Forty minutes later, I stood in front of a five-story building with a noble sandstone facade. The first two floors were occupied by the workshop. Behind the massive door of dark wood and glass, I was greeted by the coolness of the air conditioner and silence, broken only by the hum of an invisible extractor fan. A young man in a perfectly fitting suit, one of the managers, politely inquired about the purpose of my visit. Upon learning that I was the one who recently called about a large order for smelting ore, he immediately led me into the depths of the workshop, into the working area.
The master, a healthy-looking guy in his forties with perfectly curled mustaches and a leather apron, was already waiting for me. His hands were a worker's hands—strong, with metal dust ingrained in the skin—but his gaze was sharp and assessing. I took off my backpack and carefully unloaded two dull, heavy pieces of ore onto a specially prepared table covered with heat-resistant material. The master, not wasting precious time on unnecessary words, just nodded and immediately began to inspect them. I respect that.
First things first—the assessment. I silently watched as the master, whose name was Enrique, wielded the spectrometer like a surgeon. He turned my nuggets this way and that, applying the sensor to different parts, and the numbers on the small screen of the device were constantly changing. The master was intently writing something in a worn notebook, furrowing his thick eyebrows. These fifteen minutes stretched for me like an eternity. A flurry of thoughts swirled in my head: What if he underestimates the readings? What will I do? Argue? Leave?
Finally, Enrique put aside the device and delivered his verdict, tapping his pencil on the notebook:
"So, kid. The first piece—87.6% gold content. The second is worse, but also not bad—83.1%."
I mentally exhaled. In the Inventory, the nuggets had values of 88% and 83%. The System obviously rounded the numbers, but the master's verdict was frighteningly accurate. If he had named a conditional 85 and 80, I would have turned around and left, but here everything was fair. I nodded, giving my consent.
Then everything spun. There was a deafening screech, and the steel jaws of the crusher effortlessly turned my nuggets into a pile of small fragments the size of a fingernail. Another ten minutes, and these pieces were already neatly poured into a graphite crucible.
"It's going to be hot now," Enrique warned, putting on safety glasses and thick gloves.
A wave of dry, searing heat wafted from the furnace, forcing me to step back. The master placed the crucible inside, and the room filled with a growing hum. I watched through a small window made of heat-resistant glass as the ore fragments began to lose their shape, melt, turning into a single, luminous mass. Inside the crucible, in a dazzling glow, a small sun splashed—a hypnotic and dangerous sight. Twenty minutes later, my 1.8 kilograms of ore became liquid fire.
With a confident, honed movement, Enrique removed the crucible and began to pour the melt into small molds. Gold flowed in a thick, radiant stream. Another fifteen minutes for cooling, and here it is, the result: sixteen perfect hundred-gram bars and one small, frozen drop weighing 37 grams lay on the table in front of me. The master immediately, like a jeweler, separated 12 grams from this drop—a payment in metal for his services. I was left with 1625 grams of pure 999-fineness gold. Each bar was accompanied by a small receipt confirming its authenticity.
"Good ore," Enrique said unexpectedly, wiping his hands with a rag. "Your grandfather had a keen eye. You seemed to tell the manager that you want to sell some?"
"Yes, I was confirmed that I can do it here," I replied, tremulously putting the warm, heavy bars into plastic containers and hiding them in my backpack.
"You can, of course," he easily agreed. "But if you want to sell more, and even with a discount of only twenty percent, and not twenty-five, like we have, I can advise you a pawnshop of my friend. Say that you are from Enrique, and he will not ask unnecessary questions. If you carry it on the street blindly, they will skin you alive."
"Hmm, sounds pretty attractive. Give me the address."
Having received the address of the pawnshop from the master, which, to my surprise, was on the same street, I felt the paranoia recede a little. Here, in the Diamond District, reputation is everything. I went to the same manager who met me at the entrance.
Half an hour later, I walked out of the workshop onto the bustling street, and the world seemed completely different to me. In addition to the gold bars weighing 1225 grams, a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills—9825 dollars—lay in my backpack. I'm rich! Well, by New York standards, I barely make it into the middle class, but that didn't matter. The feeling was important. It was as if an invisible burden had fallen from my shoulders. It became so easy to breathe, and my thoughts, no longer burdened by worries about what to live on the next day, flowed freely and clearly. It was euphoria, an indescribable emotion of freedom. Probably, something like this is felt by a person who has just completely paid off the mortgage!
In such a good mood, I went to the pawnshop advised by the master. Telling the plump man behind the armored glass that I was from Enrique, and presenting the certificates, I sold another 325 grams of gold without further questions, receiving 8380 dollars in cash.