My attributes are increasing infinitely Chapter 452: Customers booming

Quickly, the crowd scattered away from the store.

Ethan grabbed the bag of gold and turned his gaze to Harold.

"Old man," Ethan called.

Harold lifted his head, still adjusting to that form of address. "Yes?"

Ethan clutched the sack of gold that Henry had handed over before. He flung it casually, and Harold snatched it on reflex, almost fumbling it as the heaviness hit him.

"What... what's this?" Harold stuttered, his eyes bulging.

"One hundred gold. It's yours. Take it."

Harold's fingers trembled while he loosened the cord. Golden coins shimmered in response, representing more riches than he'd encountered in over ten years. "B-but this belongs to you. You made it. I can't—"

"You can, and you will," Ethan cut in, his voice firm without any space for debate. "This place needs an upgrade. That sign hanging outside is worn out and crumbling. The inside's full of grime and too tight. If we're dealing with the sorts of folks arriving soon, we require a fitting setup."

Harold gazed at the gold, then at Ethan, then back to the gold. Moisture gathered in his eyes, though he rapidly blinked it back. "You... you're truly doing this? For someone as old as me?"

Ethan shot him a look, an enigmatic glint in his eyes. "You didn't waver when I requested you gather the villagers. You had faith in me. See this as my way of settling the score."

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

Ethan merely nodded and headed for the door. "I'll return tomorrow."

---

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

The shop's makeover was astonishing.

The rickety wooden sign that had dangled unevenly for ages vanished. Instead, a robust new plaque swung there, etched with striking letters sunk into the timber: Ethan’s Smith. The coating remained vibrant, the borders crisp and precise.

Within, all areas shone spotless. The former layers of dirt and grime had disappeared, swapped for a buffed floor and tidy racks. Tools lined the walls in orderly fashion. The counter had been smoothed and treated until it shone brightly. Even the panes glistened, allowing sunlight that likely never reached inside previously.

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

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

Ethan scanned the premises, a subtle grin pulling at his mouth. "You move swiftly, old man."

"Had no choice," Harold answered. "The types heading our way won't tolerate dawdlers."

Ethan gave an appreciative nod. Then his attention drifted outward.

A massive throng had assembled before the store.

Yet these weren't the intrigued locals from the day prior. This group stood apart. Their attire consisted of luxurious silk and ornate garments. Their stances radiated affluence and authority. Wagons crowded the road, their steeds fitted with lavish gear. Cultivators mingled with traders, aristocrats blended among auction reps. Every one of them eyed the shop with a blend of strain and edgy eagerness.

Ethan's grin broadened.

Evidently, a single evening sufficed to circulate the word. Now things were heating up.

He moved to the front of the store.

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

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

"Yes, that's me," Ethan responded steadily.

The fellow's gaze brightened. He advanced with caution, extending the blade Ethan had forged the previous day—the very one that sliced Henry's gilded creation as if it were parchment. His grip quivered faintly as he displayed it.

"Did you make this blade?"

"Yes."

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

Ethan cocked his head, pretending cluelessness. "It's keen, sure. But could one blade truly unleash such chaos?"

The fellow's face turned grave. "Your blade rivals a low-grade spirit weapon. And you produced it using mere iron and coal. The blade itself 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 shot at claiming you."

Ethan arched a brow. "But I'm part of this empire. And why should immortals dread mortals? Aren't cultivators meant to outclass them?"

The fellow drew nearer, dropping his voice. "Because those scoundrels possess something dreadful. They name them Soul Weapons. A mortal can bind with one, and it bestows strength akin to immortals such as ourselves. These arms arise from a unique process that mortal realms protect fiercely. They're constantly seeking skilled smiths able to craft them."

Ethan fixed him with a prolonged stare.

Then he burst into laughter.

It held no scorn, just honest delight. The noise echoed over the abruptly hushed gathering.

"Ha! So they're my real patrons, right?" he remarked, still chuckling.

The fellow's complexion drained. "Don't jest about 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 smile. "Naturally, I wish to survive. And I desire wealth. Nothing more. I can craft spirit weapons as well, provided you supply the ingredients. But I intend to operate unbound. And I won't betray the empire so long as it doesn't betray me. Clear enough?"

The fellow examined him, probing for trickery. Detecting none, he nodded deliberately.

"Very well. The empire shall furnish materials. You'll craft arms for us. Compensation will match your efforts. But heed this—if you attempt to escape to the mortal realms, no refuge will shield you."

Ethan shrugged. "Got it."

Following several more moments of haggling, the leader departed, content temporarily.

The leftover assembly rushed up once more, yet now with altered vigor. These included traders, auction envoys, and affluent enthusiasts. They issued no threats—they extended propositions.

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

"I speak for the Silver Dawn Trading Company. Our resources span the entire land. State your terms!"

"Master, one piece, please. I'll double any bid they make!"

Ethan lifted a hand, silencing the group.

"I welcome every client," he stated plainly, his smile reemerging. "Supply materials, supply gold, and we'll trade. No preferences, no monopolies. All get their shot."

The assembly buzzed with thrilled whispers.

At his back, Harold observed with bulging eyes. Only yesterday, the store lingered in obscurity. 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 arise by tapping devilish forces. The user chiefly seals a pact with devils via the arms, and the stronger the arm, the greater the devilish might it channels.]

Fascinating, he mused. "Perhaps I'll seek out those mortals eventually. A devil pact, routed through an arm... that's prime for exploration."