I Stopped Simping and the Heroines Lost Their Minds

Monday morning in the lower industrial sector was usually accompanied by a thick, freezing fog and the smell of despair.

But inside Warehouse 9, the atmosphere had completely shifted.

Sylvia stood at the center of the massive wooden floor. She had traded her worn, exhausted tunic for a clean, hardened leather vest. The heavy bags under her eyes were gone. She looked every bit the sharp, commanding Guild Master she was supposed to be.

Standing in front of her were her three rookies.

Garrick, a lean scout with dual daggers. Mira, a fierce, scarred fighter carrying a heavy broadsword. And Tolan, a quiet, analytical alchemist.

They were staring at Arthur Vance.

Arthur sat casually on a wooden crate near the cold forge. He was dressed in his academy uniform, his dark eyes scanning the three young hunters. He was quietly evaluating their base stats, comparing their current, starving forms to the legendary, S-Rank monsters they would become in the future.

”Let me get this straight,” Garrick said, crossing his arms and glaring at Arthur. ”We are handing over fifty percent of our total profits, and veto power over our own roster, to a first-year academy student?”

Mira frowned, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword. ”We founded this guild to get away from the corporate nobles treating us like expendable dogs. Now we’re answering to a teenager just because he has a heavy coin purse?”

Arthur didn’t react. He didn’t defend himself. He just looked at Sylvia.

This was her test. If she couldn’t control her own hunters, she was entirely useless to him as a manager.

Sylvia didn’t miss a beat.

”He didn’t just bring money,” Sylvia continued, taking a step toward her scout. ”He brought a map. We now hold the exclusive, legal rights to an ownerless F-Rank subterranean crawler cavern. A permanent farm. No more fighting the Red Boar guild for scraps in the public zones. We have our own monopoly.”

The three rookies froze. Their hostility vanished, instantly replaced by sheer shock.

A private dungeon. It was the holy grail for independent hunters.

”He owns fifty percent because he bought our survival,” Sylvia finalized, her gray eyes locking onto each of her members. ”I still run the operations. I still draft the schedules. But make no mistake, Arthur Vance is the primary investor of the Obsidian Hand. You will treat him with the exact same respect you give me. Understood?”

Garrick swallowed hard. He looked at Arthur, then back to Sylvia.

”Understood, Boss,” Garrick muttered.

”Good,” Sylvia ordered. ”Grab your gear. We have a cavern to farm.”

The transformation of the Obsidian Hand over the next five days was nothing short of a miracle.

Arthur spent his week at Lornfell Academy, attending classes and running low-level training dives with Emily, Felix, and Chloe under their new affiliate waivers.

But down in the industrial sector, the machine had started to run.

Sylvia was a ruthless, highly efficient manager. She ran her three rookies through the crawler cavern in strict, heavily regimented eight-hour shifts. Because they weren’t pushing to the bottom to destroy the core, the risk of death was virtually zero.

It was pure, industrial farming.

Garrick pulled the mobs. Mira shattered their carapaces. Tolan harvested the cores and the acidic glands.

By Wednesday, the massive iron doors of Warehouse 9 were open.

By Thursday, the guild’s forge was lit, the chimney billowing thick, black smoke into the smoggy sky. They weren’t forging weapons yet, but they were melting down raw iron ore into high-value ingots.

When Arthur returned to the warehouse on Friday evening, the scent of stagnant water and desperation was entirely gone. It had been replaced by the smell of burning coal, hot metal, and roasting meat.

The three rookies were sitting around the wooden table, laughing. Their armor had been freshly repaired. They were eating thick cuts of actual beef, not stale bread.

Arthur walked past them, heading straight up the wooden stairs to the management office.

Sylvia was sitting at her desk. She wasn’t staring at red-inked debt notices anymore. She was writing in a fresh, leather-bound ledger.

”Black ink looks better on you,” Arthur noted, stepping into the office.

Sylvia looked up, a genuine, completely unrestrained smile breaking across her face.

”Seventeen thousand credits,” Sylvia said, tapping the open page of the ledger. ”That’s our net profit for the week. After gear repairs, food, and setting aside the weekly payment for the creditors. We actually made a profit, Arthur.”

Arthur sat down in the wooden chair across from her.

”The crawlers respawn every seventy-two hours,” Arthur calculated smoothly. ”If you maintain this rotation, the debt will be completely liquidated in less than four months. After that, everything is pure profit.”

”The blacksmiths in the market couldn’t believe it,” Sylvia laughed, leaning back in her chair. ”Tolan dragged three carts of pure iron ingots and crawler carapace to the trade district. We sold out in twenty minutes.”

She looked at Arthur, her gray eyes filled with a deep, unwavering respect.

”You saved us,” Sylvia said quietly.

”I invested in you,” Arthur corrected coldly. ”Don’t confuse business with charity, Sylvia. You managed the farm perfectly. You didn’t get greedy, and you didn’t break the core.”

Arthur reached into his spatial inventory.

He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and slid it across the wooden desk.

Sylvia stared at it. Her breath hitched.

”The portfolio expands,” Arthur stated. ”That is the exact location of an unsealed F-Rank Mutated Flora Grotto. It is completely overrun with low-tier aggressive plant life.”

Sylvia slowly reached out and touched the map.

”Tolan is an alchemist, isn’t he?” Arthur asked.

”He is,” Sylvia nodded, her eyes wide. ”He’s brilliant with reagents.”

”Then he’s going to love that grotto,” Arthur said. ”The crawlers gave you iron. The grotto is going to give you raw healing herbs and alchemical roots. We aren’t just going to sell to blacksmiths anymore. We’re going to start undercutting the potion market.”

Sylvia’s mind raced. Two private dungeons. In a single week, the Obsidian Hand had gone from the brink of bankruptcy to holding the foundation of a massive economic empire.

”I’ll take the squad out tomorrow morning,” Sylvia promised, her voice laced with absolute determination. ”We’ll plant the beacon and register the claim by Monday.”

Arthur stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform.

”Keep your head on a swivel,” Arthur warned, his tone darkening slightly. ”Success makes noise. And the corporate guilds don’t like sharing the market.”

Outside the warehouse, the freezing rain had begun to fall, slicking the cracked asphalt of the industrial sector.

Standing in the shadows of a narrow alleyway across the street, a massive, heavily armored man stood completely still. The rain washed over the deep crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders.

Emblazoned on his chest plate was the snarling, golden crest of the Red Boar guild.

Darius Holt narrowed his eyes, staring through the gloom at Warehouse 9. He watched the thick smoke billowing from the lit forge. He listened to the faint, echoing sounds of hunters laughing and eating inside.

He pulled a small, glowing communication crystal from his belt.

”The intel was wrong,” Darius growled into the crystal. ”Sylvia didn’t default. The warehouse isn’t empty. They just lit their forge, and they flooded the market with raw iron this afternoon.”

The crystal pulsed with a faint, static hum.

”Find out where they are getting the ore,” a distorted voice commanded from the crystal. ”And shut them down. The creditors want that property by the end of the month.”

Darius crushed the crystal back into his pouch, a cruel, violent smile crossing his scarred face.

”With pleasure.”