True Smithing: A Crafting LitRPG Series

by Jared Mandani

  Recognition came after seconds of agony: He had been forcefully disconnected from the game. Why? Or rather, by whom?

  He tried to yell, but only a drowned whimper came from his throat; a racking cough took him—he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in his own drool. His eyes hurt as the helmet was taken away from his head; Angus felt cold air hitting his damp skin; when he managed to focus, he saw the figure of his daughter, Amelia, looking over him.

  All he could manage before collapsing was a faint “Why?”

  Chapter IX: Just a Dream

  “Imagine you’re having the greatest, most incredible dream you could have. Maybe you’re a hero, helping people left and right; you could be a powerful wizard, commanding powers beyond people’s imaginations; perhaps you’d be a druglord, instilling fear through the mere mention of his name, or maybe you’re with your lover all day long? The choice is yours, really. Now imagine you wake up from that dream, into your real life and ask yourself this: Is it a life you want to wake up to?”

  -Miranda Kuriz, PhD., in “Psychoanalysis of a Dreamworld – Risks of Virtual Reality.”

  Everything hurt.

  That was the first thing on Hephaestus’ mind as he started to regain consciousness. Wait, he thought, no. Not Hephaestus, no... Angus... Angus Bjornson. It had all seemed so real to him, so true, so much better than his reality that waking up in his broken, aged body was beyond a shock. He had almost forgotten the sensation of feeling weakness in his every muscle, and the pains of old age. Worse for him, however, was being deprived of his life’s passion once more.

  Amy had overreacted. She had, and there was no changing his mind. He tried to think she did it out of a place of care and kindness towards him, but that didn’t change the fact that she had forcibly pulled him from the virtual space, causing... whatever swirl of images and colors happened in his mind.

  Somehow, the moments he had spent inside Alterwelt felt more vivid, much more genuine than his current sensations, leading him to wonder just how true was “true” reality. Since he regained consciousness, all he could feel were his aching, sore limbs, his useless legs, his failing organs... back there however, back where he was Hephaestus, well, he wasn’t a super-hero, a grandiose wizard, or even an incredibly accomplished warrior—he was just what he wanted to be, a blacksmith.

  Now, he was only a broken old man way past his prime, refusing to let go of what made him happy. And why would he? Because his body didn’t respond the way it used to? Because he was too old to make calculations, or lift heavy weights? Fine, if that’s how it was, so be it then, in this world. This world could go to hell anyways, for all he cared! He no longer belonged here, a fact he realized the moment he opened his eyes.

  Well, no damn point in moping around, he thought, gotta do what I can do, and what he could do was prop himself up onto his wheelchair to go relieve himself. Even though his bedroom was dark, he knew it by heart, and if his things remained where he had left them, then he’d have no trouble navigating.

  Of course, they were strewn about in an “organized” manner—except, of course, not his organized manner. “Ah crap,” he mouthed under his breath as he tried to haul himself off his bed. Before he managed to extricate himself from the overly tight sheets, the door to his bedroom opened; he was slightly startled, and mostly annoyed, at seeing Amy and Jonas standing at the frame. “Hello, kids,” he grumbled, “Mind telling me, why the hell did you move my things away; why the hell did you tuck me in as if I was a bed-burrito, and why, oh WHY did you yank me off the game?”

  Amy and Jonas shared a look, before Amelia spoke, “You had to come out, dad.”

  With as much calmness as he could muster, Angus asked: “Why?”

  “Because,” his daughter replied, “you wouldn’t listen to reason, dad. You were hanging out with a confirmed hacker. She could’ve done you dirty.”

  “She,” Angus said, “helped me get on my feet; she helped me forge the items I used against Rothmund!”

  “And you got murdered, and she let you! Besides,” she said, planting her fists on her hips, “what the hell’s with naming that sword after mom?”

  Angus took a deep breath. He couldn’t believe they were arguing over, of all things, a damned videogame! “Amelia, you are taking this way too seriously.”

  “Way too seriously!? God damn it, too seriously dad? Really, are you one to talk about taking things seriously?”

  The old man’s patience was starting to wane. “Amy, where the hell is this coming from? It’s a damn game where I was having fun, where I was feeling good, even happy after god knows how long, and you are angry because I was playing with someone you don’t like?”

  “I’m mad because...” she paused, rummaging through her thoughts, “Because... I don’t know dad! Because I’ve seen you nearly die at your forge, then Jonas was a jerk—shut up Jonny, you know it’s true!—and then I saw you in the game getting killed, and I know it’s a game but it’s too real and...” She took a deep, calming breath, gritting her teeth to calm herself down. When the spell passed, she sat beside her father and, looking into his eyes, she asked, “Dad, do you resent me because I left this house?”

  Angus’ eyes went wide. “What? Why? Where is that coming from, Amy?”

  The woman glared at her brother, before saying “Nowhere. It’s nothing.”

  Angus noticed the stare, however, and Jonas’ awkward shifting; he grunted, saying “Alright, both of you, sit down.”

  “Dad really, it’s n—”

  “SIT DOWN!” They acquiesced, sitting by his bed. At least they still listen when I get angry. “Now,” he said calmly, “tell me, what is this about?”

  Neither spoke.

  “Kids, what is going on?”

  Jonas broke the silence, saying “I said something stupid to Amy inside the game.”

  “And outside too, I presume?” Angus asked.

  “Well, I guess, yea. Thing is,” he sighed, “look, dad, you know how difficult it was after mom’s passing, right? Well, when Amy left it felt the same, and I felt like she left me behind to care for you!”

  Angus’ eyes narrowed, “To care for me?”

  “I... I mean, dad, well, with ah, you know, helping you around and whatnot.”

  Angus sighed. “Let me see if I understand; you are angry because she left our house, to make her own living, and you’re here, stuck with me?”

  “N-no dad! That’s not what I said, not what I meant, I—”

  “Look, Jonny,” Angus said sadly, “I understand. Being old, well, it’s difficult, for you and for me, too. I ache all over, I’m cranky, difficult to be around with, I smell of age and of having a foot in the grave already. Now, don’t make that face, you know it’s true. Regardless, Jonas, you need to understand that Amy needed her own space, her own room to grow; besides, she still works at our forge, she still comes almost every day, or would you say she’s pretty much estranged?”

  “No, dad.”

  “Good. Amy?” “Hm?” “Why are you so mad at me?”

  “I’m not... Look dad, I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the way you just don’t listen.”

  Angus sighed. “I know why that is. Amy, look, the accident costing us Zinnia, I am aware it’s my entire fault. Had I listened to her, well, she might still be around. But there’s something I need you to understand, hm.”

  “What is it?”

  “How long was I in the game?”

  Jonas looked at his watch, stating “Little under forty minutes, why?”

  “As I understand,” said the older man, “one minute is about an hour in the game, yes?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well,” continued Angus, “in those in-game hours, I learned some combat, met Altara, had fun and, best of all, I managed to build a number of weapons and armor. Now kids, how do you think that made me feel?” Neither said anything, waiting for him to respond; he continued “The one, greatest passion which has drive
n me throughout most of my life, has been learning the art of making weapons and armor. And you do know how I was pushed out of my comfort zone to pursue my dream, don’t you?”

  “Mom made you,” Amy said.

  “Zinnia made me, yes. Now, well, I’m old, I’m weak, and I don’t know how much longer I have left, so let me ask you this: How would you like me, in all honesty, to spend the time I’ve got left? Lying in my bed, unable to do anything, or having the time of my life inside Alterwelt?”

  Amelia replied “That’s not the problem dad, the problem is that woman you were hanging around with, she’s a hacker and—”

  “And what,” asked Angus, “is a hacker anyways?”

  “Well, er...” Amelia stammered. “Thing is at some point someone associated with her, a guy named Baratus, became more or less popular server-wide. He was a blacksmith just like you, you know? Made all kinds of unique items, and actually ended up massing a whole lot of coin in-game. Problem came when it was discovered that all of his items were illegal. He was using a trainer, uh, an advanced automatic program to help him ‘craft’ uniques. So, he got kicked out of the game, and his items removed.”

  “Hmm,” Angus paused, recalling his experience within the game, finding it difficult. Damn it, I hate my memory. After some time, he simply said: “I disagree.”

  “Dad,” Jonas said, “he was banned by an admin who determined his things were hacked, you need to understand.”

  “Son, I’ve been a blacksmith since before you and your sister were born. I’ve learned to recognize the marks of actual craftsmanship. Though it sounds weird, perfection in metalworking is unnatural; what gives an object its authenticity are the kinks in its construction—the dents, the irregularities, that kind of thing makes an artifact stand out as an actual work of art. I’ve seen a piece of this Baratus’ work, and I can tell you, it’s not a fake.”

  Angus’ son shrugged, “Whatever you say, dad.”

  “Besides, if that’s what happened, what do I care? I’ve been to his forge, too, and the place has everything I could wish for, at least until I can get my own smithy to work, and whatever I want.”

  “Dad,” Amelia said, concern audible in her voice, “look, you’re getting too caught up in Alterwelt. That’s the risk, you know? Preferring it over real life; I mean, if just over half an hour in the game can cause this kind of argument,” she shook her head, “it was a mistake, getting that neuro-virtual kit for you.”

  “A mistake?” he asked softly, taking his daughter’s hand into his, “Amy, what you and your brother gave me was a chance at feeling useful, at feeling happy that I can actually do what I love most. I don’t really care for the combat, or the mechanics of the game, but the metalworking? The forging process? Everything I want is there, Amy, everything that has ever made me feel alive,” he swallowed saliva, overtaken by emotion as he continued, “Everything that makes me feel close to Zinnia.”

  His daughter’s eyes welled up, “And what about us, dad?”

  “You and your brother are my greatest pride, Amy. But you need to understand, both of you are your own people now, both of you have your own goals, your own paths in life, and I can no longer walk alongside you. Amy, Jonas, don’t you see? You gave me the greatest gift anyone in their old age can ask for: The gift at a second life. Now,” he added, “what I would ask of you is to let me conduct myself however I see fit and, well, I ask that you accompany me inside.”

  His children, he realized, were moved into speechlessness. He couldn’t blame them over their actions; they couldn’t understand the deep significance working at the forge held for him. Still, he hoped they would be more understanding of his needs now; even if it had been a measly thirty-odd minutes in the real world, to him, it had felt as over a day, inside Alterwelt. And within that day, he had been more himself than he had in years.

  After some time, and once their emotions subsided, Amelia said “Sorry for having yanked you out, dad. I guess I overreacted.”

  “And I didn’t help none,” added Jonas, “making her angry in the first place.”

  “Stuff happens, Jonas, and when it does,” he said, closing his eyes, drawing in air, “when it does, you own up to it, you try to become better, and leave it behind you. Sometimes, it’s quite difficult, impossible even. Still, well, you can’t sit idly by, wallowing in self-pity.”

  Jonas chuckled, “Speaking from experience?”

  “Mhm. Ain’t no good state of mind, beating yourself over and over.”

  “Well,” his son said, “I’ll try to keep that in mind. In the meantime, well, wanna log back into the game?”

  Angus was startled by the realization that he had a commission to prepare for. “By all means! How long has it been? How long was I out?”

  “Some twenty minutes,” said his daughter, “why?”

  “Because I’ve got to get ready to make Rothmund’s commission!”

  “Come now, dad,” Amy said, “you’re really going to make something for that jackass?”

  Slight anger flared into Angus’ voice as he said “I’m a professional, Amelia! If he defeated me at the arena, well, that was my own fault, wasn’t it? Besides, he’s a decent enough guy. Would you believe he actually gave me the sword, Zinnia, back?”

  Surprise showed in Amy’s features, “He did? Truly?”

  “Mhm. See? Don’t be so quick to judge people, Amy, you may get pleasantly surprised.”

  His daughter sighed, shaking her head, “I take it you’re not only talking about Rothmund, are you?”

  Angus shrugged, “Altara helped me in the game, and she’s allowed me to use Baratus’ forge. You don’t have to like her, neither of you do, but fact of the matter is I’m working with her.”

  Amelia’s features registered anger as she acquiesced: “If you’re sure of it, dad.”

  “I am.” He clapped his hands, emphasizing “Now! Let’s log back in before I make a fool of myself.” He paused, adding, “Before that, uh, can you bring my wheelchair closer?”

  “Something wrong, dad?” Jonas asked.

  “Well, I’m glad to announce there’s nothing wrong,” joked Angus, “only that my bowels seem to be doing too great for their own good!”

  ***

  Pricks. All of them, to a person; pricks one and all who were keen on bashing on her because of some asshole “politician’s” determinations. She couldn’t understand in the first place why were there aristocratic paths within the game? Whose idiot was it to shove politics into a damn fantasy world? Wasn’t the whole point of Alterwelt to escape all of that crap, to be free to do as one wanted without having some privileged bastard tower above one?

  It didn’t matter. Altara had been ruminating Baratus’ banning for too long already, and she knew it would do her no good to keep fuming about it. Only it would be much easier if people stopped rubbing it in my face!

  She could, of course, delete this character, make a new one, and just forget about the whole affair. But what would be the point? She would remain salty about the ordeal, only now she wouldn’t even have his amulet to keep her company. Worse, she thought, she’d prove that bastard Liberath right, by tacitly admitting her complicity in Baratus’ banning, as well as accepting his guilt. No, she thought, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

  In-game years went by awfully fast when you needed to rise back from the ashes of a relatively good standing, especially when your downfall was orchestrated through a mixture of politics, greed, and outright ill-will. Now, well, she had a chance to do something, anything about Baratus’ unfair departure, and the unexpected consequences it had in her life, both inside and outside of the game.

  It irked her to admit that she couldn’t do it alone. She wished, above anything else, to be the one to uncover the shitty scheme concocted by the “ruling elite” of Alterwelt, but after many a failed attempt, and more roadblocks than she could rightly recall, she had given up on her crusade for justice. No one cared, anyways—pe
ople saw what they wanted to see, and the drama surrounding her and Baratus had been too juicy to ignore over something as ridiculously meaningless as “the actual fucking truth!”

  She sighed, winding herself over the past was pointless. It wouldn’t change anything, and it would solve nothing. All she could do was hope that her latest endeavor, her final, desperate gambit, would pay off. So far, she mused, things had gone sharply downhill, digging even below rock-bottom, as damn Hephaestus had nearly bankrupted her. But the man had his way, she had to admit, to make people around him feel safer.

  “Hephaestus,” she said out loud. She still couldn’t believe that he was the Angus Bjornson, founder and owner of Bjornson Arms and Armor. Altara chuckled at the irony of it all. She never much cared about metalworking, especially not the way Baratus had. She knew he would have given everything, anything to meet Angus Bjornson, and to talk to him? Well, that was a dream beyond what even Alterwelt could satisfy. And now, here she was, cleaning up his old forge to work with the man himself, living Baratus’ dream—or as close to living as things could be called.

  Perhaps it was a sign of sorts, she decided, that she had met Hephaestus. She didn’t believe in fate, and the preordainment of things in life—hell, if anything, playing in a virtual space where quite literally anything was possible had inoculated her against believing that anything was a coincidence. Fact of the matter was, Angus Bjornson was playing the game, and he was working together with her. It didn’t matter that he had no knowledge of her intentions, he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was return, and do as he wanted to do.

  And he would be back; she knew he would be back, quite simply, because Angus, Hephaestus’ passion for metalworking was, quite likely, greater even than Baratus’ had been. She felt awful, she admitted to herself, for thinking that in his old age, the blacksmith would be desperate to be able to work a forge, but she knew it would be so. Two things could truly sap away a person’s will to live, old age and disease, and sometimes she wondered whether they were one and the same.