True Smithing 2: A Crafting LitRPG Series Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter I: The First Wrong Touches

  Chapter II: Rush Hour

  Chapter III: The Final Countdown

  Chapter IV: The Lord Inquisitor

  Chapter V: Alterwelt Again

  Chapter VI: The World is Not Enough

  Chapter VII: Simulacra and Simulation

  Chapter VIII: The Garden of Earthly Delights

  Chapter IX: To Find a God

  Chapter X: A Life’s Passion

  Chapter XI: To Stir a Broken World

  Chapter XII: Old Tricks in a New World

  Chapter XIII: The First Seed of Change

  Chapter XIV: The Lord of Seven Angels

  Chapter XV: Homeostasis

  Chapter XVI: Contract Breach

  Chapter XVII: Just Redemption

  Chapter XVIII: Blazing Fires

  Chapter XIX: At the End of Times

  Chapter XX: Eternal Dream

  TRUE SMITHING 2

  A Crafting LitRPG Series

  By Jared Mandani

  True Smithing 2 is © 2020 by Jared Mandani

  This book is a work of fiction, and any similarity to persons, institutions, or places living, dead, or otherwise still shambling is entirely coincidental.

  Thanks for purchasing this book. Happy reading!

  PROLOGUE

  “For all life is a dream, and dreams themselves...

  Are only dreams.”

  -Calderon de la Barca

  The din of the hammer echoed within the forge, carrying with it the will of the blacksmith—every stroke shaped the red-hot metal, turning it into the forgemaster’s vision. Though he remained uncertain of the end result, as he was letting his creative mind take over his rational planning, Hephaestus was eager to find what would become of the elongated piece of steel on the anvil. A sword, he thought as he brought the hammer down. Perhaps a spearhead, another strike, an axe? He would have to wait and see for the answer to present itself, willed into existence by his imagination, shaped by his life-long passion.

  He could have used an automatic tool, a power-hammer or an arc forge, but this was a personal project—a means to take his mind off of his worries for a few hours. Lately, he had less of those moments when he could simply pick a promising metal ingot, and shape it into a work of art. Lately, it had become all work, no fun.

  He chuckled. “All work no fun,” he said, accompanied by the ring of metal on metal, “inside a videogame.”

  Of late it had also become more difficult to remember that he was in fact within one of Imperium’s virtual spaces—Alterwelt, a fantasy nerd’s biggest fantasy. For him, however, it meant more than that: It meant the ability to continue with his life’s work, to keep ablaze the passion which had pulled him through the toughest experiences, compelling him to keep moving forward.

  Hephaestus wiped at his brow, the back of his leather glove moistened by the sweat on his forehead. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He was sweating in the game; he could feel the droplets sliding down the bridge of his nose, dripping onto his beard. But outside? Outside he was a living corpse, lying languidly on his bed, connected to god knew what machines. Which one, he wondered, was his real self? It didn’t really matter; in truth, he merely liked to ponder the philosophical conundrum as he worked at his forge.

  Another strike.

  Sparks flew as they were ejected from the main piece of metal, struck away by the blacksmith’s strength. Hephaestus cocked an eyebrow. “So,” said he, “you will be a sword.” He could see the shape now: A two-handed weapon, its blade a meter and a half in length, with another thirty-five centimeters for the hilt; its spine fullered—or maybe even absent?—to make it lightweight, accurate.

  Deadly.

  He chuckled. Though he enjoyed creating implements to kill, he rarely ever, if at all, used them. He wasn’t too interested in the more game-like mechanics of Alterwelt. That realm belonged to his children, Amelia and Jonas—Falcata and Talwar, respectively—his only family. No, he thought, that’s not right. Another strike, nor fair. There was Alastara, Altara in game, the woman who had helped him get his bearings, and reach the point he was at now: Chief Blacksmith, Grandmaster of the Smithing Guild, and a content man.

  At least within the game.

  Another strike, slightly slanted towards the right, applying too much pressure on the edge of the metal. “Damn!” exclaimed the blacksmith as he lifted the body of the sword. A long, thin crack had spread from the edge of the metal, all the way to the center. To the untrained eye, it’d look as nothing but a scratch. To Hephaestus, it was the weapon’s doom. “Damn it,” he chided himself, “stupid old man!” He cast the ruined blade sideways, where it clanged loudly as it fell atop a pile of similarly discarded pieces. Broken, all of them, imperfect in subtle, yet fundamental ways. Just as he was.

  Just as Angus Bjornson.

  He groaned. More metal gone to waste. There was no point in crying over it, a fact he accepted reluctantly as he plopped himself onto a nearby chair. Hephaestus grabbed a nearby bottle of vodka, downing half of it in a single gulp. The strong taste of alcohol slid warmly down his throat; other than that, he felt nothing at all.

  “Ain’t no use drinkin’ to forget your woes, Hephy,” said a familiar female voice at the end of his forge.

  He chuckled. “Well aware, you had me turn off the drunk effect,” he took another deep swig, nearly emptying the bottle. “Wish that you hadn’t at times.”

  “And have you waste time in drunken stupor,” she took the bottle from his hand, downing the remaining alcohol, and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She slammed the bottle in front of Hephaestus, a wide grin on her face. “No freakin’ chance.”

  Hephaestus shook his head. “You sound like my wife, Altara.”

  “Hephy,” said she. “For all intents and purposes, I am your wife!”

  She could be your daughter. “I guess so, but...”

  “But?” said she, her eyes widening. “There’s a ‘but’ to me bein’ your woman?”

  Grand-daughter, actually. “No, Altara, it’s just, I mean...”

  “What,” she asked, crossing her arms on her chest, “it ain’t important ‘cause we’re in a game?”

  Disgusting old man, she could be your damn great-grand-daughter! He shut his eyes tightly, trying to will the thoughts away. He couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Altara. It’s not that, it’s just...” He grunted. “I’m tired, I’m stressed, and…”

  “And you think too much,” said she, kissing his forehead. “Hephy, as long as we’re within Alterwelt, age’s but a number, ain’t it?”

  “I know, Altara, I know. But what happens when my, er... Well, when I expire?”

  “Then,” she said with a smile, “I’ll just find ‘nother young stud. Easy!”

  “Eff you!”

  “Fuck me,” she winked. Hephaestus couldn’t help but laugh as he made certain the doors of the smithy were closed.

  Many would call his life within Alterwelt a dream.

  He was glad it was a good dream.

  ***

  The red color in Miranda Kuriz’ goblet looked dull, dead somehow. It missed something essential, a crispness, a hint of life impossible to emulate in real life. She took a sip from it; perhaps the taste would be better. She spat it out; it wasn’t.

  It would be so easy to return into a virtual space—just wear the helmet, close the eyes, and dream away into a world of vibrant colors, strong sensations, and magnificent experiences. She closed her eyes, holding the strong rubber band on her wrist, pulling and rel
easing it. The sting brought her back to her senses. Get a damn grip, woman!

  She sighed. Being the head of the Moralization wasn’t easy, as she was expected to deny herself the pleasures of the mind—entering one of those worlds where life was more real than life itself. She missed the sensations, badly, but her outward image was far more important than satiating her basest desires. She pulled on the band again. At least, that felt real enough.

  A rap came at the door. “Come in.” The large oaken door swung inwardly. Miranda looked at her watch, satisfied that the man, her Inquisitor, had arrived punctually. Not as late as many, not as stupidly early as others, but right on time. She smiled. “Good to see you on time,” she paused, going through years of psychological training in her mind: Praise is a stronger tool for persuasion than anything else. The right word of praise can induce a feeling of loyalty and pride in the objective, making them easier to lead towards a desired goal. Punctuating said praise with the use of a personal denomination yields the best results. Her smile widened. “Lionel. Please,” she added, pointing at one of the red velvet sofas in her studio, “have a seat.”

  “Thank you, doctor Kuriz,” replied the young man before sitting down, hands folded on his lap.

  Too formal, she thought, appraising him. Lionel Vazquez, a promising young adept of the cause. He would be handsome in his own, quaint way, were it not for the bad case of acne spread throughout his face. Still, there was an air of something intriguing, something dark in his appearance that Miranda found weirdly appealing. A biological reaction to her dissatisfaction, perhaps? The young man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, Lionel. What did you want to see me about?”

  He nodded. “About some of Imperium’s properties, doctor Kuriz.”

  “Please,” she said, “we’ve been through this. Call me Miranda.”

  “Right, Miranda,” he said, producing a dossier from his coat, and placing it on the table in front of him. “This is as much information as is publicly available,” he took another, larger folder, “And this is what I still have access to.”

  “Intriguing,” said Miranda. “Tell me something, Lionel.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Does it trouble you to essentially be backstabbing your uncle Jolier?”

  Lionel shrugged. “I don’t much care about him being my uncle, really. What I cared about was my administrative position in Alterwelt,” he shook his head, “and it’s there no more.”

  “Ah yes. I read about it,” she sipped at her tasteless wine, smiling for effect. “Lord Liberath.”

  Lionel cringed at the mention of his character’s name. “That’s behind me now.”

  “What’s ahead of you, then?”

  He grinned manically. “Vengeance.”

  “A simple goal,” Miranda said. “Which makes it difficult to obtain. Tell me, Lionel, what would you be willing to do to achieve it?”

  “Anything.”

  “Anything at all?” she asked, undoing the first button of her shirt.

  She saw the glint in Lionel’s eye as he replied, “Anything.”

  The next couple of hours went by in an ecstatic blur. At the back of her thoughts, however, remained the lingering knowledge of her personal mission—plans hatching within plans. She could understand the young man, Lionel; she, too, wanted revenge on Jolier Vazquez, for different reasons perhaps, but revenge nonetheless.

  The man prided himself in creating dream worlds for people to waste away in. If Miranda Kuriz had it her way, she would turn those worlds into Jolier’s nightmare.

  Real life wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Chapter I: The First Wrong Touches

  “It’s been too little time to say anything, I must admit. What I can say—which I believe you may surmise—is that I feel deeply hurt and, in truth, betrayed. If I may send a message? Right, thanks. Lionel, I loved you... and now you are dead to me.”

  -Jolier Vazquez, CEO Imperium Inc. An interview.

  The first drops of rain were pleasant enough, or so Jonas thought, as he walked back home. Before long, he pulled the cape of his coat to cover his head from the downpour. It’s ever so, ain’t it? Weather had been weird of late. Too many storms, it was unnatural. Then again, calling something “natural” anymore was stretching the word to its limits, and like many things, it didn’t matter in the end.

  The streets themselves were strange, not because of the melancholic greyness brought by the deluge, nor because of the drab aspect of the edifices reaching towards the sky. What made the streets feel eerie and foreboding was their emptiness. It wasn’t weeks ago that one would see people going to and fro in their daily lives, preoccupied with putting bread on their respective tables; buses would be crammed as cans, carrying those unfortunate enough to not own their own vehicle. As with many things, it didn’t matter—barely any more buses worked; where once one would see three, four, five of them at a time, now they had become a rare sight, worthy of admiration.

  Jonas chuckled. To think the day would come that I’d wish to hear the noise of traffic. He kept walking on the abandoned street, accompanied by the sound of falling rain, the rustle of his grocery bag, and the drop of his feet on the ground. As he reached a porch, he saw a homeless man huddled in the sconce, warding against the rain. He didn’t bother to look up. Had he grown used to there being no people outside? Jonas didn’t know, and as many things, it didn’t matter; he tossed him a handful of coins. The man didn’t move. Jonas sighed; he should feel sad, or disturbed perhaps? He shook his head; he felt nothing at all. Is this what we’ve become? Glib in the face of a finished life? Another sigh. He knew the answer to that question: He could have lived forever within a virtual space... had he had the money for it, of course.

  He didn’t expect to see the end of society in his lifetime. No, nothing as dramatic as all that. Society didn’t end; it merely took the next logical step in its evolution.

  I liked them better when they were just Imperium Games. Months, that’s all it took. Merely a few months for Imperium to spread into multiple avenues of development. As far as it went, the company and its leader, one Jolier or something like that, were nice enough, promoting social assistance programs and managing multiple charities to help the less fortunate parts of the world—Pity they didn’t reach that hobo—in search for more equity. Jonas didn’t know what was worse, that their plan was outright megalomaniac...

  Or that it had actually worked.

  He turned on a street, his eyes widening. People, actual people outside on the street. He scoffed, Of course, he thought, Moralizers. Jonas said nothing, contenting himself with witnessing the protesters, the new generation of puritans, as bead-pushing as their forefathers, except far more hypocritical. Or perhaps I’m the hypocrite? He wondered that at times, especially when he found himself agreeing with some of their points. Especially when I see a careless disdain for human life. Except, was it all that bad, in truth?

  People were happy, or so he assumed. Crime was pretty much eradicated, and with the lower carbon production from the lack of people outside, the Earth itself was healing. Another of Imperium’s miracles, brought by their discoveries in neurovirtual reality; the virtual spaces had gone from impressively convincing simulations to real, breathing worlds. No longer glorified videogames, but actual places where people could live their lives.

  The problem had always been the need to take care of the carcass, the body housing what really mattered: the brain itself. No one had known that the technology to transmit into the body, as well as eliminating waste, was being developed by Imperium. When they revealed their achievements and, most horrifyingly, how well they worked, the world changed from one moment to the next: Everyone with the means to purchase a Lebenspod did so and, as it turned out, the machines were almost stupidly cheap. For less than the price of a small car, anyone could live an ideal life, free of worry and strife... or rife with both. Everything for everyone. Nearly every job, except for the strictly physical ones, were transferr
ed into virtual spaces, causing both a drop and a surge in the economy. The paradigm of society changed overnight, and the emptiness in the streets was unequivocal proof that humanity was now digital.

  Someone tapped on Jonas’ back; he turned around to see one of the protesters, a woman—no, a girl—barely into her twenties, carrying a sign reading: I WANT TO LIVE LIFE! “Yea,” he said, “may I help you?”

  “Sure you can, here,” she said, giving him something he hadn’t seen in... god knew how long.

  “A newspaper?” he said. “Isn’t this a bit too vintage, you know, ink and cellulose?”

  “It’s the only true free press, anything digital is manipulated. Please read it, sir, form an opinion!”

  “Wait, what do you… ah, never mind.” The girl left before Jonas could ask her what she was on about. Likely some smearing campaign against Imperium; the Moralizers had become quite vocal the past few weeks. He shrugged. He was in no mood to be proselytized to; he crumpled the newspaper, and tossed it away. A piece of the headline caught his eye: SHUT DOWN! “Well,” he said, “what is this, then?” Curiosity got the best of him; he picked up the newspaper and began reading.

  What was at first a cordial condescension for the Moralizers became surprise, then outright fear. “Shit, no... SHIT!” He took out his telephone, quickly dialed a number. “Pick up, pick up, pick up… Ah, sorry, Amy! Crap, it’s good to hear your voice. Listen, you’re a corporate lawyer, right? Well,” he lifted the newspaper, reading the line again: IMPERIUM UNDER FIRE. SHUT DOWN IMMINENT! “I think you’ll have a lot of work really soon. Find everything about the latest developments on Imperium, see the value of our stocks in the company,” he gulped, “And log into Alterwelt to talk to dad. Yes, I’ll see you later.” He hung up, dropped his grocery bag, and started running.

  He had to reach the virtual space before his father found out that his virtual life was about to come to an end.