Kaizen sat squeezed into the corner seat of the mana-bus, looking less like a prestigious academy student and more like a tortoise that had decided to pack its entire house along for a casual weekend vacation.
He had spent the last hour systematically raiding the general store with his newfound wealth, buying thermal underwear that actually fit, climbing rope rated for his body weight, rations that wouldn't poison him, and a winter coat thick enough to let him survive an actual ice age if one suddenly decided to happen.
The problem wasn't the cost of all this survival gear. The problem was the fundamental laws of physics.
His backpack had swollen to the point of bursting at the seams, towering over his head like some kind of textile monument and pressing him flat against the window like a sardine crammed into a tin can. He could barely breathe. His spine was making concerning noises.
"My back," Kaizen groaned, trying to shift his weight without toppling over and feeling a sharp pop somewhere in his lumbar region that definitely shouldn't be popping. "I need a chiropractor. Or maybe just a completely new spine."
He looked around the bus, desperately trying to ignore the stares of the other passengers burning holes through him. They weren't looking at him because he was particularly handsome, and they certainly weren't looking at him because he was famous or notable in any meaningful way.
They were looking at the pan.
Strapped to the side of his pristine, obviously expensive academy-issued backpack was this circular object that looked like it had been personally dredged out of a medieval sewer system during an archaeological dig gone horribly wrong.
It was brown in a way that brown shouldn't be. It was flaky with substances that definitely weren't the original metal.
It was wrapped in a grease-stained rag that smelled faintly of waste fluid from the waste bin mixed with ancient bacon that had died of old age.
"Disgusting," a noble lady whispered to her husband while sitting three rows back, covering her nose with a silk handkerchief like the smell was personally attacking her. "Is that even supposed to be a weapon?"
"Don't look directly at it, dear," the husband muttered back, putting his arm around her protectively. "You might catch poverty just from acknowledging its existence."
Kaizen ignored them completely, though he did mentally add 'Buy a Spatial Ring' to the very top of his to-do list in bold, red letters with underlining and possibly some exclamation points.
Two million crowns. That was the price of dignity. That was the price of not looking like a homeless hoarder who lived on public transport and collected garbage for fun.
Sigh.
He sighed heavily,
"Soon," he whispered to himself like a promise. "Once I loot the temple, I'm buying that ring. I don't care if I have to sell my kidney on the black market."
He reached out and touched the cold, rough surface of the pan with his fingertips.
Despite its appearance that screamed tetanus, despite the smell that could probably be weaponized, Kaizen knew something the noble lady and her husband didn't. He knew that this piece of certified junk was buzzing against his palm with this strange, rhythmic energy that felt almost alive.
"Alright," Kaizen murmured, focusing his gaze on the pan. "Let's see what you really are under all this rust once more."
He activated his [Nonstandard Weapon Authority] skill, feeling it hum to life in his chest.
The air shimmered around the metal like heat waves rising off summer pavement. A blue holographic window popped into existence floating directly over the rusted cookware.
[Item Identification Complete]
[Name: Rusty Pan of Doom]
[Rank: D (Upgradable)]
[Durability: Low]
[Attack Power: 50 to ???]
[Attribute: Impact Multiplier (Low)]
Kaizen blinked hard. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and looked again at the window, certain he was reading it wrong.
"D-Rank?" he hissed out loud, causing the noble lady next to him to scoot away even further in fear that he might be contagious.
This wasn't just a random pan someone threw away.
In the world of Demon Hunter Chronicles, D-Rank weapons were the standard issue equipment for Elite Knights who had proven themselves in actual combat.
Leo's starting sword, the legendary Lionheart blade, was D-Rank and considered a masterwork.
And this piece of tetanus-covered scrap metal that looked like a health code violation was somehow in the exact same tier?
"How is that even possible?"
Kaizen whispered, staring at the stats floating in front of him.
"This thing looks like it would shatter into dust if I tried to hit a marshmallow. But the system is telling me it's legitimately D-Rank?"
And then there was the Attribute line, which made even less sense.
[Attribute: Impact Multiplier (Low)]
"Multiplier?"
Kaizen frowned hard, his brain spinning into overdrive trying to work out the implications. Attributes were rare properties that only appeared on quality weapons.
Usually, a weapon might have something straightforward like Fire Damage or Enhanced Sharpness. But Multiplier was intentionally vague. That kind of vague usually meant dangerous.
Did it multiply the raw damage output? Did it multiply the physical force of each swing? Or did it just multiply the amount of rust it could inflict on unfortunate enemies?
He scrolled down to read the description text below the stats.
[Description: A pan that has seen a thousand different kitchens and cooked a million different meals. It has absorbed the kinetic energy of countless angry chefs slamming it down on stovetops. It hits harder than it should. Much, much harder.]
"Kinetic energy of angry chefs," Kaizen muttered, desperately suppressing a laugh that was trying to escape his throat. "So basically it's a Rage Pan. A pan powered by culinary frustration."
He gripped the handle tighter, feeling the ugly rag warm slightly under his palm.
If this attribute actually meant what he thought it meant, then his pathetic strength stat of three didn't matter nearly as much anymore.
If the pan genuinely multiplied the force of impact on contact, he could theoretically hit like a freight truck, provided he could manage to swing hard enough in the first place.