Lord of the Time: I Can Reincarnate Infinitely

Finding himself at the entrance of a quaint inn, Caleb paused, his hand reaching for coins that weren't there. A wry smile played on his lips as he realized his predicament: he had yet to pay the registration fee at the Adventurer's Guild, let alone secure funds for lodging. The reality of his financial situation hit him—despite his immense power, he was momentarily stumped by something as mundane as currency.

As he turned away from the inn, Caleb's thoughts wandered to the quickest ways to earn money. Robbing someone would be simple for him, but it didn't sit right with him morally. Even in this new body and world, some principles held firm. Moreover, causing a stir might draw unwanted attention, and with unknown powers like the Grand Arc Mage around, it was wise to avoid unnecessary conflicts. After all, strength wasn't the only factor in a battle; unpredictable abilities could turn the tides in ways brute force could not.

Caleb's mind then turned to more legitimate means of earning money. As an adventurer, he could take on quests to hunt criminals or venture into the Extreme Wilderness to slay monsters. Yet, starting without any initial funds posed a problem. He then chuckled softly, an idea forming. He could use his fusion power subtly as a blacksmith. Crafting unique items could fetch a good price, assuming he could set up shop without initial capital.

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For tonight, however, he resigned himself to more humble accommodations. He found a large tree in a quiet part of town, its branches wide and leaves thick enough to provide a decent shelter from the elements. Settling down under its canopy, Caleb leaned against the trunk, his eyes scanning the quiet streets lit by the soft glow of lanterns.

As he settled in for the night, his mind raced with plans for the morning. He would start by scouting the town for opportunities, perhaps a blacksmith in need of an apprentice or some quick job that required less conventional skills. Whatever the case, he was determined to make his way without resorting to violence. As the stars twinkled overhead, Caleb finally closed his eyes, the gentle rustling of the leaves lulling him into a restless sleep.

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In the bustling town of Samuel, whispers and rumors about an old man with exceptional blacksmithing skills quickly spread like wildfire. Within just five days, George had become a celebrated figure among warriors and adventurers alike. People gathered in taverns and marketplaces, enthusiastically sharing tales of the mysterious old blacksmith whose craftsmanship was said to surpass that of any local artisan.

One group of adventurers sat around a worn wooden table in the town's liveliest tavern, their conversation animated and full of admiration. "I heard he's not just any ordinary blacksmith," one burly warrior exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement. "They say his weapons are not only stronger but also enchanted with qualities you can't find in the market!"

A young archer leaned in, adding to the intrigue. "And have you heard? He crafts a sword in just a day! A whole day to make a weapon that usually takes weeks. There's got to be some magic involved, or perhaps he's just that skilled!"

Curiosity also bubbled among the townsfolk who visited George's modest forge, a simple setup under an ancient oak at the edge of town. Despite the buzz, George was a figure of enigma, rarely seen working. His workshop was typically shrouded in a thick curtain, and whenever someone approached, they would find the finished weapons waiting for them, each piece a testament to impeccable craftsmanship.

An elderly woman, passing by George's forge with a basket of goods, stopped to chat with a neighbor. "No one ever sees him work, you know," she said in a hushed tone, glancing towards the obscured workshop. "Every morning, just like clockwork, there's a new set of tools or weapons, all lined up and ready for pick-up. It's almost... magical."

Her neighbor nodded in agreement, his face marked by a blend of skepticism and wonder. "It's strange, indeed. Some folks are starting to say he might be a retired master from a distant land, or maybe he's been blessed by the gods themselves!"

As George's reputation grew, so did the crowd around his workshop each morning. People from all walks of life, from young apprentices eager to learn to seasoned warriors looking to enhance their arsenal, all were drawn to the mystique of the old man who could forge wonders seemingly overnight.

...

In the dimly lit corner of a bustling tavern, a group of four bronze-tier adventurers huddled around a rickety table, their worn and battered equipment strewn across the wooden surface. Each piece bore the marks of numerous battles—swords with chipped edges, shields dented and scratched, and armor pieces that had seen better days.

"I'm telling you, we can't keep going like this," grumbled Leon, the group's leader, as he fingered a particularly deep gash in his breastplate. "We need better gear if we're planning on tackling the caves to the north."

Marla, the group's strategist, nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning over a frayed bowstring. "It's too risky with this junk. We could get decent prices for these in the market, but replacing them with quality gear? That's another story."

As they discussed their predicament, the clink of mugs and the raucous laughter of the tavern's patrons filled the air. Suddenly, a snippet of a conversation from a nearby table caught their attention. Two obviously inebriated men were animatedly discussing an old man named George, reputed to be a remarkable blacksmith.

"...and then he just hands over this sword, right? Looks plain, but cuts through iron like it's butter!" one drunkard exclaimed, waving his hands dramatically.

Skeptical yet intrigued, the adventurers invited themselves into the conversation. "This George fellow, where can we find him?" asked Tomas, the youngest of the group, his interest piqued.

"Oh, he's got a spot just on the outskirts, by the old oak," slurred the second drunkard, trying to focus his bleary eyes. "Doesn't look like much, but the weapons! They're something else."

Despite their initial doubts, the adventurers exchanged looks of cautious optimism. "What do we have to lose?" Marla shrugged, the idea growing on her. "Worst case, we're back here with another round and the same old gear."

Leon stood up, decisiveness etching his features. "Let's give this George a shot. Tomorrow morning, first thing. If his work is half as good as these drunkards claim, it might just be the break we need."

The group agreed unanimously, their spirits lifted by the prospect of superior equipment.