Chapter 23 | Transmigrated Into a Poor Girl, Armed Myself With Heavy Armor

An inn in Frostmoon Town, south-central Norman.

The fireplace crackled merrily, filling the air with the mouthwatering aroma of warm food and the faint tang of woodsmoke—a comforting scent unique to a winter tavern.

Rosie sat at a wooden table near the wall, a steaming earthenware bowl and a wooden plate set before her.

The bowl was filled to the brim with mutton and vegetable stew. The broth was rich and golden, topped with a glistening sheen of fat. Carrots and beans had been cooked until tender, while the mutton practically slid off the bone.

A few slices of oat bread, toasted crisp on the outside and soft within, were stacked on the wooden plate beside a small dish of cheese.

She focused entirely on enjoying her meal. As her wooden spoon stirred the stew, releasing swirls of fragrant steam, she felt the lingering tension in her body melt away.

Sitting down to a proper hot meal inside a cozy, warm inn during such frigid weather was a genuine luxury.

But someone always had to ruin a good meal.

Heavy footsteps approached, and three figures stepped up to her table, blocking the warmth and light from the fireplace.

Rosie didn't look up, her spoon continuing to stir her stew at an unhurried pace.

“Hey, sweetie, you're pretty cute. How about hanging out with us for a bit?”

The leader spoke in a slimy, sleazy tone that only came from spending far too much time loitering in backwater taverns.

His two companions stood behind him with sleazy grins, their eyes scanning her up and down. One crossed his arms, trying to strike what he thought was a dashing pose.

Rosie didn't even lift her head. “Get lost.”

The three men froze for a second, then exchanged glances before bursting into loud laughter, as if they had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Once his laughter subsided, the leader took half a step closer to her table. Smiling, he reached out a hand toward her face. “Quite a temper, huh? I like a girl with—”

He never finished his sentence.

Rosie put down her spoon and whipped her hand across in a backhanded strike.

Slap!

A sharp, crisp slap cracked through the inn's main hall.

The blow spun the man halfway around before he crashed heavily onto the floor.

His cheek swelled at a visible rate. Utterly dazed, he propped himself up with one hand while clutching his face with the other, staring blankly for a long moment.

The bustling noise in the inn instantly died down the moment that slap landed.

The patrons at several nearby tables turned their heads in unison before erupting into an even louder chorus of laughter and whistles.

Someone slammed the table hard, yelling, “Nice!”

Others chimed in, banging their mugs against the wooden tables.

In the dull monotony of a winter inn, this bit of sudden entertainment was like throwing dry grass onto a fire, instantly igniting the room into a lively uproar.

Holding his swollen cheek, the leader wobbled back to his feet. As the haze in his mind cleared, shame and fury rushed to his head, and he opened his mouth to snap, “You—”

The rest of his words choked in his throat.

A dagger was pressed firmly against his neck, the icy iron blade biting into his skin. If pushed half a knuckle deeper, a gushing wound would open across his throat.

His body instantly froze, all further words dying in his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed nervously.

Rosie held the dagger steady, her voice flat. “Get lost. Keep talking, and I'll butcher the lot of you.”

Her gaze passed over the frozen thug to sweep across his two companions, whose grins had vanished entirely.

Fine beads of cold sweat broke out on the leader's forehead.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and slowly raised both hands in a surrendering gesture. Cautiously taking two steps back, he waited until the dagger retreated from his neck before turning and giving his companions a panicked look.

The three shoved open the inn's door and scurried out like beaten dogs, plunging straight into the freezing wind outside.

As the heavy door swung shut behind them, a muffled curse from the slapped man drifted back inside, only to be instantly swallowed by the howling wind.

Cheers and applause erupted even louder throughout the inn.

A patron raised his mug toward Rosie, shouting, “Good moves, lady!” while another let out an appreciative whistle.

It was rare to get such harmless entertainment on a dreary winter day. The mood in the inn grew noticeably livelier, and even the landlady behind the counter let out a chuckle before returning to wiping down her mugs.

Rosie sheathed her dagger, casually waved a hand to the room, and went straight back to digging into her meal.

After finishing her food, before darkness fell completely, Rosie asked the landlady for directions to the blacksmith shop, wrapped her cloak tightly around herself, and stepped outside.

The blacksmith shop sat on the west street. It was modest in size, with a soot-stained anvil sign hanging by the door. Through a crack in the half-open wooden door, the dark red glow of charcoal flickered from the forge.

Rosie pushed open the door, greeted by a gust of dry heat and the rhythmic pounding of a hammer.

“Blacksmith, do you have any sturdy armor? Something like what a Norman Knight wears?”

The blacksmith, a middle-aged man sitting on a low stool whetting a sickle, looked up with an amused expression.

“Are you pulling my leg, traveler?”

Rosie paused. “Huh?”

“A Norman Knight's suit of armor isn't something an ordinary blacksmith can make. Those are enchanted armor custom-ordered from the dwarf kingdom...”

The blacksmith raised a finger.

“Rumor has it a single suit costs enough to buy an entire small estate!”

“Uh... I meant that style of full-coverage armor, not literally what the Norman Knights wear,” Rosie said, twitching her lips slightly.

She muttered internally, No wonder they look so sharp—it's all built on mountains of cash.

“You should've said so earlier! I thought you were just pulling my chain,” the blacksmith laughed.

“Still, I really can't make a full suit of plate armor. That stuff requires far too much skill.”

He paused and pointed a finger outside.

“Besides, winters in the North are long and brutal. Unless it's top-tier enchanted gear like what the Norman Knights wear, plain metal armor is completely impractical. Wearing it is like climbing into an icebox.”

Rosie fell silent.

That made sense.

She had heard stories of people licking metal poles at minus thirty degrees back in her old world.

Seeing her go quiet, the blacksmith walked over to a corner of the room, unhooked a suit of armor from the wall, and set it down on the long wooden table before her.

“Why not take a look at this set, traveler?”

“Iron-studded leather armor?” Rosie looked down at it.

“This is called brigandine armor. Me and my wife made it together, and it's perfect for Northern weather.”

The blacksmith began explaining it to her.

“The outer layer is wild bull hide—tough, wear-resistant, windproof, and waterproof.

“Take a look here: the chest, belly, flanks, and back all have refined steel plates stitched beneath the hide. The innermost layer is cashmerelike fleece lining—soft, warm, and acts as a padding buffer.

“It comes with matching pauldrons, vambraces, and greaves. While it's not quite a full suit of metal plate, it's a very popular type of brigandine. Even Lord Baron Rhodes's personal guards wear this exact brigandine armor.”

“Let me check it out first.”

Rosie picked up the brigandine armor from the table and inspected it thoroughly.

Its construction was similar to the brigandines of her past life, weighing around seventeen or eighteen kilograms.

The thick outer leather was fixed with copper rivets, the middle layer contained rows of steel plates stitched in place, and the innermost fleece lining felt soft and thick to the touch.

Outer hide, steel plates, and warm fleece—three layers of protection.

The matching vambraces and greaves had leather on the inside covered by a layer of steel plates on the outside.

Honestly, finding gear of this quality in a small town was impressive.

“Can I try it on?” Rosie asked.

“Of course! Not like there are any other customers around right now anyway.”

The blacksmith nodded naturally, then turned toward the back room and shouted.

“Wife! Come help the customer try on some armor!”

The blacksmith's wife walked out from the back room.

She stood nearly half a head taller than the blacksmith and was considerably broader around the waist.

She walked over to Rosie, her voice surprisingly gentler than her husband's.

“Traveler, let me show you how to put this on first. Unbuckle all these straps, then slip it over your head...”

Rosie briskly unfastened her cloak and took off her secondhand leather breastplate.

Under the guidance of the blacksmith's wife, she pulled the brigandine over her linen gambeson and pulled the straps tight, one by one.

The woman squatted down to strap on the greaves, then stood up to fasten the leather buckles on the pauldrons.

Once everything was properly fitted,

Rosie tested her mobility.

She walked back and forth, executed a few slashing strikes, and tried bending over and turning around.

The brigandine flexed comfortably with her movements without feeling stiff or restricting her joints.

While it couldn't match the complete coverage of full plate armor, it had the advantage of being slightly lighter and far more flexible.

For someone traveling long distances in the wilderness, this was far more practical than a heavy, freezing iron shell.

Compared to a light leather breastplate, this was genuine heavy armor.

She could probably go participate in full-armor combat in this.

“How much?”

“Five gold coins.”

The blacksmith answered without hesitation, clearly having set a firm price.

“Five gold?” Rosie's mind flashed with an old meme: Silver scale armor, five gold apiece.

“Don't think it's overpriced! My wife and I spent over a month working on this brigandine. Plus, wild bull hide and refined steel ingots aren't cheap,” the blacksmith added quickly.

Rosie thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you have a helmet?”

“Of course.” The blacksmith turned, fetched a helmet from the lower shelf of a rack, and set it on the table.

The helmet matched the style of the brigandine: a steel shell on the outside, a stitched leather inner lining, and wool padding stuffed into the crown for shock absorption.

The helmet was an open-face design with a rounded crown protecting the top and sides of her head, while the nape area curved outward to allow free neck movement.

It had two leather chin straps to tie it down, as well as thoughtfully designed cheekguards to protect her ears.

It had the peculiar aesthetic of an otherworldly military ushanka...

Rosie picked it up and pulled it onto her head.

It felt a little loose at first, but once she tied the chin straps, it held firm, no longer wobbling as she moved.

Decked out in this suit, she looked nothing like the heavy armored knight she had pictured—in fact, the two had zero resemblance.

Still, she bought it. In a small town, beggars couldn't be choosers; as long as it worked, it was enough.

Rosie bargained a bit, trading in her old helmet and leather breastplate as partial credit, finally settling on a price of five gold and forty silver coins.