Rolling Bolt Workshop

After the gathering ended, Brandon dragged his exhausted body home, worn out from practicing rage.

Brandon's house was the most common kind of building in the Lower City. Its exterior was built from heavy stone blocks, weathered and mottled by the years. The wooden roof was covered in the moss and vines unique to the seaside.

The interior was simple as well. The main space beyond the entrance served as both living room and kitchen, furnished with a few plain pieces of furniture and decorations. Further inside, cloth curtains divided the rooms into two bedrooms.

The larger one belonged to Brandon's parents, while the smaller one was his own. It was cramped, and after fitting in a soft single bed, there was barely any room left.

When Brandon returned, the house was quiet. Both his parents had gone to their respective jobs for the day.

Two pieces of soft bread, a fried egg, and a cup of warm milk had been left on the table.

It was only when he smelled the sweet fragrance wafting from the golden bread that Brandon realized how hungry he was.

He sat at the table and wolfed everything down. After glancing at the date on the calendar hanging on the wall, Brandon let out a long yawn and reluctantly stood up.

"Those damned goblin tycoons! They should all be hanged from the harbor's streetlamps!"

Even though he had just pulled an all-nighter, he had no choice but to force down his sleepiness.

Because he needed to hurry to the goblin workshop where he worked.

He really wanted to quit right now, register as an adventurer instead, and travel the continent.

But he was broke!

Training as a warrior was expensive too.

Weapons and armor—what part of that didn't cost money?

The God of Knowledge could give him knowledge, but it could not conjure equipment for him out of thin air.

And those adventurer commissions that paid well all came with risks!

If he was too weak and poorly equipped, what if he got soloed by a wild monster the moment he set out on an adventure? That would be a total loss!

Brandon made his plans.

For the time being, he would work harder. He would earn money during the day, then follow the God of Knowledge's guidance at night and continue practicing control over his rage.

Once he officially became a Tier 1 warrior, it would be about time for payday. Then he would give that stingy goblin boss at the workshop a big middle finger and tell him, "I quit!"

Yawning all the way, Brandon passed through several narrow streets and arrived before a building called the "Rolling Bolt Workshop."

Many workshops of all sizes in Greenport Lower City had been funded and built by goblins.

Raw materials from across the continent were processed into all sorts of goods in Greenport's Lower City, then shipped out on cargo vessels to various places for handsome profits.

Though these little green goblins had little combat ability themselves, once they accumulated enough wealth, hiring bodyguards and purchasing all kinds of "goblin engineering" self-defense products became a form of strength in itself.

The rules at the Rolling Bolt Workshop were simple: being late or leaving early both counted as missing the entire day of work.

Six days on, one day off. Nine to six. No meals, no lodging, and no compensation for workplace injuries.

The conditions were harsh in every way. Not only was the workload heavier than elsewhere, but the environment was especially terrible.

If this goblin workshop had not promised wages far higher than those offered by human-run workshops, Brandon would never have come here to work.

The ogre foreman sitting at the entrance checked everyone's identity against their portraits one by one.

"Hmm... let me see."

"You look more or less like the portrait, so you must be..."

"Branton!"

"Branton! Your station today is the sixth from the left in the second row."

Brandon's face darkened as he muttered a curse under his breath.

"Asshole!"

This ogre foreman had been hired by the owner of the Rolling Bolt Workshop. He had given himself the name "Doom."

In the ogre language, the word was pronounced like "wisdom."

Doom had always believed himself to be a wise sage among ogres.

Because he could read.

In reality, this guy's command of the common tongue was utterly half-baked. Out of ten pronunciations, he got nine wrong.

For example, even now, Doom still believed Brandon's name was pronounced Branton!

Refusing to stoop to the level of an idiot, Brandon composed himself and entered the workshop.

A stench of sweat, machine oil, grease, and rusty metal instantly hit him in the face.

Brandon had long grown used to the strange smell. He walked to his empty station, sat down, picked up the tools on the workbench with practiced ease, and began polishing bolts.

His work was simple.

He manually ground roughly machined bolts down to the required dimensions.

His pay was calculated by the number completed and settled once a month.

Having stayed up all night practicing control over his rage, Brandon was mentally sluggish during the day, and his grinding efficiency had dropped.

After working all morning, he had produced less than half his usual output.

At last, the brief noon break arrived. A short man squeezed over from the neighboring station and waggled his eyebrows at him.

"What's going on, Brandon? Didn't see you at the Pighead Tavern for cards last night. Where'd you go?"

"Looking at how drained you are, don't tell me you went to the Rose Lover for some fun?"

"Your stamina's pretty lousy, huh?"

"You keep saying you're going to become a warrior famous across the continent someday, but one night was enough to wear you out?"

Brandon immediately cursed back in irritation.

"Bullshit!"

"I knew nothing good would come out of that filthy mouth of yours."

"You're the one who's worn out! I'm built like a rock!"

"Just watch me. In a couple of days, I'll become a real Tier 1 warrior. Then I'll become an adventurer, famous enough to eat for free anywhere just by showing my face!"

"You can keep wasting away in this dump!"

The other man was Brandon's coworker. They got along fairly well and often went out together after work to drink, play cards, and brag.

His circumstances were much the same as Brandon's. With little hope of becoming a professional, he had found work somewhere, like most people in the Lower City.

After working for a few years and saving up enough money, he planned to return to the Rayak Kingdom, buy a house in some small town, and settle down.

After all, while Greenport Lower City had a terrible environment, laborers were paid considerably more than in ordinary towns of the Rayak Kingdom.

Upon hearing Brandon's words, his coworker assumed it was just another one of Brandon's usual speeches about how he would become a great legendary warrior someday.

He was about to mock him when Brandon suddenly froze.

The next moment, Brandon lowered his head and began polishing bolts again with renewed vigor!

His coworker stared in astonishment. "What's going on?"

By their usual habits, they would never do even a second of extra work. The instant the break bell rang, they were supposed to put down whatever they were doing.

Brandon's hands did not stop moving, and without raising his head, he replied, "What do you know?"

"Because I suddenly realized that polishing bolts is actually meaningful work!"

His coworker's curiosity was immediately piqued.

"Something's off. You're seriously off, Brandon. You've got something going on!"

"What is it? Aren't we good brothers? Hurry up and share it!"