Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter I: First Steps
Chapter II: Alterwelt
Chapter III: To Arken
Chapter IV: A Means to an End
Chapter V: Prepare for the Worst
Chapter VI: Lesson Learned
Chapter VII: The Price of Learning
Chapter VIII: Working Ethics
Chapter IX: Just a Dream
Chapter X. Commission Details
Chapter XI: Use of Weapons
Chapter XII: Wicked Bureaucratics
Chapter XIII: First Orders
Chapter XIV: Word of Mouth
Chapter XV: Not as Planned
Chapter XVI: Terms of Service
Chapter XVII: Resting on the Laurels
Chapter XVIII: Retaliation
Chapter XIX: Appeal
Chapter XX: Final Resolution
Epilogue
TRUE SMITHING
A Crafting LitRPG Series
By Jared Mandani
True Smithing 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
Angus Bjornson closed his eyes as he lay supine on the iron-dust filled floor of his old smithy, forcing himself to face the truth of his situation: He had fallen, and he couldn’t get up. He had to be thankful, all things considered—the crucible next to him had spilled its contents a few mere inches from his body, otherwise it would have seared flesh from bone.
Ain’t no coming back from that, he thought.
Still, he hated being this way. He hated the unresponsive fingers which refused to hold the crucible; he hated the weak arms that couldn’t pick him up; he hated the weak legs which refused to do as he told them.
He sighed, forcing himself not to feel self-pity, but admitting that, more than anything, he hated being old.
No, he amended, that’s not it. He could cope with being old—sleeping more, feeling weak, having stomach aches if he ate something bad, shitting into a diaper, all of those things, well, he could get used to them, eventually. What he could not, would not get used to, was being unable to be useful. Worse, he was unable to keep performing his passion, as demonstrated by the molten iron now cooling next to him.
Angus chuckled. He found it funny that he worried more about the botched material—and delayed commission—than the fact that he nearly died. The metal, now useless, was meant to become the blade and tang of a historically accurate, seventeenth-century styled, tapering longsword, a request made days ago to his smithy, Bjornson Arms and Armor. Despite being a relatively simple piece, as it required no intricate engravings, no hand-chiseled quillons, no pattern or inlay, he had failed. He had failed in its making not because he didn’t know the process to smelt iron and coal into steel, or because he didn’t know the means to construct the weapon—both processes now second nature to him. No, the truth was much worse: He had failed because he was old and, currently, alone.
His children, Jonas and Amelia, had inherited the smithy, and though they too enjoyed the process of weapon smithing, being as adept or even better than he was, it wasn’t their life’s passion. He had told them, by god he had told them, that the sword needed to be completed as soon as possible! It was a simple piece, damn it. Many people would have called it plain, but then again, many people wouldn’t have appreciated the subtle build, the elegant, functional tapering shape of the weapon. And his children? Well, they were off, of all things, shopping! Thus why he decided he could make the sword himself.
In his mind it had been so easy—take an iron ingot, put it in a crucible, smelt it at the kiln, add coal, pour into a mold, fold the steel, and draw out the blade and tang. It was par for the course, a process he had performed hundreds…no, thousands of times. Yet he knew, from the beginning, that this time would be different: His back protested when he picked the iron ingot; his fingers trembled when he placed it in the crucible; he couldn’t open the kiln’s lid, and by the time he had to take the crucible out, his arms stopped working, followed by his legs.
Now all he could do was stare at the soot-stained ceiling of the smithy, feeling the remaining residual heat from the spilled metal, and keep going around the events which had him in such a pathetic position, hoping he hadn’t broken something when he fell—and secretly hoping that he had, and it would be the last thing he broke. “God damn it,” he sighed, “I fucking hate being old.”
***
“We should’ve done this a long time ago, Jonas,” she paused, feeling the weight of the neuro-virtual reality rig she was carrying. “You think dad’s gonna like it?”
“Well I hope he will, Amy,” he replied, “else he won’t be happy we spent a few thousands on this.”
She chuckled, “He won’t be happy anyways, Jonas.” She paused, sighing sadly. Jonas knew that even if she tried to hide it, Amelia was as worried about their father as he was. His sister continued, “I just worry, you know? I’ve seen his mood, well, deteriorating. Retirement’s hit him hard.”
“Huh, you tell me,” he said, “I’m the one who lives with him.”
Amelia scoffed, “You’re still acting like I abandoned him,” she paused, “and you.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“I told you Jonas, I needed my own place. Had to leave the nest at some point, didn’t I? Besides, it’s not as if I never saw you two. I practically never leave the place!”
Jonas said nothing more.
It had been a few difficult months, ever since the doctors had told their father that he could no longer be a blacksmith. His eyes were failing, as were his muscles; he had mild nerve damage from lifting heavy weights, and his joints had become clumsy. Of course, there were treatments available, and his smithy had become famous, and prosperous enough, that they never had a want for money. He could retire happily, literally anywhere in the world, and live off his profits, him and at least two or three generations of Bjornsons. But he would have none of it; their old man was as stubborn as a mule, and he wanted to keep making weapons and armor for the enthusiasts who requested it.
Neither Jonas nor Amelia could blame him, however. They both could see the appeal the process had for him, though they couldn’t understand—try though they might—why it was his life’s passion. Granted, it had allowed their father to provide for both of them, to make a name for himself, and build a considerable wealth—his historical weapons and armor were nonpareil, as was his skill. Still, ever since Jonas and Amelia had taken over his smithy, their father had become difficult. He didn’t accept, rather, outright refused the fact that he needed to retire. Maybe, just maybe, the neuro-virtual setup they had purchased could persuade him to sit back, relax, and enjoy doing what he loved for the rest of his days…if in a virtual environment.
They turned a corner, seeing the door to the smithy open. “That’s weird,” said Amelia, “I’m sure we locked it before we left.”
“Amy,” said a worried Jonas, “you don’t think...?”
Her eyes widened, and together they ran towards the open smithy. Their concern grew as they entered; they saw the kiln open and still red from the heat, as well as a plume of smoke in the ceiling of the smithy. They walked further into the closed space which held all of their father’s tools; they hadn’t taken two steps when they heard a weak, “Hey kids.”
Amelia yelled, nearly tossing the box in her hands. She was stopped by Jonas lunging forward, kneeling beside their
father. A haze of insults, worries, expletives, and tears took over the smithy. The woman had to be thankful about something, though: Their father looked oddly, uncharacteristically happy.
***
“And what is that supposed to be?” Angus asked, looking at the weird contraption unboxed by his kids. It looked as an early basinet helmet, its visor drawn upon the face.
“This,” replied Jonas, “is a neuro-virtual reality rig, dad. It’s the latest development in absolute VR.”
“What’s it for?”
“Anything, dad,” said Amelia. “Imperium Games developed the technology to its limits to provide any number of one-to-one, life-like scenarios. You can be a soldier, a drug dealer, a hero,” she paused for effect, adding “A smith.”
Angus scoffed. A smith, in a videogame? What was the point, when everything was make-believe, one-click bullcrap? He had seen those games before. “Screw that.”
“But dad—” said Jonas before being interrupted by a stern, “No buts, Jonas. I don’t really care about videogames, and being a smith in those games of yours…pah, I’ve seen what they’re like, ‘hey milord, want to cough up fifty bucks for a piece of gear?’ Jonas, look,” he took a deep breath. “I get what you’re trying to do, and I thank you—you too, Amy. But understand, I’m a blacksmith, I need to feel the heat of the forge, the weight of the hammer.”
“Dad, you can,” his daughter said, “there’s this game, it’s called Alterwelt, all about medieval stuffs, just the way you like it!”
Angus sighed. He saw—he truly saw—his kids’ concern over his wellbeing. But they didn’t understand—how could they?—what it meant to be a true blacksmith.
Jonas placed his hand on his. “Look dad, just give it a try sometime, will you? Amy and I have been playing that game, it’s actually really cool.”
Angus acquiesced. “Fine. I may give it a try, one day.” And he would, some day. There was nothing else he could lose, anyways.
Chapter I: First Steps
“Neuro-virtual reality is the future! The true future! Think about it. A perpetual, self-sustaining, hundred percent accurate virtual world where you can do, and be anything you want to be! And I mean it quite literally, too: Anything, nothing is off limits!”
-Jolier Vazquez, CEO Imperium Games.
‘Spoke too soon’ was a proper adage for the following days of Angus Bjornson’s life. The fall at his smithy hadn’t seemed too bad at first, just a septuagenarian toppling down—the fact he was holding a crucible notwithstanding. Yet as days advanced, Angus noticed that he was unable to move the lower half of his body. He could feel, alright, but his legs just wouldn’t budge.
When Jonas and Amy—god bless them—took him to the doctor, his checkup turned up badly. He had damaged his hip and legs, to the point where he would need a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Standing up on his own two legs was out of the question, and metalworking? Well, the doctor was very emphatic on that matter: He had to absolutely forget about it.
What the hell did doctors know, anyways? The stranger in a white coat told him to simply give up on his passion, to retire using his savings and the money he had made from his smithy, and live his life comfortably as... as what? A useless lump languishing on a sofa, zapping the TV looking for some crappy reality show to kill his mind with? No, that was not him. That could NOT be him! He was a blacksmith, shaping metal, working crystal, casting molds—that was his life, not wasting away on a couch.
His kids had always told him, and rightly so, that he was stubborn as a mule. He refused to simply give up on what he loved to do the most. His upper body remained more or less strong, thanks to the many years of working with metal; he managed to haul himself and his wheelchair downstairs, and towards his smithy. It felt cold, desolate, lonely somehow, as if the very tools he had worked with knew of his impairment.
It was, of course, a stupid notion. They were tools, nothing else. He approached his workbench, next to the kiln, finding the first hurdle: He couldn’t reach his tools. He needed a pair of tongs if he wanted to handle a crucible. Damn it, he couldn’t even reach his hand over the bench!
“God, who am I kidding,” he grumbled, “I’m screwed.” He realized that the fact that he was in a wheelchair, in his smithy, and unable to do anything, was beyond ridiculous. It was sad to the point it became a black comedy. He was a stereotype made flesh. An old fart long past his useful time, clinging to a life where he was no longer useful.
He couldn’t give up, though. Not like that. He propped himself on his arms, balancing them on the sides of his wheelchair. So far so good, he thought, as he realized he held. Now, he only had to get the tongs. Reach out, and get them... how? Well, can only try.
He released one of his arms, hoping to reach out and grab the tool; what he didn’t expect was that he would imbalance the chair, toppling sideways. Angus landed hard on his shoulder. Burning pain shot through his arm and back as he tried to move. Still, his arm worked, meaning that nothing was broken.
Angus sighed; he had been stupid to think he could just prop himself up on the chair, stupid even to think he could keep being a blacksmith. But if he couldn’t do that, then what could he do? He knew his family would have no wants for money, as he had made enough and earned enough prestige that they were settled for life. Still, he didn’t relish the prospect of simply sitting down to wait for his life to come to an end.
A thought came to his mind: What about that game Amelia and Jonas had purchased for him? They told him it provided a... one-to-one simulation, or something? “I don’t know,” he grunted, trying to take his mind away from the pain. Well, they had gone through quite an ordeal to purchase the thing and, maybe, it could keep him distracted. Besides, being found plugged to that thing was preferable to his kids seeing him down on the smithy’s floor again.
“Well,” he said, “suck it up.” He gritted his teeth, and forced himself back onto his wheelchair. His shoulder ached fiercely, but he could take it. He had been burnt with molten metal many times before, so he could stomach a little bit of pain. When he managed to get on the chair, he determined to haul himself back through the stairs, back to his room, and pretend nothing had happened. There was no need to further worry Amy and Jonas.
It took him the better part of an hour to return to his bedroom, mostly because of the ache in his shoulder. He’d have to ask his kids for a painkiller or something, but that would come later. Angus sighed, chastised, accepting that he would most likely not make anything ever again. At least in real life. He looked at the side of his bed, where the contraption rested within its box. Another sigh, he didn’t relish the idea of being plugged into the Internet, or the cloud, or wherever the hell the virtual game thingy was stored, but he guessed he could give it a try. Besides, what else could he lose?
He took the helmet—he couldn’t stop seeing it as a bascinet—placed it on the bed, and took the manual; it was surprisingly tiny, little under one page. Odd, he thought, as most videogame manuals, the ones he remembered at least, had pages upon pages saying stuff such as “don’t play too long, remember to go to the bathroom. If you dance funky while playing, turn the damn thing off,” and so on. Still, he made a point of reading manuals, and this one was no exception, as it read:
Greetings, dear user, and congratulations! You have acquired a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, non-plus-ultra neuro-virtual reality device – a machine designed to stimulate every single neuron, nerve cell, and sensorial input in your body to immerse you in the truest, most life-like digital experiences ever created! When logging into our servers, you will find an infinite number of virtual realities – from fantastic worlds of knights and wizards, to entire galaxies to explore, and even the basest, darkest of underworlds, everything, anything can happen within our realms, all yours to experience however you like.
Sounds complicated, impossible even? It’s not! Just put on the helmet, lay down somewhere comfortable, turn it on, and prepare to be thrust into worl
ds beyond your imagination – for your imagination is the one true limit.
-Jolier Vazquez.
“Fancy,” Angus said out loud. It was easy enough, then, to begin using the machine. He expected wires, cables… He figured it used one of those new self-recharging graphene batteries, so it never ran out of power. When he put the helmet on, he realized it fit perfectly; the facemask was rather large, though—it didn’t rest entirely on his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. He fumbled over the side of the helmet, until he found the one and only button there was. Not knowing what to expect, he pressed it.
IMPERIUM GAMES U.I. – Starting...
NVRAM – Check.
INTERFACE – Check.
Starting...
As the thing started, Angus felt an electric jolt throughout the entirety of his body, as well as a pressure on his face; he realized the facemask had molded itself to his features, fitting perfectly on his visage. After another electric jolt, an image appeared behind his eyes: A text prompt reading:
Welcome to Imperium Games. Is this your first time playing?
Angus didn’t know what to do. There were no controllers, no other input options, nothing. Feeling foolish, he said “Uh, yes?”
The text changed:
Playing tutorial.
He felt another, stronger shock into his body, this time making him gasp. Lights exploded behind his eyes, his ears rang with a high pitched noise, his arms and legs felt numb, and the world seemed to be spinning around him. He felt something hard beneath him, making him wonder if he had rolled off the bed, or something similar; he didn’t want his kids to see him on the floor, damn helmet hadn’t done shit! He had to stand up, he rolled over his side, propped himself on a leg and—
Wait, he thought, the hell? He was moving his leg, no, both legs! He could move them easily! Amazement, bewilderment, and joy took him over as he realized that his legs not only worked, they also supported him well enough! He stood up without opening his eyes, simply relishing the fact that he was on his own two feet again. Moreover, he realized, his arm didn’t hurt, his legs didn’t feel weak, he wasn’t wracked by joint aches, and age pains. He was startled to realize that he was, in fact, okay, for the first time in god knew how long.
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