I'm not a Goblin Slayer

Gauss stepped out of the Adventurers' Guild and made his way to the blacksmith shop on the edge of the plaza.

He was here to sell his loot and buy new gear.

His old wooden spear had broken, and after that last battle, he realized that the weapon just didn't mesh well with him—especially when he entered his accelerated thinking state. The length had felt clunky and hard to manage.

Time to find something better.

The shop stood in a corner of the plaza, a soot-darkened stone building with a sign that read Black Anvil Forge. Even before he got close, Gauss could feel the temperature spike—heat radiated from within.

It wasn't flashy, but he knew this was the best forge in Grayrock. The other smithies didn't compare.

He'd come to that conclusion back when he first arrived in town, after working here as a temporary errand boy.

Back then, he noticed that even well-equipped adventurers—clearly high-ranking—would stop by to buy weapons here.

Of course, most customers were still lower-ranked adventurers.

Black Anvil sold both high-end weapons and armor as well as more affordable options made by apprentices. There were also plenty of second-hand goods available.

Sure, the cheaper stuff wasn't glamorous, but it was decent quality—perfectly usable for most adventurers.

Gauss had considered coming here when he first bought his gear, but his wallet was so thin back then that he gave up on the idea entirely.

…

Inside, the forge was just as he remembered.

The front was a shop with neat shelves lined with finished gear. The back opened into an outdoor courtyard where apprentices hammered away, the rhythmic clanging of metal filling the air.

"Take a look around, pick what you like," a freckled apprentice behind the counter called out.

Gauss recognized him immediately.

"Hey, Marlin. Been a while."

The apprentice squinted at him, scanning him up and down. He looked confused at first, then his eyes caught Gauss's unmistakable green eyes—and his face lit up.

"Wait—you're… you're… uhh—"

He clearly recognized him but couldn't remember the name.

"Gauss," he said, smirking. "Shame I still remember your name, Marlin."

"Hey, give me a break. I deal with dozens of people a day. Forgetting names isn't that weird." Marlin laughed, giving him a firm slap on the shoulder.

"You look different. What's with the gear? You're not hunting anymore?"

Gauss's equipment was worn and mismatched—not a hunter's look.

But Marlin had been around adventurers long enough to spot the telltale signs: dust-covered boots, a tired posture, the tension of someone who'd stared death in the face.

"Yeah," Gauss nodded. "I registered as an adventurer not long ago."

"Man… lucky you. My folks would kill me if I even tried."

Gauss chuckled. He remembered Marlin griping about that when they worked together.

Unlike Gauss, who was a rootless wanderer, Marlin was a local, born and raised in Grayrock.

His parents had worked hard to get him into Black Anvil as an apprentice. If he stuck with it, he could become a proper blacksmith—a stable job for life.

In many people's eyes, being a blacksmith was way more respectable than being a dirt-poor adventurer gambling with his life.

But Marlin had always been a restless one.

He dreamed of adventuring—of swords and magic, of traveling the world with companions, fighting monsters, drinking fine wine in distant taverns.

That life sounded thrilling.

Not like his current reality, stuck behind a forge with soot on his face.

His dream wasn't entirely wrong—but it was a fantasy.

Marlin's image of adventurers was based on professionals—the ones who made it.

But for the average low-tier adventurer?

Gauss understood now.

After living through it himself, he knew Marlin wouldn't enjoy the reality.

Fighting in the mud, covered in blood, sleeping under the stars while swatting bugs, always on edge for the next monster attack, and feeling that deep, bone-chilling loneliness of the open wild.

Even just the two-day trip back from Birchwood had been enough to hammer that into him.

No wonder adventurers preferred to form parties.

No one wants to carry that weight alone.

Those thoughts flashed through Gauss's mind in a second. He didn't say any of it aloud.

Instead, he just smiled knowingly.

"You wouldn't like being an adventurer."

"Tch. Come on! You think I can't handle it? If you can do it, I sure as hell can too!"

Marlin's pride flared.

He was secretly saving up to buy his own gear. Once he had enough, he planned to register.

Gauss didn't know that, though, and shifted the conversation back on track.

"Anyway, I'm here for business. Got some loot to sell—can you take a look?"

He dropped a heavy sack onto the stone table.

"Whoa, that's a lot." Marlin blinked, opening the bag.

"Where'd you get all this? Don't tell me you found it."

He muttered to himself and ran off to get the boss.

The shop's owner, Gron Bates, came out from the back.

A hulking man nearly two meters tall, he carried an oversized smithing hammer in one hand like it weighed nothing.

A scorched leather apron covered his chest and abdomen, but even that couldn't hide the thick muscles underneath. He had short black hair, a black eyepatch over his left eye, and a stare like a war veteran.

Frankly, he looked more like a seasoned warrior than a blacksmith.

People often whispered that he used to be one—but no one knew for sure.

What was certain was that his forging skills were top-tier. Adventurers respected his work.

"You again, Gauss."

Despite his intimidating appearance, Gron was a friendly guy.

He was the one who had given Gauss a job when he first arrived in Grayrock—even though he had zero smithing experience.

Gauss hadn't worked there long, but he was still grateful.

"Long time no see, Master Gron."

"Marlin said you've got some stuff to sell?" Gron glanced at the pile of weapons on the table.

He still remembered Gauss—hardworking kid, solid build. Just didn't have the funds to train formally.

He couldn't make exceptions. Every apprentice had to pay the same fee. It wouldn't be fair otherwise.

"Yeah. Took these off a group of goblins."

"Didn't expect you to become an adventurer too…" Gron sighed.

It was clear he didn't see it as a good thing.

He'd seen too many corpses dragged back from the field.

"Times are tough these days…"

As he examined the weapons, his tone turned heavy.

The worse the world got, the more people turned to adventuring.

If times were peaceful, people would become scholars, craftsmen, clerks.

When Gron was young, adventurers were rare.

Now? In Grayrock, they made up nearly a third of the population. That was way too many—even for a transit hub like this.

"Since you started out from this shop, I'll give you a 10% bonus."

"This cleaver here—poor-quality steel, but the quenching was done well. Worth about 25 silver. If it had been maintained better, maybe more."

"This dagger's too far gone. Not sellable as a weapon anymore—only good for scrap."

He worked through the pile quickly.

"Altogether, I'd say... 36 silver. Sound fair?"

Gauss paused, then nodded.

He had a rough idea of secondhand weapon prices, and this seemed very fair—especially given the shop would need to refurbish and resell everything.

He hadn't planned to keep the cleaver either. It was too heavy for him anyway.

"By the way, Master Gron. Any idea what this is?"

Gauss reached into his pocket and pulled out the glowing green stone.