True Smithing 2: A Crafting LitRPG Series Read online

  ***

  “The hell are you doing, Angus?” asked his mentor.

  “Damascus stee—” The slap came abruptly, unexpectedly. It stung, but the message was clear enough: You messed up.

  Benny sighed. “You want to do too much, but produce too little. Listen, damn it, for the umpteenth time. It’s not about being complex, or impressive looking, a weapon,” he said, hoisting a finished sword from a nearby barrel, “must be simple, elegant, and deadly. Simplicity, Angus, is the key to success.”

  Hephaestus smirked. He remembered that day fondly, the day when he had learned how to truly hone his craft. Long before Bjornson’s Arms and Armor was even a pipe dream, a young Angus couldn’t distinguish a dagger from a stiletto, yet he had tried to produce works of—what he thought was—artistic beauty; intricate patterns woven into the burning metal plates; ornate engravings on the copper and zinc hilts, and lavishly adorned grips capped by multilayered pommels. He chuckled, I was a damn fool. His chuckle was followed by a smile as he opened his eyes. “I guess I still am, sometimes.”

  He looked at the pieces he had produced. They were simple, yet functional. They wouldn’t be lauded for their beauty or complexity, but once fit together, they would make a functional weapon. And isn’t that what this is all about? That was why he had chosen to become a blacksmith. To craft weapons, armor, metal things which not only looked awesome hung on walls, but could be used to kill. He had never killed anyone, of course—at least not in real life. Still, he took pride in making warfare implements that could fool historians as to their authenticity, so accurate they were to the weapons of yore.

  Hephaestus lifted the blade and tang—a thin sheet of high-carbon steel honed into a tapering tip with a deep fuller along its spine; he ran his sight over the length of the metal. It was flawless. No cracks, blemishes, cold spots, or graininess marred its mirror-finish surface. His satisfied face looked back at him. His eyebrows furrowed. That’s me, but is it really me? He had been thinking too much about it of late, the reality of his body, decaying in the outside world. Hephaestus sighed; Altara was right, he worried too much.

  Altara...

  He never knew whether to feel joy at her closeness to him, or immitigable guilt at knowing that she was in her thirties, while he was close to his… But that’s outside, he argued with himself. Here I’m a hale youngster of forty-ish summers. Did it make any difference that his... flesh container was a desiccated ruin, while Alastara—her real name—was young enough to be his many-times-great-granddaughter? She said it didn’t, and she was most likely right on that account. He only wished the voices at the back of his mind would agree with her, and finally shut the hell up.

  He lifted the crossguard. A simple, thin quadrangle of iron, tapering at the ends, its tips slightly curving upwards—good enough; perfect, actually—to catch an oncoming attack, and deflect its blade away. He inserted the tang of the blade through the slot machined in the center of the crossguard; it slid perfectly through the weapon, resting comfortably at the base of the blade. Two rivets, one on its top, and one on its bottom sealed it in place; he applied as much force as he could. The block wouldn’t budge. Good.

  A deep breath. He was thinking too much. Why am I worrying about so much nonsense, anyways? He sighed; Hephaestus wanted to tell himself he was just worrying about nothing, that there wasn’t anything in his near-idyllic virtual life that could threaten the contentment he had enjoyed for the past few virtual decades—though barely a year had passed outside. But he knew he’d be lying to himself if he pretended nothing bothered him.

  He lived in Alterwelt, true. But that didn’t mean he was unaware of the events happening in the outside world, the “real” world. Only, what’s real, anyways? He knew that the Moralizers, that damned group started by the psychologist woman had been making strides in trying to modify, regulate, and ultimately cancel the existence of the virtual spaces run by Imperium. Having recruited the owner’s nephew into her power-play had been a terrible blow for the company, and though the drama didn’t develop quickly, he knew the worst was yet to come.

  Hephaestus took the carved yew grip, feeling the shape fit comfortable into his wide, calloused hand. He threaded the tang of the metal blade through the slot going through the grip. It fit as perfectly as the crossguard did. He nailed four copper rivets along its length, lifting the weapon and swinging it about; the piece held together magnificently. Only one piece to go.

  He reclined in the chair he kept in his forge, chuckling as he remembered the “break” he had taken with Altara. So young, yet so wise. It was true, what they said about women—their minds and emotions matured much quicker than men’s did, and Altara had had a lifetime of growing up already. Most of the time he couldn’t understand why she was with him. Real life or virtual world, it didn’t matter; she was young, she was smart, and she was pretty. He smiled, the whole package. Again, he closed his eyes, deciding to be brutally honest with himself; what worried him—terrified him, actually—was the thought of losing her. Not losing her to the vagaries of fate, as he had lost his late wife Zinnia. Worse, he could lose her to politics and puritanism.

  If the Moralizers had their way, virtual spaces would be gone forever. Even if they weren’t, they’d become a neutered version of themselves, and certain activities would be rendered impossible. He couldn’t understand those people. These were virtual worlds, custom-made realities where people could be as heroic or as bloody vile as they wanted to be without any real consequence. What did these people want? Criminals and psychos out on the streets, looting, killing, and raping left and right? He shook his head; it made no sense to him.

  The pommel was last. A metal semicircle engraved with the Bjornson and Baratus bear. The remainder of the tang slid easily into the pommel; Hephaestus pinned it with yet another rivet, locking the weapon in place. The last step was to glue a leather strip along the grip to make it more comfortable, and his experienced fingers made a short work of the task. A final swing with the assembled weapon made him declare it complete. He smiled. It was the first weapon he had completed in a long time, and though it wasn’t terribly ornate, it was finished, and it was functional. The old weapon naming and bonus choosing menu appeared in his sight; after some half-hearted fine tuning—as he didn’t care too much about names or stats—he checked the end result.

  Just a Bloody Longsword (golden hue)

  -unique-

  Bonus: Strength +20

  Bonus: Damage +10

  Bonus: Ignore armor +15%

  Bonus: Speed +20

  Value: 80,000 GP

  Description: As the name says, this is just a bloody longsword.

  Crafted by Hephaestus

  “Gettin’ your mojo back,” said Altara behind him.

  Hephaestus chuckled. “How come you’re always nearby whenever I finish, or ruin, a weapon? If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were spying on me.”

  She walked towards him, curling her arms around his neck. “I don’t need to spy on you.” A kiss; an easy way of letting him feel the pride she felt for his accomplishments. “I’m magical, y’ know it!”

  “True, true,” Hephaestus said, lifting the weapon. “What do you think?”

  “Hmm.” She took the sword, feeling its weight, swinging it, slashing, thrusting, and flourishing it around. She smiled as she saw the Bjornson and Baratus insignia lovely engraved onto the pommel. “It’s simple, basic unadorned,” she kissed Hephaestus’ cheek. “It’s perfect.”

  The blacksmith enjoyed the praise. It had been a long time since he had finished a weapon on his own, too many worries in his head making him clumsy. “Thanks. I did my best to—”

  ALERT: TO ALL ALTERWELT PLAYERS. OPEN YOUR COMMUNICATION CHANNELS.

  He groaned loudly. “Can’t a guy spend a nice moment with his lady without there being some sort of alert?”

  Altara shrugged. “Guess the powers that be can’t wait, huh?”

  “Hmm,
fine. But I’ll have some stern words for the higher ups over this!”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  They opened their communications tab; a large reading panel appeared into their view, displaying in bright red letters the word ALERT. Hephaestus and Altara looked at each other, their expressions letting them know everything they needed to.

  A picture appeared in the communications tab. Hephaestus’ eyes widened as he recognized a familiar face. “Altara, it’s David!”

  “The Game Master who helped us with that twit, Liberath?”

  “The same.”

  “Crap,” said Altara with a whistle, “I didn’t recognize ‘im. He looks...”

  “Old,” replied Hephaestus, “aged, fragile, angry?”

  “Done for,” she shook her head. “What’s goin’ on ‘ere?”

  “Guess we’ve got to wait and see.”

  The blond-haired Game Master looked haggard indeed; a heavy weight was hidden beneath the dark circles under his eyes; his face had the aspect of someone aged before their time due to unbridled stress and worry. For a moment, Hephaestus wondered if the Imperium GMs’ avatars mimicked their real-world counterparts. Before he received an answer, however, David sighed, shook his head, and said “Hey dudes, how are y’all doing? I hope you’ve been having a good time today, and whatnot. Most of you don’t know who I am. Name’s David, Game Master for Imperium Inc., formerly Imperium Games and I uh,” he sucked on his teeth. Whatever he wanted to say seemed to be weighing down on him. “Listen, I’ve been tasked by my superiors to bring you a message. So, here it goes,” he closed his eyes, lines creasing his forehead. “Due to recent developments in the outside world, and given the current social and political climate regarding virtual spaces and their moral quality, it’s with a heavy heart that we must inform you that all of our virtual spaces, including but not limited to: Cyberline, Angels’ Den, Cityscape, Doomspire, Final Evolution, Grand Steal Vehicle, Alterwelt, among others, will shut down indefinitely on June the fifteenth.”

  “June fifteenth,” said Altara, “that’s in one bloody week! Wait, there’s more!”

  David continued. “Alas, our monetary politics has also been impacted by the recent events. As such, we regret to inform you that we’re unable to refund any purchases you’ve made in-game. Furthermore,” he closed his eyes, his jaw bunching.

  Crap, thought Hephaestus, the worst is yet to come.

  David regained his composure, eyes red as he said “We also regret to inform you that any functional Lebenspoden currently operating will be rendered useless on the same date. To every person currently using one,” he swallowed, “I’m so sorry. Thank you for all of the experiences we’ve gone through together and... Until we meet again. David out.” Silence lingered when the communication ended. A heavy, oppressive silence, so thick as to become a palpable presence.

  No, thought Hephaestus. He’s joking.

  He knew, deep within himself, that David wasn’t joking. His chat screen was bursting with angry comments, people venting their rage and impotence at the decisions made for them without their consideration.

  “I’m a damn adult, I can play smut if I want to!”

  “Why can’t I live a virtual life?”

  “I want my money back!”

  “Fucking Moralizers can go suck on a big, fat, throbbing—”

  Hephaestus shut off the chat channel. Nothing good would come from seeping through people’s vitriol. Damn it, he thought, nothing good will come at all.

  He felt numb, far away from himself. He knew his Lebenspod was working properly; it was state-of-the-art, after all. He could still feel, breathe, think, and act as though he was a real person inside a virtual world. He could still reach out to Altara and caress her skin, smell her hair, and look into her eyes. But no more, he thought, pain lancing through his chest, it’s over.

  A strong hand landing on his shoulder brought him back to himself. “Geez, Hephy, come to!”

  He noticed Altara’s tearful eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked dully.

  She blinked rapidly, incredulously. “What’s wrong? What the hell’s wrong, Hephaestus? Didn’t you bloody hear those damned morons! Those puritan sons of—”

  TALWAR HAS LOGGED IN

  “Dad!” Cried Hephaestus’ son as soon as he materialized into Alterwelt. “Dad, come on dad, I’ve got to tell you—”

  “I know, Jonny,” sobbed Hephaestus. “I know.”

  “So I’m too late…” spat Jonas, “Issues are already starting to creep into the servers. But dad, listen, I’m here for a good reason. I talked with Amy and—”

  A spark of life returned to Hephaestus as soon as he heard his daughter’s name. She had chosen to become an attorney at law, a corporate one at that. In one long stride, he reached his son’s avatar, placing his heavy hands on his shoulders. “What did she say?”

  “She said,” said Jonas’ avatar, Talwar, “That as majority shareholders in Imperium and Alterwelt, they can’t make no decisions, and especially not ones to shut down, without your consent.”

  “Then,” he said, thoughts racing within his mind, “that means it’s not final?”

  “No. We can stop them.”

  “Good. Question is... do I need to get involved?”

  “That’s er... that’s the problem, dad. You have to be in the outside world.”

  Altara gasped. “No bloody way!”

  “Altara, I—”

  “Don’t ‘Altara’ me, Hephy! Y’ know what your body’s like, it’s... it’s...”

  He grinned. “Old, battered, and dying.”

  “You needn’t say it like that,” she said.

  Hephaestus sighed. “I know. I’m sorry, Altara, it ain’t right that I take out my frustration on you,” he took a deep breath. “I have to go out, oversee what’s going on. It’s either that,” he shrugged, “or there being no turning back.” The woman remained speechless. “I will be fine. It might take a bit of in-game time, but I’ll be back,” he placed his forefinger under her chin, lifting her face, and kissing her on her lips. “I promise.”

  Altara shook her head. “Fine,” she acquiesced. “But you better be bloody careful.”

  “I will be.”

  “Good,” she paused. “And Hephy?”

  “Hmm?”

  She swallowed loudly. Hephaestus had never seen Altara as vulnerable and dejected as she looked then and there. “Please, Hephaestus… Angus, I beg of you... don’t you die on me.”

  Hephaestus smiled. “Trust me, I have no intention to!”

  Chapter II: Rush Hour

  “A long, happy life inside your very dreams, or a short one rife with fear; it’s your choice, your Lebens choice!”

  -Lebenspoden sales pitch.

  COMMENCING BIOLOGICAL REANIMATION

  I hate seeing that bloody message, thought Angus as the yellow, gleaming letters were beamed into his visual cortex. It was a courtesy, really; if they weren’t shown, he wouldn’t notice anything was happening. At least until the pain arrived.

  Returning from the comatose, suspended animation conferred by a Lebenspod was an unpleasant experience at the best of times, and for Angus, there were never such times. For a moment, he floated contentedly in the black oblivion between consciousness and awareness—his brain and mind were awake and functional, but disconnected from the rest of his body. Then, sensation began to return slowly, gradually and, with it, pain. Not because the process itself was painful, but because for Angus Bjornson every waking moment was a physical punishment.

  He had heard people say that when one grows old, if they wake up and nothing aches, it meant they’d died. I hate it that they’re right. His legs, though useless after a hip wound he sustained at his forge, burned with the heat of limp muscles; his swollen knees throbbed in pangs of ache; his guts felt in a turmoil as they were starting to work once again (and his sphincters weren’t as hale as they’d been years ago); his intestines groaned,
and his heart protested as it lurched into its normal motion, not the slow rhythm established by the machine. Angus didn’t need any sort of confirmation to let him know that the process had been completed—the fact that, quite literally, everything hurt was more than enough.

  For the first time in weeks, he opened his physical body’s eyes. He was greeted by a shapeless, glowing blur. Though he couldn’t make the letters, the shapes, or anything at all, he knew it was the screen inside the Lebenspod, letting him know that the awakening process had been successful. He touched a green stain on the screen, a button he knew to signify that he was aware of being back to life. The pod opened up, its latch unlocking, its layers receding into the sconces within the machine so that Angus could step out of it. He chuckled, as if I could step out of it.

  Sunlight, dim though it was due to the weather, hurt his eyes; they hadn’t seen any sunlight in a long time, making them overly sensitive to outside stimuli. He covered his eyes, a sharp stab of pain shooting through his arm as he lifted it. Damn it, I hate being old.

  A knock came from his room’s door. “Dad, are you awake?”

  I have to respond. His throat felt sore and clumsy, as it had grown unaccustomed to producing any sounds. In a dry rasp, he managed to say, “I am.”

  The door opened, and in stepped Jonas. It had been decades—No, only a few weeks—since he had seen him physically; his son looked older, somehow, though not a lot of time had passed. Regardless, his chiseled features were the living portrait of his mother. Zinnia, if you saw him, if you saw me, would you be proud?

  “Dad,” Jonas said “how are you feeling?”

  “Old and dying,” he rasped, “the usual.”

  “Damn it, believe me, if you didn’t have to be present, I’d—”

  Angus lifted a hand, stopping Jonas. “Don’t sweat it, Jonny. It ain’t us who make the rules,” he sighed, feeling the weight of his age. “What do we have to do?”