meteoric alloy slag, and the silver Tier-2 upgrade card into the synthesis tray of her workstation.
She commands the array: [EXECUTE TIER-2 MASTERWORK SYNTHESIS].
The workstation’s internal gears locked with a deep, pressurized hydraulic roar.
The [Forge Master] trait engaged its twenty-five-percent bonus proc chance.
CRACKLE-BOOM!
A blinding column of bright crimson and silver lightning erupted from the hopper, illuminating every knot and grain of the Iron-Burl walls in a high-voltage flash.
The workstation emitted a deep, bell-like metallic chime that echoed through the entire hollow tree.
Out of the discharge tray slid a weapon that looked like it had been forged in an orbital foundry.
It was a broad, twelve-inch executioner’s cleaver, forged from a dark, non-reflective meteoric alloy that shifted from deep charcoal to iridescent purple under the lamplight. The primary bevel was ground to a razor-thin, mirror-polished edge, etched with delicate silver circuit runes that glowed with a faint, continuous hum. The spine was three-eighths of an inch thick, heavily weighted toward the front, with a full tang pinned between two scales of polished, mineralized Iron-Burl wood and anchored with brass bolsters.
Wren reached out and wrapped her gloved right hand around the grip.
The heavy blade felt as if it were an organic extension of her forearm, vibrating with a subtle, electric charge that set the hair on her arms standing on end.
She pulled up the weapon diagnostic matrix:
[Tier-2 Masterwork: Skystone Executioner Cleaver] Base Attack: +25.0 (Masterwork Forge
Bonus). Defensive Rating: +8.0 (Kinetic Dispersion). Special Effect: [Armor Piercing]—Ignores 50% of target baseline physical defense. Special Effect: [Impact Shockwave]—On direct kinetic strikes, releases a 1.0-meter radial shockwave dealing 30% kinetic splash damage. Weight: 2.2 kg (Requires 5.0 Base Strength).
Twenty-five attack. Eight defense. Fifty percent armor penetration.
Wren held the dark, glowing blade extended horizontally in her right hand, her arm as rigid as an iron bar, her eyes reflecting the cold silver runes etched along the steel.
She swung the blade in a slow, flat horizontal arc.
WHOOSH.
The heavy steel cut through the air with a deep, pressurized shriek that made the glass windowpanes on the second floor vibrate in their frames.
She sheathed the masterwork cleaver into her hip holster, wiped a stray speck of iron dust from her visor, and looked toward her quiet front door.
It was 9:30 PM.
Outside, the arctic blizzard was howling through the dark crabgrass, but inside the Iron-Burl fortress, the forge fire was warm, the gold was stacked in her vault, and the strongest blade in District 6699 rested against her hip.
Wren turned off the main workspace lights, climbed the hardwood stairs, and walked toward her recovery mattress.