“Everything?” Hephaestus asked incredulous.
“Did I stutter? Yes boy, everything! Down to your knickers,” he chuckled, “if you’re wearing any.” Hephaestus said nothing as the old man laughed at his own joke; when he was done, he continued, “Right, so, have you any questions?”
“One.”
“You do?” mocked the old man.
“Hm. What is the process out there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Precisely what I asked.”
The old man harrumphed before saying “Well, you go out, wave at the public, get jeered to hell, and then try to kick each other’s asses. Simple.”
“Hm.” It sounded simple enough, indeed. What would be difficult, however, would be actually winning. Rothmund, he knew, was sixteen levels above him, and must have had a better knowledge of the simulation’s mechanics than he did. Still, something Hephaestus had, which Rothmund didn’t was a moderate real-world skill in actual swordplay, and masterfully crafted equipment. “Well,” he said, “that’s it, old man.”
“Are you sure? You don’t want to ask how to walk, or how to piss?” Hephaestus said nothing. “Hrm, just go across that walkway, out the portcullis once it opens, and get on with it.”
The blacksmith took a deep breath, making a mental rundown of his current gear, and his strategy. His sword was lithe and strong, it should slide right into the cracks in Rothmund’s armor; Hephaestus’ own kit was flexible, yet protective—so long as he was quick on his feet and wits, he should be fine.
He hoped.
Another, last breath, and he walked the distance towards the arena.
***
“I really hope this is just a damn coincidence, Talwar.”
“And you think I don’t?” he replied, as he pushed the crowd away. The arena at Arken, despite being a low-level affair, still had quite a number of spectators—especially now, it seemed, because of the unique-clad idiot who had challenged the current champion. The fact that said idiot could be their father notwithstanding, the act was still one of supreme foolishness.
They reached a seat in the central rows, offering a full view of the rink below. For this event, the arena was a normal affair. There were no spike traps, swinging blades, water pits, nothing. It was a flat, circular expanse made of sand, where the two gladiators would spill their blood and guts. The siblings sat down, anxiety welling within both of them as they waited for the match to start.
***
The balcony seat offered something that the rest of the arena couldn’t: Privacy, and personal space. Two commodities Lord Liberath Saldigraad would not, under any circumstances, relinquish. He took another swig of tyran berrywine—he mused on the fact that each sip cost up to a thousand gold pieces, chuckling at the nonchalant way he simply drank it. Even in videogames, amusingly enough, politics—and connections—were the one true path to power.
“I don’t understand, sire,” his aide said, swatting at a fly hovering around his head, “why must we languish in such a... unpleasant locale, surrounded by this rabble.”
Liberath sighed dramatically, lazily turning towards his aide “Truly, Ilmer? Must you be such a nuisance on such a beautiful day?”
“Beautiful? Sire, we’re surrounded by gnats, the noise from the crowd is deafening, and let’s not even mention the smell! Truly, why, sire, must you chose to torture us so, over a lousy startup making a bit of noise?”
“Because,” replied Liberath, “said lousy startup has a set of unique gear, Ilmer. Need I any another reason?”
“A filthy hacker, no doubt,” spat the aide, “No one else would have such a set, especially at level five!”
Liberath shrugged. Sometimes, he felt that having Ilmer around was a necessary evil, as his insights could often prove to be useful; still, he wondered if it justified enduring his nagging attitude. He had already explained his reasoning to him. If there was a manual crafter not under his control, producing goods as he wanted them, for whom he wanted, well, that would be a rather inconvenient situation; even if the noob was a hacker, it was still something worth checking out. Just in case, he thought, saying nothing more, reclining back into his comfortable lounger, and waiting—with admitted eagerness—for the battle to start.
***
She shook her head once again, mouthing under her breath “Fuckin’ idiot.” Altara hadn’t thought that Hephaestus would truly go through with challenging Rothmund, and now, as it was, there was no going back. More surprising to her, however, was the fact that the champion had accepted the challenge. She wondered if it had something to do with Hephy having all uniques?
Could be, she thought. After all, seeing an all-golden gear list made for an impressive sight; anyone would be justified in thinking that he had used an inventory generation hack, though a closer look would reveal otherwise. At least on that aspect, Hephaestus would be alright. The same couldn’t be said about the combat itself, however.
She sighed, gritting her teeth. She had been avoiding the admission for long enough, knowing that it would eventually become unavoidable the moment it came into her mind. She couldn’t stop lying to herself any more, however: Hephaestus reminded her an awful lot of Baratus. They had the same overconfident attitude, the same can-do approach to seemingly impossible matters, even if most normal people would find the idea to be absolute madness. The way Hephaestus crafted, however, was much unlike Baratus’; the man had an impressive amount of skill, there was no doubt about that, but he failed to realize that no matter how much experience he had in the real world, this was still a virtual one, and even if he was a manual, there were still rules, barriers, balance checks...
Besides, he clearly didn’t know about damage reduction caps, as he had allocated all of his bonuses into ignoring defense, and damage coming from his enemy. His heart was in the right place, she guessed, problem was he overestimated his own abilities when compared to the game’s systems.
“Lady, would you like to place a wager?” a worker asked next to her.
“Huh?” she replied dumbly, as she didn’t register the question.
“I asked, would you like to place a wager?”
“Ah.” She took a moment to think, little over a few seconds, her mind was made long before, really. She only wanted to be certain. “No, thank you.” The man nodded, and left. She sighed once more. If Hephaestus came out on top, that was great for him. The recognition and prize money would likely help him a lot. If he failed, well, it was just a lesson to be learned. The forging permits, well, she could recover those eventually. But those five thousand gold could be used for something else. If anything, having them wouldn’t put her any further away from avenging Baratus.
All in time, she mused. All in time.
***
All in time, thought Hephaestus impatiently as he stood behind the arena portcullis. People were still coming in, to see Rothmund, no doubt. Still, he knew he would give them a surprise. Even if people jeered at him, even if they thought he was being idiotic, suicidal even, he was confident in his ability and knowledge; his analysis of Rothmund’s weapon and armor had been accurate; he had also gleaned a good knowledge of his fighting style, even if he had only seen it once, knowing that he used the automated systems the game offered told him that his attacks would, most likely, be straightforward swings. Besides, combat shouldn’t be too different from...
“Huh,” he realized that this would, in fact, be the second combat he faced in the game, the first one being against the robber outside of the village where he awoke. That somehow seemed long ago, though he realized that little over an in-game day had passed. Regardless, using his actual skills had sufficed then, and it would suffice now.
“PEOPLE OF ARKEN! WELCOME TO THE ARENA!”
There it is, Hephaestus thought, as the announcer began to prime the crowd for the show to follow. Somehow the screams of the crowd seemed to be much louder than the day before, when Rothmund had faced Vahlistar. Still, h
e knew that these people had come to see their champion kick his arse. Well, they’ll get disappointed.
The portcullis in front of him opened, he took a calming breath, and stepped out into the arena.
***
“There he is, Falcata. What do you think?”
She looked at the man coming out of the portcullis. He would have fit their father’s complexion, there was no doubt about it, except he looked to be forty years old, rather than his actual age. His gear was, oddly enough, the most telling feature, as it showed hints of historical accuracy—a passion of his—despite having been noticeably modified. She still tried to hope for the best, noncommittally replying “I don’t know.”
“Well,” her brother said, “look at their stuff.”
She did so the moment they appeared into view of the arena:
NAME
ROTHMUND MORDENFAUST
LEVEL
23
CLASS
CUSTOM - MURDERFIST
RANK
CHAMPION
ATTRIBUTES
STR – 89 (54 + 35)
END – 10 (5 + 5)
FIN - 5
INT - 5
RHE – 5
LUK – 5
HP – 1,420 (400 + 1,000)
MP - 360
EQUIPMENT
Rothmund’s Axsword (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Gloryhelm (purple hue)
Warmaster’s Locket (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Pauldrons (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Carapace (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Gauntlets (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Greaves (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Boots (purple hue)
STATUS
FINE
“You said he was level twenty two,” she said, “what gives?”
Talwar shrugged, “Must have leveled up at some point. Hm,” he said, taking his hand to his chin, “His gear worries me. All of them are legendary.”
“Custom named too. Must have commissioned one of the guilds, nothing impressive.”
“Still, sis, what kind of bonuses does he have?” he mused.
She shrugged in reply, “The right bonuses, I guess, considering he’s the local champion. Arken isn’t as high-level, or as concurred as Baldera or Cragshire; damn it, even Tyr sees more action.”
“Nevertheless, he’s eighteen damn levels higher, and we don’t know his bonuses.” He sighed, “well, what do you think of... Hephaestus’?”
She looked at him, her eyes narrowing:
NAME
HEPHAESTUS
LEVEL
5
CLASS
CUSTOM – TRUE SMITH
RANK
FRESH-MEAT
ATTRIBUTES
STR – 20
END – 15
FIN - 20
INT - 15
RHE – 5
LUK – 5
HP – 450
MP - 300
EQUIPMENT
Zinnia (longsword – golden hue)
Hammered Spaulders (pauldrons – golden hue)
Plated Brigandine (armor – golden hue)
Plated Studded Quilted Gauntlets ( golden hue)
STATUS
FINE
“No bonuses?” she gasped, “hell’s he thinking?”
“Honestly? I don’t think he is. How long has he been playing for?”
“About a real hour, I guess?”
“That means he hasn’t been logged for a long time. I don’t think he understands the gear mechanics.”
“Shit,” she cursed. That was not good. “Damn it Talwar, we have to get him out of there!”
“No,” he replied curtly.
Her eyes widened, before narrowing, “No?” She tried to rein in the anger welling inside of her as she said “What do you mean ‘no?’ He’s going to get crushed!”
Talwar lifted his hand, halting her. “For one, the combat’s already starting, there’s nothing we can do. For two, well, if that really is dad, then it will serve him right.”
She was staring gape-mouthed at her brother, unable to believe her ears. “Jonas, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Look Amy, you know the mess he’s gotten himself into due to his stubbornness, he’s busted his hip, he’s likely hurt somewhere we don’t know, damn it Amy, he could have died at the forge!”
“So what!? It’s not your right to decide whether something serves him right or not!”
“It became my right,” he said automatically, “when I decided to stay home to care for him.” The moment he realized what he had said, he wished he could take it back. “Falcata, Amy, I’m—”
“No,” she interrupted him with a lifted hand. “I don’t want to talk about it, alright? In fact, I don’t much feel like talking at all.”
“Amy, I—”
“Let’s just watch the bloody match, okay?” Talwar said nothing more; he sighed, a pained expression coming over his face. Even to this day, her brother remained thoughtless, even cynical, about her decision of finding her own home. Well, she thought angrily, to hell with him. Her choices were her own, and she wouldn’t apologize about them, much less so to her brother.
“COMBATANTS, ARE YOU READY!?”
Here it goes, she thought, wondering how badly things would go.
***
This is it, thought Hephaestus, lifting his longsword, Zinnia, into an upper guard. In front of him, Rothmund was practically frothing at the mouth, eager to unleash carnage. The smith wasn’t intimidated by the display; he jumped on each leg, feeling the weight balance of his gear, before twirling his weapon overhead. Not even the crowd jeering at him, mocking the fact that he was low-level could shake him; he was confident in what he could do, and the tools he had to do it with. He was as ready as he would ever be.
“LET THE BATTLE BEGIN!”
DODGE! He barely had enough time to throw himself sideways as Rothmund barreled towards him; his weight and inertia would have crushed him, handcrafted armor or not. After regaining his feet, he managed to parry a fist aimed at his head; he could feel the impact jarring his bones, making the muscles in his arms to feel weak, while cold made his tendons ache. Just how strong is this bastard!? Worse, he saw his health points deplete, from a full four-fifty, to only four hundred health! The bonuses he had chosen were intended to negate most—if not all—incoming damage, why hadn’t they done just that?
A swing aimed at his head; he ducked, rolling out of the way, rolling sideways once more, almost unable to avoid Rothmund’s axsword before it chopped him in twain; though he managed to avoid the final attack, climbing back upright, he couldn’t avoid Rothmund’s massive pauldron as it slammed against his chest, throwing him backwards; he landed painfully on his back, slamming his head against the sand, and tumbling to a stop.
His head felt muddled from the impact, his senses were unfocused and his ears rang; furthermore, even though his armor had taken most of the damage, his health was further reduced to two hundred and eighty one. This is bad, he thought. Rothmund was behaving much differently than he had on his previous fight, showing actual strategy and planning, not merely swinging his weapon and barreling about.
His only choice was, he realized, just as the wizard Vahlistar had tried to do—finishing Rothmund off before he could outright end him. Hephaestus stood up, spitting out a gob of phlegm and blood, wiping it off his beard, and assuming a low-bladed combat stance. He couldn’t see Rothmund’s expression under his helmet; he could read his body language, however, and was ready to sidestep the moment he charged at him once more.
The smith dodged his attacker, turning around, and diving his weapon into the back of Rothmund’s leg, through the gap between his poleyn and cuisse. The blade slid easily into his exposed flesh, forcing his opponent to fall t
o his knees; still, Rothmund retaliated with a backhanded swing, missing Hephaestus by a wide distance.
The smith saw the opportunity, and sank his blade into Rothmund’s unprotected armpit, dealing more damage; the large man’s bellow echoed through the arena, followed by a chorus of booing and jeering mixed with, Hephaestus realized, a number of people cheering for him. Rothmund didn’t stay down for long, however, as he aimed another backhanded slash at Hephaestus’ midriff; the smith jumped backwards, landing awkwardly on his feet before losing his balance and falling backwards. Rothmund saw the opening and threw himself at Hephaestus…who managed to react in time, jamming his sword into his enemy’s armor and using his own mass and inertia to throw him backwards. Though he was momentarily safe, Rothmund’s mass had caused him further pain—just as it would in real life. His arms shook momentarily, while his health was reduced to two hundred and sixty; he couldn’t know Rothmund’s health, as it wasn’t displayed numerically, but seeing the bar above him indicating his current status, he realized he had taken down at least one fifth of his HP. Keep going old man, he told himself as he stood up once more.
Rothmund regained his footing as well, turning to face Hephaestus. He brandished his axsword threateningly, not uttering a single word throughout his show; the blacksmith himself merely extended his sword in a salute, before resuming his low combat stance, ready to face his opponent once more. Rothmund charged at Hephaestus, widely swinging his axsword; Hephaestus deflected the attack, sending the greatsword upwards and unbalancing Rothmund; as the bulkier man’s sides were exposed, Hephaestus seized the chance to slash, then thrust his blade into Rothmund’s midriff, slashing it outwards to eviscerate him. The move paid off, as Hephaestus saw Rothmund’s health bar drop below the halfway mark.
His enemy recovered, swinging his weapon once more; Hephaestus intercepted the blow with his own blade, but its size made damage go through his defenses; he felt the bones in his arms shattering momentarily, almost making him drop his sword, while his health dropped to one hundred and sixty two. Damn, can’t parry, bastard’s too strong. He sidestepped a thrust, trying to repeat the maneuver he had used, not counting on Rothmund swinging his fist, hammering into Hephaestus’ abdomen. Air exploded out of his lungs, making him bend over; instinct kicked in and he toppled sideways, narrowly avoiding Rothmund’s falling axsword.
True Smithing: A Crafting LitRPG Series Page 9