How to Live as a Genius Scholar in another World

Chapter 22 – Future Dreams (1)

—–CROW—– 

I woke up the next day at lunchtime.

“Good afternoon. Breakfast is 1 cooper.”

“Ah, shit, I forgot.”

“Kkkkk .”

Last night, I had stopped by the bathhouse, returned to the inn, worked on my thesis, and fallen asleep.  I had passed out on the bed after pushing through without caffeine, so the thought of having breakfast hadn’t even crossed my mind.

‘This is why you shouldn’t eat out.’

Other people could survive for a month on 20 coopers, but I had already spent about 30, damn it.

I understood the struggles of Iron-class adventurers who worked tirelessly every day for a daily wage of 3 coopers. This was why they lived in 1 or 2-cooper inns, accepting the risk of being stabbed in their sleep.

‘Or do I just suck at managing money?’

That seemed likely.

This was the hardship of being a foreigner.  With no fixed income or home, money just kept flowing out.  From tomorrow, I should buy bread or something and keep it in my room to eat. It was terrible that my money was only decreasing, not increasing.

Cursing under my breath, I went down the stairs.  For some reason, my lower back felt heavier than usual this morning, like a sign of low blood pressure. I was so tired that I didn’t even get a morning wood.

“Hey, adventurer. You need to pay.”

Dorka called out to me as I was about to leave the inn.  This money-grubbing bastard.

“Wait a minute. I’ll eat breakfast after exercising.”

“Not that. Your lodging fee.”

“Damn it.”

Was it already time? Today was the third renewal date.  It had already been six days, almost a week, since I arrived at this inn.

Whoosh—! Slap!

I flicked a 10-cooper coin towards him. Dorka caught it smoothly and grinned.

“For our valued customer, I’ll give you breakfast for free today. But bring the leftover bread from your room.”

“Wow, I’m so happy. But you’re not going to heat it up for me, are you?”

Inns in this other world rarely used small cooking utensils.  Large-scale cooking was essential for the inn business. So, they used large pots, like in a military mess hall.

Since the pots were large, the hearths were also huge.  It was honestly a waste of firewood to build a fire in that huge hearth just to heat up a small portion of food for me.

“Sorry about that.  I can’t use that big pot and wash it just for you.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll wake up early next time after a request, so look forward to it.”

Even hotel breakfasts in the 21st century had a time limit. And this was an other world where cooking was more expensive and troublesome than on Earth. I should be grateful to Dorka for even providing me with food.

—Creak.

I went to the well next to the inn.

One thing this world was better at than medieval Earth was drinking water and sanitation.  The city had sewers, so the water supply system was also advanced.

But I wasn’t here to drink well water.  I didn’t drink much water even on Earth. Coffee, cola, and alcohol were pretty much the only beverages I consumed.

I came here for my morning workout.

‘I can’t lift weights on the second floor and break the floor.’

There happened to be a rock of just the right weight lying around near the well, so I got Dorka’s permission to use it for weightlifting.

Actually, I had only used it once a few days ago.  I didn’t do upper body workouts every day.

“Ugh.”

I finished stretching my upper and lower body, wrists, and ankles, and picked up the rock I usually used.  It was about the size of a washbasin, with a tapered end that made it easy to grip.

“Huh?”

But today, it felt a little lighter.  It wasn’t light, but the weight in my arms felt insufficient. I couldn’t use this for weightlifting.

‘What the hell?’

It was the right weight last time.

Did my strength increase because I leveled up while killing goblins? No, this wasn’t a game; that couldn’t be it. I put the rock down and tilted my head.

‘…It must be because of Beast Regression.’

That was the only variable.

My mana, which had started circulating properly through my body since I used Beast Regression. Was it strengthening my body even normally?

In this world, people who could manipulate mana gained strength that transcended human limitations based on that mana. That was why I could cut a kobold in half or throw Francesca even before I acquired Beast Regression. I had already adapted to mana, even if only slightly.  All hail Professor Brammaton.

Anyway, the effects of the mana catheters I felt when I used Beast Regression might be feeding back into my physical body.

I took off my shirt and checked my body. I didn’t work out for aesthetics, but they said good-looking food tasted better.

So, I checked my physique occasionally.  Real gym rats checked themselves out in the mirror every day and even took pictures to keep track of their progress.

—Flex.

My physique and appearance hadn’t changed much. The same sturdy six-pack and pecs as always.

—Poke, poke.

I poked my chest muscles to test their firmness.  The texture felt the same.  It was my usual macho body with around 10% body fat.

Didn’t training mana make your skin tougher? I heard it only increased damage resistance.

So, I lightly punched myself.

—Thwack!

“Oh?”

Even though I hadn’t put much force into it, it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. I didn’t know the process, but it was clear that mana was affecting my physical body.

—Glance.

Then I noticed a rock a size larger than the one I usually used. It looked much heavier.

“Heh.”

I lifted the rock, which was embedded in the ground like Excalibur.

The cool touch and the heavy weight in my arms.  This was a satisfying weight.

Heavy weights were a gym rat’s instinct.

***

‘I should sharpen my sword.’

That thought came to me after I finished my meal and my stomach was full.

I had been using my weapon a lot lately.  As a result, the blade was in terrible condition, but I hadn’t done any proper maintenance other than wiping and drying it.

The sword I received from Carmine University was a mid-low range model. I needed to maintain it regularly to avoid future problems.

A warrior’s combat power was about half dependent on equipment.  I couldn’t skimp on equipment maintenance. The maintenance method was detailed in my bible, Professor Brammaton’s book, “An Adventurer’s Alchemy,” so it wasn’t difficult.

‘The problem is the whetstone.’

The whetstone I usually used had received harsh criticism from the communist and skinny adventurer duo I met on the carriage to Sargardis.

─Hey, yellow.  Do you maintain your weapon with this? You probably brush your teeth with weeds too.

─Even if your equipment is cheap, you should use expensive maintenance tools.

According to them, “You have to maintain the whetstone too.”

I usually left the whetstone I got from the university lying around in my dorm room, so it was in terrible condition.

But maintaining the maintenance tool? It was too absurd and unrealistic. It was a culture shock on par with seeing a toothbrush sterilizer in a friend’s bathroom when I was a kid.

Maintenance for maintenance!

It was as contradictory as sterilization for sterilization and war for peace.

But as an adult, I now understood why toothbrushes needed to be sterilized.  A toothbrush left wet was a breeding ground for bacteria.  The reason a whetstone needed to be in good condition was probably similar; otherwise, there was no point in sharpening the sword.

A whetstone was a tool for sharpening a sword’s blade.

In other words, it was a kind of masturbation tool for swords.

Thinking of it that way made me feel enlightened. What man wasn’t careful about choosing his masturbation tools?  Even those who didn’t use them didn’t just use anything.

I couldn’t give my partner a cheap real doll (real-stone). This sword was the weapon I entrusted my life to, at least for the time being.

“That’s why I’m here.  Blacksmith.”

—Clang, clang.

I entered the simple blacksmith’s shop, triggering the bell on the door.

The blacksmith’s shop was dimly lit by candles hanging from the ceiling, like an old tavern.  A man with a pipe in his mouth, his whole being consumed by bravado, stood amidst the gleaming metal weapons.

“Phew—”

The man, puffing out smoke, didn’t even look at me.  He had the attitude of a veteran convenience store worker.

Those guys could get away with it because it wasn’t their store, but this guy owned the place, and he didn’t seem interested in selling anything.  It wasn’t surprising, as this other world was full of machismo, tier-obsessed, bravado-filled people.

—They said that ramen masters in old Japan would take away the ramen from customers who ate the noodles before the broth.

Then, they would return the money and tell them to get out, saying they weren’t worthy of eating their food.  I didn’t understand what they expected me to do with the time I wasted waiting for their food during the busy lunch hour.

Anyway, such people had all disappeared in the 21st century on Earth, swept away by the tide of the times, but in this godforsaken other world, such “self-proclaimed masters” were still common.

But I, too, had become steeped in machismo to survive in this other world.

I, Nord, a man walking the path of true masculinity, no longer uttered words like “Excuse me” or “Are you there?”

“I’d like to see your wares.”

Stride, stride.

I deliberately announced my presence and entered the shop.  I didn’t forget to use the same “-hao” speech as Paragon.

Like a true macho man, I ignored the displayed weapons and went straight to the man sitting at the counter.

The middle-aged man wore a cloth around his forehead.  If he had a circlet on his forehead, I would have suspected he was a ninja, but it was just a white cloth. He was the very image of a blacksmith.

“Did your mommy send you on an errand, boy?”

The man finally spoke to me as I approached.  He spoke like a cowboy straight out of a Western movie.

‘Shit. I can’t take it anymore.’

I couldn’t help but close my eyes briefly.

It was proven that my machismo wasn’t yet a match for a real, true, crazy macho bastard.

—Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sound of hammering constantly echoed from inside the building, indicating someone was working. I focused with my eyes closed.

‘I’m a cowboy. I’m a cowboy and a sheriff…’

I chanted the suggestion like a self-hypnosis, merging myself with the image of a polite but blunt macho man. Then, I spoke as if reciting a line,

“I’ve come to buy a whetstone. Give me one.”

“Get lost. I don’t have anything to sell to a kid.”

It was a common line in this area, as common as “Were you drafted?”

So, I calmly unsheathed my sword, still in its scabbard, and showed it to him. I also slightly pulled the handle to reveal the blade.

“I know my skills are lacking. But I can’t face the blacksmith who gave me this sword if I leave it like this.”

“So?”

“I’m not asking you to sell me something.  I’m asking you, as a fellow craftsman, to consider the blacksmith who made my sword.”

Damn it.  Did I have to say this just to buy something?  I felt a sense of disillusionment as I spoke and closed my mouth.

I even used the kind of speech that appealed to their craftsman’s sensibilities. If he still refused after hearing this, I would just go to another blacksmith.

“Hmph. Show me.”

The blacksmith snatched my sword.  He was so brazen that I thought he was taking back something he had entrusted to me.

“Tsk.  It’s in a sorry state.”

He examined my sword and clicked his tongue.

“It needs a lot of work. I’ll take care of it.”

“No need.  Just sell me a whetstone.”

It was a common scam to take the sword, sharpen it, and then demand a few coopers. It was the same kind of sales scam as being handed an ice cream cone and forced to pay 500 yen after just asking about the price at a Japanese tourist spot.

“You said you didn’t want to disrespect the blacksmith who sold you the sword?”

“It’s meaningless if I can’t maintain it myself.”

“Oh, aren’t you all high and mighty? Fine.  Wait here; I’ll get it.”

After my firm refusal, the blacksmith went inside the shop without returning my sword.  Every single word he uttered was annoying.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was holding a cloth, a whetstone, and a metal bottle containing oil.

“The whetstone is 10 coopers.  For 1 more cooper, I’ll give you a cloth and oil.”

—What the fuck?

I was as shocked as seeing bungeoppang being sold for 3,000 won each in front of a train station.  What? A whetstone for 100,000 won?

“…11 coopers in total? Are you crazy?”

A mere whetstone for 110,000 won? Was this whetstone’s name Emile? It was a price I couldn’t comprehend unless it was made through human sacrifice.

To be sure—as far as I knew—110,000 won was the average price for a masturbation tool.  But a whetstone, in terms of its purpose and structure, was basically like a smartphone charger.

What kind of crazy person would sell a charger for 100,000 won?  Even throwing in some leftover cloth and a bit of oil for an extra 1 cooper was absurd.

‘This guy is a rip-off artist.’

I couldn’t pay 100,000 won for a fucking square rock.  As I frowned, the rip-off artist, or rather, the rock-selling quack blacksmith, acted as if he didn’t care.

“If you don’t like it, go to another blacksmith. But you won’t find a cheaper price.”

Price fixing, too?  I felt despair.

Was this Yongsan, not Sargardis? Wow, I didn’t know there was a way back to Earth in this local blacksmith’s shop.

—Grumble, grumble.

The free soup I had just finished, having met a 100% pure, spicy otherworldly person for the first time in a while, started breakdancing in my stomach.  I suppressed my anger with the resilience of a graduate student and forced a smile.

“Fine. I’ll take it. Now will you return my sword?”

“Huh? You’re just going to ask about the price and leave? Are you kidding me?”

If you don’t like it, then don’t sell it, asshole.

—Crack.

I finally snapped as I saw the quack blacksmith using my sword to massage his shoulder.  I didn’t like the look of him from the start.

—That’s it. I’ve been patient enough.

I felt my patience snap.

“10 coopers. So, it’s 10 coopers?”

I picked up the whetstone the quack had brought.  Then, my voice trembling with rage, I muttered,

“*Pray to the Sky God (yáǵeswō deiwōm dyēus).*”

Whoosh!

As if responding to my anger, my right arm was enveloped in mana. It was a partial activation of Beast Regression.  The courage of an Earth warrior dwelled in the hand holding the whetstone!

Crack…!

The whetstone started to scream as I squeezed it with my enhanced grip.

A whetstone used for sharpening swords should be made of special, durable rock.  Even with my bear-like strength, it shouldn’t have cracked so easily.

‘A cheap whetstone like this for 10 coopers?’

My anger fueled my grip strength.  I became a ruthless real doll (real-stone) destroyer and completely crushed the whetstone.

—Crack!!!

Crumble!

The whetstone shattered in my hand, scattering fragments on the floor.  I looked directly at the quack blacksmith and asked,

“So, how much is it now?”

“Uh, uh…?”

The quack was speechless, seeing the rock crushed by my grip strength.  It was natural for him to be stunned after seeing a rock, not an apple, being crushed, but that wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

I roared, my voice filled with uncontrollable rage.

“How much is it now!!!!!! You fucking asshole!!!!!!!!!!!!”

—–CROW—–