Synthesis-type adventurers

Chapter 17 Old Hansen's Scrap Yard

South of the city, the old Hansen scrap yard.

This is the appendix of Rusty Harbour, greedily devouring all the dregs excreted by the city.

Nominally, this landfill belongs to the massive and violent "Brotherhood of Gears," which is the nominal ruler of Rust Harbor.

The high-pressure steam valves on the barbed wire and the withered corpses hanging from the poles proclaimed the territorial sovereignty of this place.

But in Rusty Harbor, the sound of coins clinking can even make the Grim Reaper's scythe pause.

Old Hansen turned his job as a doorman into a private business.

Time had turned his knees into rusted bearings, making it impossible for him to climb those crumbling mountains of garbage. He needed young, cheap laborers who weren't afraid of tetanus to do the initial screening for him.

People like Rod, from the lower class, are products of this tacit understanding—a gray rat allowed into the granary.

The rules are fair: the rats are responsible for panning for gold in the rotting ruins, while the gatekeepers are responsible for exploiting the exit.

As long as it passes his discerning eye for appraisal and the full amount of "taxes" is paid, this is a legal hunting ground.

The rainwater here boils into a murky, rusty red soup, winding its way down tons of piled-up old gears, broken pipes, and fragments of unknown alchemical cauldrons, eventually flowing into the perpetually dry black mud at our feet.

The pungent smell of acid corroding metal burned my nasal cavity, and the smell was mixed with the heavy, greasy taste of old engine oil.

Rod pulled up the collar of his leather trench coat; the black leather was as stiff as sheet metal.

He moved through the metal graveyard like a silent ghost, his boots grinding against broken glass and iron filings with a teeth-grinding crunch.

[Analysis of the field of view] Operating at full power.

Rhodes' pupils contracted; in his vision, the mountain of garbage was no longer a chaotic mess.

They decomposed into countless, though dim, pulsating orbs of light that were still discernible.

[Severely oxidized copper pipe (gray)]...

[Broken Mithril Alloy Drill Bit (White)]...

[Lead plate contaminated with radioactive dust (gray)]...

The vast majority are worthless scraps or useless items whose extraction costs far exceed their profits.

But Rod was very patient.

He was hunting for a specific luster—the kind of metallic oxide that could deceive the eye and mimic the texture of high-purity mithril.

"Cough...cough cough cough!"

A heart-wrenching cough came from the small hut next door, which was made from a shipping container.

Old Hansen pushed open the iron gate, carrying a dim lantern in his hand, and shuffled out with faltering steps.

The old man was so thin he was just a skeleton, and his work vest, which he had worn for who knows how many years, was as stiff as armor, covered in grease and burn holes.

His face was like a crumpled and unfolded parchment, deeply lined with wrinkles, with only his cloudy eyes occasionally flashing with a glimmer of light, like embers yet to be extinguished.

"In this heavy rain... cough cough... and you're still rummaging through the trash?" Old Hansen spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, casually wiping it away with the back of his hand. "All the goods for today are here. The Brotherhood of Gears just dumped a batch, and we haven't had time to sort them yet."

"There are fewer people on rainy days, it's quieter." Without turning his head, Rod's iron hook, which he used for searching, bit a palm-sized twisted metal piece. "Besides, the rain washes away the dust, making it easier to see."

With a forceful pull of his arm, he yanked the metal piece out of the tangled copper wire.

It was a piece of severely corroded plating, but in Rhodes' eyes, it was emitting a faint yet pure bone-white halo.

[Slight Glossy Iridescent Oxide Layer (Ordinary White)]: A product of oxidation of a certain high-grade alloy, possessing unique optical refractive properties.

"Good stuff," Rhodes thought to himself.

He casually tossed the metal piece into the sack behind him and continued searching.

One piece, two pieces, three pieces...

As time went on, Rhodes' movements became faster and more precise.

He specifically targets metal fragments that look rusty or have even started to crumble.

To outsiders, he was just picking through the scraps, but within his consciousness space, Rhodes was carrying out a silent purification process.

Mental energy pierced the microstructure of the waste materials, forcibly peeling away that tiny bit of [micro-luster], and then quickly fused with it.

[Slight Gloss] + [Slight Gloss] = [Medium Gloss]

[Low gloss] + [Low gloss] = [Normal gloss]

……

Each peeling and synthesis felt like coarse sandpaper grinding against his nerves, bringing sharp, stinging pain.

Sweat mingled with rainwater and slid down his forehead. Rhodes' face was a little pale, but his eyes were getting more and more excited.

When he finally gathered the last piece of material, the light that had been superimposed countless times in his consciousness space finally underwent a qualitative change.

[Fake Mithril Luster (Fine Blue)]: Through extremely complex optical deception, it perfectly simulates the noble color and texture of mithril. Unless a professional magic detector is used, the naked eye cannot distinguish the real from the fake.

"call……"

Rod exhaled a breath of stale air and straightened his somewhat stiff back.

The sack contained about twenty pounds of scrap iron, but in Rod's eyes, it was priceless.

"Have you made your choice?"

Old Hansen had approached unnoticed, the lantern in his hand swaying, its dim light shining on Rhodes.

He didn't look at Rod's face, but stared at the bulging sack, a glint of unfathomable shrewdness flashing in his cloudy old eyes.

"It's all just scale and scraps," old Hansen's voice was hoarse, like a grinding wheel grinding rust. "Even alchemy furnaces wouldn't bother melting this kind of stuff. But..."

He paused, then suddenly looked up, his gaze gaining real weight as it landed on Rhodes' face.

"Kid, if you know how to mix the proportions, the magical conductivity and ductility of this pile of junk combined won't be much worse than the mithril used by those noble gentlemen... You have a sharp eye."

Rhodes' heart skipped a beat.

Did the old man figure it out?

No, it's impossible.

The All Things Entry System is my unique secret. He could never see the entry light cluster being stripped away by me. I had someone test this a long time ago.

If we rule out that possibility, there is only one explanation left—experience.

It is an intuition derived from a lifetime of immersion in materials science, possessing an intimate understanding of the properties of matter.

This seemingly down-on-his-luck old scavenger is definitely not an ordinary person.

Rod instantly suppressed all his micro-expressions, revealing his signature憨厚 smile as he scratched his head.

"Ha, you're joking. I'm just an assistant. I heard that these things can be ground into powder to make glitter powder. I'm thinking of getting some back to try and sell it to the circus to make some money."

"A circus? Heh..." Old Hansen let out a cryptic chuckle, neither exposing the truth nor pressing for details. "Since it's trash, then it's trash. Give me two six-cent silver coins for this bag."

"Two silver coins? That's too expensive! This is practically junk!" Rhodes immediately feigned a pained expression. "At most, five copper coins!"

"Tch, take it or leave it." Old Hansen turned and walked away, his hunched back revealing an undeniable stubbornness. "These days, even trash is a resource. If you don't want it, I'll have it taken to fill the sea tomorrow."

"Fine, fine, I guess I'm just unlucky!"

Rod feigned helplessness and took out two silver coins, tossing them to old Hansen.

Having spent a long time in Hong Kong, one will inevitably learn some of the unspoken rules.

One of the rules is to never owe Old Hansen money, because that's tantamount to offending the Brotherhood of Gears.

Moreover, based on the conversation just now, Rod felt that the old man's words had a hidden meaning.

He didn't dare to throw away the worthless junk in his hands and say he didn't want it, for fear that the other party would notice something amiss.

The silver coin traced an arc in the air before being caught steadily by a hand as thin as a chicken claw.

"Thanks, sir."

Rod picked up the sack, turned and disappeared into the rain, his steps quickening slightly as he had come.

The feeling of being watched like a thorn in my side only gradually disappeared after I walked out of the recycling station.

He subconsciously glanced back.

The last rays of the setting sun pierced through the rain clouds and fell upon the dilapidated container house.

Old Hansen stood in the doorway, clutching the two silver coins in his hand, coughing violently: "Cough cough cough... Pfft!"

A mouthful of black blood was sprayed onto the waterlogged ground, a shocking sight.

Old Hansen casually wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes meeting Rod's from afar.

Through the rain, a faint smile seemed to appear on the other person's lips.

Rod quickly averted his gaze, lowered the brim of his hat, and disappeared around the corner of the street.

That old man is dangerous, but now is not the time to investigate his secrets.

They now have the "disguise" needed for the plan.

Next, the most crucial ingredient, the "guide drug," is needed.