I Am Not Goblin Slayer
Chapter 18: Familiar Faces

Exiting the Adventurer's Hall.  

Gauss turned towards the blacksmith shop located in the same square.  

He came here to sell his loot and purchase equipment.  

The wooden spear had been damaged, and during the previous battle, he'd felt the overly long spear became unwieldy when entering his accelerated thinking state. Thus, he intended to select a new weapon at the forge.  

The soot-blackened stone building bore a sign reading "Black Anvil Workshop." Even before approaching, Gauss could feel the temperature rising several degrees in the surrounding air.  

Situated in a corner of the square, the workshop appeared rather inconspicuous.  

But Gauss knew this was Grayrock Town's finest smithy—the other workshops couldn't compare.  

He'd reached this conclusion during his early days in town when he'd worked here briefly as a temporary laborer.  

Even then, he'd noticed how adventurers who clearly possessed extraordinary capabilities frequented this establishment for their equipment needs.  

Though admittedly, most customers remained lower-tier adventurers.  

Beyond supplying elite weapons and armor, Black Anvil Workshop also offered mass-produced affordable weapons crafted by apprentices, along with secondhand refurbished arms.  

While inexpensive, these weapons maintained decent quality—more than sufficient for ordinary adventurers.  

During his initial weapon purchase days ago, Gauss had debated visiting here, but his empty purse had ultimately deterred him.  

Entering the shop.  

The workshop divided into front and rear sections, its layout unchanged from his working days.  

The storefront displayed rows of standardized finished products on display racks, while the forging area in the rear courtyard echoed with constant clanging hammer strikes.  

"Browse freely, customer."  

A male apprentice with unremarkable features and freckled cheeks handled reception.  

Coincidentally, Gauss recognized him—a superficial acquaintance at best.  

"Malin, long time no see." Gauss initiated the greeting.  

The blacksmith apprentice Malin looked up, scanning Gauss head to toe several times.  

After initial confusion, those distinctive emerald green eyes triggered sudden recognition, making him exclaim loudly.  

"Oh! You're...you're! You're?"  

He recognized Gauss but struggled to recall the name, embarrassment gradually surfacing on his face.  

"Gauss." Gauss supplied helpfully. "And I actually remembered your name, Malin."  

"Can't be helped! I greet so many customers daily—forgetting names happens." Malin laughed, reaching out to clap Gauss's shoulder.  

"Seriously though, what's with this getup? Giving up hunting?"  

Though Gauss's current equipment appeared ragged, it clearly didn't resemble a hunter's attire either.  

Moreover, having interacted with various adventurers regularly, Malin could detect that distinctive travel-worn adventurer aura.  

To him, Gauss now embodied the most generic lower-tier adventurer image.  

"Correct." Gauss nodded. "I recently registered as an adventurer."  

"Tch...lucky bastard. My folks would never let me become one." Malin's face soured immediately upon confirmation.  

Gauss smiled faintly—his memories contained scenes of Malin complaining about parental restrictions.  

Unlike rootless drifters like himself, Malin was Grayrock Town born and bred.  

His parents had expended considerable effort securing this Black Anvil Workshop apprenticeship.  

Their hope was that mastering some craftsmanship would make him a proper blacksmith—a lifelong iron rice bowl occupation.  

To many, being a smith seemed far more respectable than bottom-rung adventurers constantly risking their lives.  

But restless youth like Malin couldn't appreciate such parental wisdom.  

Currently, he idealized the sword-and-sorcery adventurer lifestyle—roaming golden wheat fields with companions, slaying monsters for commissions, sampling food and drink across various village taverns.  

To him, life should resonate with such free-spirited melodies, not waste away before a tiny furnace with hammer and tongs.  

This outlook wasn't entirely wrong, but its accuracy remained limited.  

Malin's mental image drew from established professional adventurers whose exploits indeed brimmed with color.  

But what about the overwhelming majority of lower-tier adventurers?  

Past Gauss wouldn't have known.  

But present Gauss, having experienced it firsthand, understood Malin would likely detest true adventurer hardships.  

The brutal limb-severing combat, wilderness exposure with constant insect bites, perpetual vigilance against threats, and most crucially—the soul-deep isolation within vast untamed lands.  

Even his two-day return journey from Birch Village to Grayrock Town had driven this home painfully.  

Extend that to weeks, months, half-years? That loneliness would intensify unbearably.  

No wonder adventurers preferred forming parties—few could endure that persistent intangible pressure alone.  

Though these thoughts flashed through Gauss's mind rapidly, he resisted lecturing Malin about harsh realities.  

He simply offered a meaningful smile.  

"Trust me, you wouldn't enjoy the adventurer life."  

"Pfft—look who's talking! If someone like you can manage, of course this genius could!" Malin retorted stubbornly.  

Secretly, he'd been saving up for gear to finally register at the guild.  

Unaware of these plans, Gauss redirected to business.  

"Anyway, enough chatter. I came to sell some loot—what's it worth?"  

He dumped a large equipment sack onto the stone table with a thud.  

"Let's see...whoa, quite the haul! But pricing's above my pay grade." Malin gaped at the unpacked quantity.  

Though quality seemed mediocre, he hadn't expected Gauss to produce so much gear.  

"Where'd you scavenge all this?" Muttering, Malin hurried to summon the workshop owner from the rear courtyard.  

Black Anvil Workshop's owner, Garon Bates, stood an imposing 190cm tall.  

He emerged still gripping a massive forging hammer, wearing a fireproof hardened leather apron that couldn't conceal his Herculean torso despite the wide belt cinching his waist.  

Short black hair framed his expressionless face, the left eye covered by a black patch while the remaining right eye bulged like a copper bell.  

More warrior than blacksmith in appearance—a common town speculation never confirmed.  

Still, his exceptional metalworking skills had earned adventurers' respect.  

"So it's you, Gauss."  

Contrary to his rough exterior, Garon Bates proved quite amiable.  

When Gauss first arrived in town seeking temporary work, Garon had taken him in despite lacking any smithing skills.  

Though Gauss hadn't stayed long, he remained grateful.  

"Long time no see, Master Garon."  

"Malin mentioned loot sales?" Garon glanced at the table's assortment.  

He vaguely recalled this diligent youth with decent physique.  

Pity he couldn't afford formal apprenticeship fees—Garon had to treat all employees equally to maintain fairness.  

"Correct. Salvaged from goblins."  

"Even you turned adventurer now..." Garon sighed.  

Clearly he too considered adventuring an undesirable profession, having witnessed too many low-tier adventurers becoming wilderness corpses.  

"Times grow ever harsher..." He lamented while examining the equipment.  

Worsening conditions bred more adventurers—peaceful eras saw more scholars, artisans, officials, and employees instead.  

He remembered fewer adventurers in his youth, yet now they comprised nearly 30-40% of Grayrock Town's population.  

Even as an important waypoint, this ratio felt excessive.  

"Since you're practically a Black Anvil alumnus, I'll add 10% extra."  

"This cleaver—mediocre material but decent tempering. Worth 25 silver, though poor maintenance docked a few extra coins."  

"This dagger's too damaged for resale—only scrap metal value now..."  

Garon rapidly appraised each metal piece.  

"Total's 36 silver. Acceptable?"  

After brief consideration, Gauss nodded—knowing secondary weapon prices reasonably well, this seemed fair given the workshop's refurbishing efforts.  

He'd decided to sell the cleaver too—his average strength made prolonged wielding exhausting.  

"Actually, Master Garon—any idea what this is?"  

Gauss produced the green stone from his pouch.