I Stopped Simping and the Heroines Lost Their Minds

The afternoon classes dragged on, but the moment the final bell rang, the academy courtyard erupted into absolute chaos.

Every first-year student was scrambling. The F-rank dungeon expedition was their first real taste of combat duty, and forming a solid four-person team was the difference between an easy passing grade and a trip to Matron Beatrice’s trauma ward.

Arthur decided to test his luck. He walked up to a group of three students—a heavily armored vanguard and two mages—who were actively discussing their need for a scout or ranged support.

”I’ve got a bow and decent tracking skills,” Arthur offered, keeping his tone casual. ”Need a fourth?”

The vanguard turned around. His eyes widened slightly before his expression twisted into pure disgust.

”Ew. It’s Vance,” the vanguard sneered.

One of the female mages physically stepped back, crossing her arms defensively. ”The stalker? Absolutely not. Go away, creep. We’d rather run it a man down than have you staring at our backs the whole time.”

”Suit yourselves,” Arthur replied flatly, turning away without a second thought.

He tried two more groups. The results were exactly the same.

Well, reputations aren’t exactly easy to wash away, Arthur thought, leaning against a stone pillar and watching the chaotic courtyard. Simp Arthur spent an entire year acting like a borderline sex offender. A new haircut and better posture isn’t going to delete that from their memory banks.

He wasn’t worried. The deadline for group submissions wasn’t until Friday. Desperation would eventually kick in for the stragglers, and he would easily find a squad by the end of the week.

Besides, he had far more pressing matters to attend to today. He was broke, his standard leather armor was shredded, and his spatial inventory was completely maxed out with raw monster parts.

Arthur slipped out of the academy gates and caught the bus into the city.

The commercial district was bustling with evening traffic. Arthur navigated the cobblestone streets, carrying his heavy canvas duffel bag over his good shoulder, until he saw the glowing neon sign of The Iron Anvil.

He pushed the heavy wooden doors open.

A blast of sweltering heat and the deafening, rhythmic CLANG of heavy hammers hit him instantly.

Standing behind the front counter, wiping down a freshly oiled broadsword, was Brunhilda. She was wearing her tight linen undershirt and heavy leather blacksmith’s apron. When she heard the door chime, she looked up, blowing a stray strand of fiery red hair out of her eyes.

She blinked, recognizing him immediately.

”Well, look who it is,” Brunhilda grinned, setting the broadsword down. She leaned heavily over the counter, resting her weight on her thick arms. ”Since you didn’t return this weekend, I thought another adrenaline-rushed hunter got himself killed. Looks like I was wrong.”

”I almost was,” Arthur admitted, walking up to the counter. He dropped his ruined boar-hide armor onto the wood with a dull thud. ”Ran into some complications in the woods.”

Brunhilda’s green eyes scanned him up and down. She noted the fresh bandages poking out from under his uniform collar and the massive tears in the leather she had literally just sold him three days ago.

”I can see that,” she noted, her tone turning a bit more professional. ”You destroyed the armor already? I hope you’re not here to ask for a refund.”

”No refunds. Just business,” Arthur said.

He hoisted the heavy canvas duffel bag onto the counter. He unzipped it and began pulling out the harvested materials he had stored in his limited system inventory.

He placed three massive, pitch-black pelts onto the wood. Next came a handful of razor-sharp fangs, and finally, three dark purple, perfectly intact mana stones.

Brunhilda’s playful smirk vanished entirely.

She stood up straight, reaching out to run her calloused fingers over the thick, dark fur.

”Shadow Wolves,” Brunhilda breathed, genuinely impressed. She picked up one of the dark purple mana stones, holding it up to the light of the forge to inspect its clarity. ”And intact cores. These are mid-tier predator beasts, hunter. You took down a pack of three by yourself?”

”I got lucky,” Arthur lied smoothly. ”I need new armor, Brunhilda. And I need to know if your husband can work with this.”

Brunhilda let out a throaty, appreciative laugh.

”Brokk can forge armor out of dragon scales if you pay him enough,” she said, her eyes gleaming with merchant greed. ”Shadow Wolf pelt is fantastic material. It’s naturally resistant to low-level dark magic, and it’s incredibly lightweight. Perfect for a marksman.”

”How much for a custom set?” Arthur asked.

Brunhilda pulled a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil from under the counter. She did some quick mental math, tapping the pencil against her chin.

”Custom leatherworking takes time and skill,” Brunhilda explained, her tone pure business. ”Usually, a full set of Shadow-weave armor would run you about thirty thousand credits. But, since you provided the raw materials yourself...”

She looked up at him, her green eyes flashing with a hint of that familiar, fiery charm.

”I’ll buy the cores and the fangs off you for eight thousand credits,” she proposed. ”And I’ll waive the crafting fee for the armor entirely. You leave the pelts here, and Brokk will have a custom-fitted, reinforced set of Shadow Wolf armor ready for you by Thursday evening. Deal?”

Arthur calculated the offer. He was getting a custom-tailored, mid-tier armor set essentially for free, plus eight thousand credits in pure profit to restock his empty bank account. It was an incredibly fair deal.

”Deal,” Arthur nodded.

”Perfect,” Brunhilda smiled warmly.

She stepped out from behind the counter, holding a yellow measuring tape. She walked right up to him, her wide hips swaying slightly.

”Now, arms up, hunter,” Brunhilda ordered, stepping comfortably into his personal space. ”I need to take your exact measurements if we’re going to make this fit perfectly.”