Mushoku Tensei: Swordsage Path -The Noble's Great Breasts

Paul groaned, a guttural sound that was half protest against the dawn and half a purr of satisfaction. He stretched out in the bed—a battlefield of tangled sheets—and fumbled for Hilda's familiar warmth. His fingers found only the cold mattress. He cracked open an eye.

Hilda was already on her feet. Not by the window, but in the center of the room, with the Manual of the Stone Tactician open on the only table. She wore linen trousers and one of her adventurer's blouses. The morning light tangled in her red hair, which was pulled back in a practical braid that fell down her back. Her face was a mask of concentration so intense it seemed she was trying to absorb the knowledge from the pages by sheer force of will.

"It's too early for that much thinking," Paul muttered, his voice hoarse with sleep. "The books won't run away, Hilda. I promise you, I've tried running from them my whole life, and they always find me."

She didn't look up. Her finger traced a diagram in the book, one showing how shockwaves moved through different types of rock.

"This isn't a book, Paul. It's a weapon. And I have no intention of facing the world without understanding how my new arsenal works."

"The arsenal can wait for the coffee to kick in. It's an unwritten rule of combat: coffee first, then world domination."

The door to the adjacent room opened with a soft creak, and a second later, someone knocked on theirs. Not with their knuckles. It was a dry, flat-palmed slap. Practical, no-frills.

"Ghislaine," Paul guessed. "Come in. Coffee is still a beautiful fantasy, but there are leftovers from last night's stew."

The beastwoman entered. She was already dressed in her leather gear, the katana at her hip looking like a natural extension of her body. Her one visible eye swept over them both, a quick, emotionless assessment.

"The sun is high. Wasting time is for the rich."

Paul sat up in bed, letting the sheet fall to his waist. He gave Ghislaine a lazy, shameless grin.

"My friend, after we sell the loot on this floor, 'rich' is going to be an understatement. We'll have enough to get properly equipped."

Hilda finally snapped the book shut. The sound seemed to awaken the day's true purpose.

"She's right. We can't stay here forever. We have to sell all this gear."

Ghislaine nodded, her gaze fixed on the pile of knights' armor.

"Steel cools. Gold doesn't."

"See? She gets it," Paul said, standing and stretching without a shred of modesty. "A woman of priorities. So, what's the plan, my brilliant strategist?" he asked, looking at Hilda. "Do we just walk into the first blacksmith's shop and ask if they buy high-quality, slightly used knight's armor with optional bloodstains?"

Hilda crossed her arms. The team leader was taking command.

"Almost. Discretion is no longer an option since we walked through the main gate with the cart overflowing. All of Creston knows we're carrying a fortune in steel. A normal blacksmith would ask too many questions, pay us a pittance, or worse, report us to the guards to keep it all for himself."

Ghislaine grunted, a sound of approval.

"So we don't look for a normal blacksmith," the beastwoman concluded.

"Exactly," Hilda confirmed. "We need someone who, even knowing the merchandise is stolen, is more interested in profit than morals. Someone with the capacity to melt down, modify, and resell twelve sets of armor without drawing the attention of House Fleurmont. And for that, there's no one better than the biggest, busiest blacksmith in the district."

Paul dressed with a predatory efficiency. The talk of shady business seemed to motivate him more than coffee.

"I like the way you think. You're ruthless and practical. It turns me on. Alright, then. Let's go make him an offer he can't refuse."

An hour later, Hilda's plan was in motion. It wasn't subtle; it was a statement of intent. They took the cart, still loaded to the brim with their loot, to the blacksmiths' district. The air there was a furnace of heat, the smell of coal and hot metal clinging to the back of your throat, and the sound was a constant symphony of hammers striking anvils.

They didn't stop at the clean, orderly shops. Following Hilda's instructions, they looked for the biggest, loudest, dirtiest one. They found it at the end of an alley. The sign, if it ever had one, had been consumed by soot. A heat that distorted the air poured from within.

Paul parked the cart right at the entrance, blocking half the passage. Ghislaine got down and stood by the pile of armor, her arms crossed. She said nothing. She did nothing. She was simply there, a statue of contained violence that made passersby cross the street.

Hilda approached the entrance to the forge.

"Excuse me!" she shouted to be heard over the din of the hammers. "Are you the master blacksmith?"

A huge man emerged from the shadows. He was a dwarf, bald, with a braided beard so long he had tucked it into his belt. His arms were as thick as Paul's thighs and were covered in burns and dense, black hair. Sweat beaded on his brow.

"Depends," he growled, his voice like gravel. "Who's asking? And why are you blocking my workshop with that pile of scrap metal?"

Hilda smiled. It wasn't a flirtatious smile. It was the smile of a shark that smells blood.

"My name is Hilda. This scrap metal, as you call it, is a complete set of twelve knightly armors from House Fleurmont. Asuran steel, with silver filigree. Lightly used. We're looking for a buyer with the necessary discretion to handle a transaction of this caliber, and we've been told that Korgan Forge-Hand is the only one in Creston with the resources... and the lack of scruples to do it."

The dwarf, Korgan, fell silent. His small, shrewd eyes darted from Hilda to the imposing figure of Ghislaine, then to Paul, who was leaning against the cart with an idiotic grin, as if he weren't involved. Finally, his gaze settled on the pile of steel. He walked over, picked up a gauntlet, and examined it. He saw the craftsman's mark. He saw the quality of the steel.

"Get inside," he grumbled. "All of you. And bring a sample. The best piece you've got."

The interior of the forge was a cavern dedicated to fire and metal. Weapons of all shapes and sizes hung from the walls. Korgan led them to a back room, a smaller and relatively quiet space.

Paul walked in and dropped Gideon's magnificent sword onto a solid wooden table. The sound echoed in the room.

"The main course," Paul said. "The rest is the garnish."

Korgan picked up the sword. His hands, which seemed rough and brutal, handled the blade with a surgeon's delicacy. He studied it for a long minute.

"Teardrop blade. Doranan steel, folded at least two hundred times. The balance is perfect. The guard is solid silver. This isn't just any knight's weapon. This is a captain's weapon. A nobleman's."

He looked at Paul, then at Hilda.

"Getting this probably made a lot of noise."

"Only as much as necessary," Hilda replied calmly. "We're not here to sell you a story, Master Korgan. We're here to sell you a product. Are you interested, or do we need to take our business elsewhere?"

Korgan let out a dry laugh.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that. Fine. I'm interested. But this is hot merchandise. Very hot. The emblem of House Fleurmont... I'll have to melt it all down, rework it. That takes time and labor. And risk. The price will reflect that risk."

"The price will reflect the quality," Paul cut in, his smile replaced by a cold, business-like stare. "Twelve complete sets, including the swords, daggers, and boots. All top-notch. We'll pay for your discretion, of course. But we're not about to gift you a fortune."

The negotiation was a battle in itself. Korgan offered twenty gold coins. Paul countered with insults to his dwarven honor and his ability to recognize good steel. Hilda intervened with precise facts, quoting the market price of Asuran steel and the cost of silver per ounce. Ghislaine remained silent in a corner, a threatening presence that said more than any words.

"Forty Asuran gold coins for the whole lot! That's robbery!" Korgan roared.

"It's a bargain and you know it!" Paul retorted. "The captain's sword alone is worth that! Don't try to swindle a swindler, master dwarf, or you'll regret it!"

"Sixty," Hilda said, her voice cutting through the argument. "And we keep the boots. They're good quality, and we could use them."

Korgan looked at her. He saw the determination in her gray eyes. He saw the silent predator in the corner. He saw the arrogant swordsman who wouldn't yield. He grinned.

"Sixty. And I keep two sets of boots. My wife has big feet. Deal."

Paul looked at Hilda. She nodded.

"Deal," Paul said.

They left the forge an hour later, leaving the cart and the steel behind, but with a leather pouch that, while not overly heavy, held the fruit of their victory. Sixty Asuran gold coins. It was a sum that changed the game.

They returned to the inn. An air of contained triumph filled the room.

"We did it!" Paul exclaimed, emptying the pouch onto the bed. A small stream of gold spilled onto the sheets, glittering in the lamplight. "It's not a king's fortune, but for us... it's a start. We can buy real weapons, custom-fit armor!"

Hilda sat on the bed, picking up one of the coins. Its weight was real, solid. The weight of their future.

"We have to be smart, Paul. This money isn't for parties. It's to invest."

Ghislaine nodded.

"Better weapons. Custom armor. Information. Money is a tool, not a toy."

"You two are no fun," Paul complained, though there was a new respect in his eyes. "Fine. Agreed. We'll invest. But first, we celebrate. The best dinner this city can offer, and then... training."

The conversation turned to their next steps.

"The Manual of the Stone Tactician is... incredible," Hilda said, her eyes shining with excitement. "It's not just spells. It talks about using vibration to destabilize structures, about sensing faults in the rock, about turning the earth into a precision weapon. I can learn to create miniature earthquakes, to turn sand into sharp glass. The potential is... terrifying."

Paul smiled, proud.

"And you, Ghislaine. What about your... potential?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The beastwoman frowned.

"I still think it's stupid. Fire is chaotic. The sword is precise."

"Why not both?" Paul said. "Imagine your speed, combined with a burst of flame to blind your opponent. Imagine your katana, wreathed in fire. You wouldn't just be a Sword Saint. You'd be a natural disaster with a name."

He tried to concentrate again, to see their auras. He closed his eyes, searching for that strange sensation, that mental muscle. But all he got was a pounding headache.

"Dammit," he growled, rubbing his temples. "It's not working. It's like trying to see in the dark. Sometimes I get it, sometimes I don't."

The realization hit him. It wasn't a power he could activate at will. It was unstable. Maybe it had a cost.

Ghislaine's reading lesson was the next item on the day's agenda. Hilda, with infinite patience, used the gold coins to teach her numbers.

"This is a '1.' It's a straight line, like your sword. This is a '2.' A curve and a base, like a guard waiting for a counterattack."

Ghislaine struggled, her frustration palpable, but she didn't give up. The memory of humiliation was a fire driving her.

While they were immersed in their strange routine of training and planning, Paul decided to go down to the inn's tavern for more wine. The celebration, after all, wasn't over.