My attributes are increasing infinitely Chapter 452: Customers booming

Shortly after, the crowd scattered away from the store.

Ethan grabbed the bag of gold and turned his eyes toward Harold.

"Old man," Ethan said aloud.

Harold lifted his head, still adjusting to that form of address. "What is it?"

Ethan clutched the pouch of gold that Henry had handed over before. He flung it casually, and Harold snatched it without thinking, almost letting it slip from his grasp upon sensing its heaviness.

"This... what's this for?" Harold stuttered, his gaze widening in shock.

"A hundred gold pieces. It's yours now."

Harold's fingers trembled as he loosened the cord. Shining gold coins stared back at him, amounting to more riches than he'd encountered in over ten years. "N-no, this belongs to you. You made it fair and square. I can't accept—"

"You will take it, and that's final," Ethan cut in, his voice firm without allowing debate. "This place requires an upgrade. That sign hanging outside is worn out and crumbling. The inside is full of dust and too confined. If we're dealing with the sorts of customers arriving shortly, we need a fitting venue."

Harold gazed at the gold, then at Ethan, and back to the gold once more. Moisture gathered in his eyes, though he swiftly wiped it back. "You... you're truly doing this? For someone as aged as me?"

Ethan looked his way, a mysterious glint in his expression. "You didn't pause when I requested the villagers' help. You trusted me right away. See this as my way of giving back."

Harold parted his lips to protest, then shut them again. He gave a gradual nod, gripping the gold as if it were his anchor. "I'll fix everything up properly. You have my word. This store will honor your reputation."

Ethan just nodded and headed for the door. "I'll return in the morning."

---

On the following day, Ethan came back to the store, his strength notably enhanced. He felt astonishment. Harold truly understood his craft well.

The shop's makeover was astonishing.

The rickety wooden sign that had dangled unevenly for ages had vanished. Now, a solid new plaque took its spot, engraved with striking letters sunk deeply into the timber: Ethan’s Smith. The coating remained vibrant, the borders neat and precise.

Within, all areas shone with cleanliness. The accumulated grime and ash had disappeared, giving way to a smooth floor and tidy racks. Implements lined the walls in orderly fashion. The workbench had been smoothed and treated until it shone brightly. The panes even gleamed, allowing sunlight that likely hadn't entered previously.

Harold positioned himself at the counter, dressed in a fresh tunic and bearing a look of subdued satisfaction. Spotting Ethan, he stood taller.

"Morning," Harold greeted, a real grin crossing his lined features. "I spent part of the gold on fresh supplies as well. Some iron, steel, and a touch of copper. Not extravagant, but superior to our previous stock. The remainder's stored securely in the rear."

Ethan scanned the interior, a subtle grin forming on his mouth. "You move quickly, old timer."

"No choice," Harold answered. "The visitors heading our way won't tolerate delays from sluggards."

Ethan gave an appreciative nod. Next, his attention drifted outward.

A massive throng had assembled before the entrance.

Yet these weren't the inquisitive locals from the day prior. This group was distinct. They wore luxurious silk garments and ornate robes. Their stances radiated affluence and authority. Luxurious coaches filled the road, their steeds fitted with lavish gear. Cultivators mingled with traders, aristocrats blended with bidding house agents. Each one eyed the store with a blend of strain and eager suspense.

Ethan's grin broadened.

Evidently, a single evening sufficed to circulate the word. This is more like it.

He moved to the storefront.

As soon as he emerged, the assembly pressed ahead. However, they refrained from swarming him wildly. They halted at a polite range, their stares locked on him akin to ravenous predators sizing up quarry—though these predators dreaded striking the incorrect mark.

"Are you Mr. Ethan?" inquired a sturdy fellow clad in armor, his tone a bit winded.

"That's me," Ethan responded steadily.

The fellow's eyes brightened. He advanced with caution, extending the blade Ethan had forged the previous day—the very one that had sliced Henry's gilded creation as if it were mere parchment. His grip shook faintly while offering it forth.

"Did you make this blade?"

"Indeed."

The man gulped noticeably. "Mr. Ethan, your blade... it might spark a war drenched in blood if mortal realms got hold of it."

Ethan cocked his head, pretending lack of knowledge. "It's keen, sure. But could one blade alone trigger such carnage?"

The man's face turned grave. "Your work rivals a low-grade spirit weapon. And you shaped it using just basic iron and charcoal. The blade won't ignite the conflict, but you will. Mortal realms would stop at nothing to enlist a smith of your caliber. They'd rip this empire to shreds for the opportunity to claim you."

Ethan arched a brow. "Yet I'm part of this empire. And why should immortals dread mortals? Don't cultivators hold the upper hand?"

The man drew nearer, dropping his voice. "Since those scoundrels possess something dreadful. They name them Soul Weapons. A mortal can link with one, gaining strength akin to ours as immortals. These arms are formed via a secret technique the mortal realms protect fiercely. They're constantly seeking skilled forgers capable of crafting them."

Ethan fixed his gaze on him for an extended beat.

Then he burst into laughter.

It rang true with delight, not scorn. The noise echoed over the abruptly hushed gathering.

"Ha! So they're the real clients for me, right?" he remarked, still chuckling.

The man's complexion drained. "Please don't jest on that, Mr. Ethan. The empire won't allow you to join them. That's why His Majesty dispatched me—to either enlist you or remove you. Your decision?"

The assembly tensed in suspense.

Ethan's mirth subsided, giving way to a serene, somewhat idle grin. "Naturally, I wish to survive. And earn coin. Nothing more. I can craft spirit weapons as well, given the right supplies. But I desire freedom in my work. And I won't betray the empire unless it betrays me first. Clear enough?"

The man examined him closely, probing for lies. Detecting none, he nodded deliberately.

"Very well. The empire supplies the resources. You craft arms for our use. Compensation matches your efforts. But know this—if you attempt escape to the mortal realms, no refuge awaits you."

Ethan lifted his shoulders. "Got it."

Following brief further talks, the leader departed, content temporarily.

The leftover assembly advanced once more, yet with altered vigor. These included traders, auction agents, and affluent enthusiasts. They posed no menace—they proposed deals.

"Master Ethan, from the Black Moon Auction House here. Care to channel your creations via us? We'll secure top rates!"

"I speak for the Silver Dawn Trading Company. Our stocks hail from every corner of the land. State your terms!"

"Master, a single piece, I beg. I'll double any bid they make!"

Ethan lifted his palm, silencing the group.

"I welcome every patron," he stated plainly, his grin reappearing. "Supply materials, supply gold, and we'll trade. No preferences, no sole deals. All get their shot."

The throng buzzed with thrilled whispers.

At his rear, Harold observed with bulging eyes. Only yesterday, the store lay overlooked. Today, it anchored a whirlwind.

And deep in his thoughts, Ethan noted the details on Soul Weapons and mortal realms.

"Yumiko, what exactly are those weapons?"

[They draw power from devils. The user essentially contracts with devils via the weapons, and stronger weapons draw greater devilish might.]

Fascinating, he mused. "Perhaps I'll check out those mortals later on. A devil pact funneled through an arm... that's something to explore."