CHAPTER 72: CH 72: SECURING THE IMP- PART 3

The next morning, the announcement dropped.

[Due to limitations in production, Mr. ’X’ potions will be limited to 100 bottles per type each month. Orders will be accepted via lottery through Legion’s official platform.]

The internet exploded.

Within minutes, forums, chat groups, and social media were swamped with furious messages, conspiracy theories, and memes.

Some called it a hoax, others a marketing gimmick. But most of all, people were angry.

"Only 100? A MONTH? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Legion’s just trying to drive the prices up. Disgusting."

"Mr. ’X’ is lazy or selfish. Why make something like that if you’re not going to sell it properly?"

But amidst the outrage, a wave of support emerged as well.

"There’s no way Legion would limit the supply unless they had no choice."

"If Mr. ’X’ could mass-produce it, he would. This sounds like it’s tied to a rare skill."

"Y’all complaining, but those potions saved lives. I’ll take 1 over 0."

Major guilds were already preparing.

Within hours, internal messages spread through elite channels, advising all raid leaders to prepare budget reserves for the upcoming lottery.

Some guilds even tried contacting Legion directly, offering premium deals to secure early access.

But Legion’s PR department kept the line firm: "No pre-orders, no exceptions."

Meanwhile, in the high-rise tower of the Secret Hunter Services, Julie Dane, one of the most feared and respected leaders in the industry, tapped her pen on her desk in thought.

Her dark eyes were narrowed at the press release on her monitor, and she let out a breath, more a growl than a sigh.

"One hundred potions a month. Ridiculous."

Her secretary, a pale and efficient woman named Maren, stood nearby, watching cautiously.

"Should I prepare a request to Legion? Or... continue with the potion production project?"

She asked.

Julie leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled.

"No. Stop the project."

Maren blinked.

"Ma’am?"

"If Legion can’t mass-produce them, we won’t either. That confirms it—this Mr. ’X’ isn’t just a manufacturer. He’s a creator. The production depends entirely on his ability, not the formula. We’d be wasting resources trying to recreate what he does."

Julie said, her voice clipped.

"Then what should we do?"

"Scour the market. Any legitimate Mr. ’X’ potion that surfaces, acquire it. I want enough to cover the entire frontline team for our next S-class raid."

Julie ordered.

"Yes, ma’am."

Julie tapped the edge of her desk again.

"And... keep digging. We still don’t know who Mr. ’X’ really is. But someone like that... is not going to stay hidden forever."

—

Back in his dungeon, Fenrir turned off his screen, ignoring the flurry of updates and speculation.

He’d watched the chaos unfold for a few hours, but it was exactly what he expected.

There was no such thing as a secret in a connected world—not forever.

He turned toward the forge with a small nod.

The structure stood tall and sturdy now.

Clean lines of obsidian, reinforced edges, and glimmering veins of enchantments ran through the surface like ancient runes.

His newest familiar, the imp, stood proudly beside it, arms crossed, a smug look on his bat-like face.

"It’s done. Best forge in this entire cursed tower. You could craft a divine blade in there, I swear on my horns."

The imp declared.

Fenrir smiled faintly.

"Nice work."

The imp tilted his head.

"That’s it?"

"I don’t see anything to complain about."

The imp stared.

"You’re really... letting me work how I want?"

Fenrir shrugged.

"You’re good at what you do. I don’t need to micromanage every move you make."

The imp squinted suspiciously.

"No demands? No threats?"

"Nope."

There was a beat of silence before the imp huffed..almost looking disappointed.

"Tch. Fine. In that case, I’m building a water distribution system for the hamsters next. I saw what you were trying to do with the herbal farm. It’s inefficient."

Fenrir waved a hand.

"Do what you want."

The imp looked stunned for a second, then turned away quickly.

"Hmph. You’re weird. But... I’ll remember this."

Fenrir’s smile grew a little.

"I’ll hold you to that."

As the imp got to work, barking orders at the hamsters, Fenrir turned to his own task list.

With the forge ready and a new supply of potions distributed, it was time to move on to the next phase of his plan.

The world was watching.

But he didn’t intend to stop.

With most of his errands taken care of and some materials still left in his inventory, Fenrir finally allowed himself a moment to do what he had originally planned—craft a sword.

He stood in front of the newly built forge, its dark, shimmering surface glowing faintly with magic.

Fenrir took a deep breath, popped open a mana restoration potion, and rolled his shoulders.

"Let’s see what I can do. I must be rusty by now."

He gathered the metal—an alloy made from dungeon-forged steel and a rare mineral known as Fireglass Ore.

The ore shimmered in hues of orange and crimson, faintly warm to the touch, and notoriously difficult to work with due to its unstable mana reactions.

As he began the forging process, sweat quickly beaded down his face.

The forge’s heat felt like a physical wall, and the mana required to stabilize the materials drained from him faster than he anticipated.

Even with the boost from his potions, the task was grueling.

His hammer struck down again and again. The alloy sparked and hissed, glowing brighter with each hit.

The process demanded his full concentration—one misstep, and the whole thing could crack or explode.

But Fenrir gritted his teeth and endured the strain, pushing through the exhaustion creeping up his limbs.

His body felt heavy, and his chest ached from the mana depletion, but finally, after what felt like hours...

Clang.

The final strike landed.

A soft chime echoed in his ears, followed by the crisp voice of the system.

[Forging Complete! You have created: Unnamed C-Class Sword.]

[Due to your success in crafting a magical weapon, you have unlocked the skill: Beginner’s Forging.]

Fenrir wiped his forehead, ignoring the system’s prompts for now. His eyes were locked on the sword resting on the anvil, still faintly glowing from residual heat.

It wasn’t anything visually remarkable.

A straight blade with a dark silver sheen, a leather-bound hilt, and a faint crimson line running down the center like a blood vein.

But when he inspected the stats, something caught his eye.

[Effect: 30% chance to apply Burn to the target on hit.]

He blinked.

"A C-class weapon... with a debuff?"

Curious, he immediately pulled up a database of known weapons with similar effects.

After a few minutes of skimming, he found the answer: only five other weapons existed with built-in status effect buffs—and all of them were either A or S-class.

"This is the first C-class with something like that."

Fenrir muttered, both surprised and satisfied.

Even if the sword itself wasn’t flashy or high-ranked, the effect alone made it special.

A weapon like this would normally be out of reach for lower-tier hunters. With this, even a mid-level hunter could punch above their weight class.

A small grin tugged at his lips.

"Not bad for a test run."