Demonborn's Fjord

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Demonborn's Fjord Page 38

by Dante Sakurai


  Abyssalnite

  Hardness rating: 689

  Not bad—harder than marble. He helped himself to ten units worth of rubble that occupied a whole inventory slot, which was enough to build a fireplace and short chimney. The weight disappeared. Astonishing. Overpowered by his standards.

  Rowan drew Moonfrye and tied the scabbard to his pants. The grip filled in his gloveless hand well enough, the steel guard and pommel a tad smaller than he preferred, and the balance was perfect. A double-edged straight blade of hardened blacksteel with a soft iron core. Beautiful.

  Moonfyre : Iron-Blacksteel Bastard Sword

  Type: Melee weapon (one or two handed)

  Quality: 639 (Excellent)

  Damage: 78

  Days of work for just excellent quality. Good quality would have been fine. Was marginal gains worth it? Rowan was not feeling regret.

  And a little something was missing.

  Damn. I should’ve done this earlier.

  He fetched a block of runestone from his inventory and crafted three STM runestones in quick succession, then invoked Enchant on the sword, no reagents. The blade glowed white, a rune engraved near the guard. He inspected again, only asking for information regarding the enchantment.

  Moonfyre : Enchanted Iron-Blacksteel Bastard Sword of Agility

  +1 Agility (Quality: 67)

  Bitter disappointment taunted him. But one extra stat point was better than nothing. Exhaling, he crafted nine more STM runes from the block and enchanted his pants, garb, and sandals, each gaining a +1. +4 Agility from equipment in total.

  He checked his stats.

  Buffs

  Workshop Fun (203 Quality): +3 Agility when out of combat

  Bedroom Peace (253 Quality): +4 Flow when out of combat

  Well Fed (682 Quality): +11 Flow, Constitution, and Resistance

  - - - - -

  Name: Rowan LeMort

  Race: Demon

  Level: 15 (EXP: 12,720/54,000)

  Class: Swordsman

  Fate: Demonborn

  Constitution: 20 (31)

  Agility: 32 (50)

  Mysticism: 5

  Flow: 5 (20)

  Resistance: 0 (11)

  Luck: 0 (5)

  Thirty-seven effective Agility, making his character almost three times stronger and more agile than a regular Human.

  Rowan slashed close the window and descended the stairs, Moonfyre held defensively in front of his chest. Each step landed with a thump of his heart. Foul ordors worsened by the step. He was ready for what was waiting in front of that rotting table.

  Undead.

  Patches of chipped skull bone was exposed among rotting, pale flesh. Milky eyes noticed Rowan. That arm of muscle and sinew raised, its movement sluggish.

  “Cresentia,” he whispered, magic flowing down his arms.

  Moonfyre’s edge gleamed red. Heat surged. A diagonal uppercut unleashed a crescent of flames two yards wide.

  The walking corpse took a deep cut to its chest, igniting. It did not fall. A black miasma smothered the flames.

  Smoke of burnt flesh stung Rowan’s eyes. He sidestepped the swing of that rusty mace. His sandals scuffed as he parried a follow-up. The clash of steel rang, Moonfyre vibrating in his hands. And with a jump into an Ox Guard stance, he lopped that arm right off. Congealed blood splattered onto his face.

  The mace clanged onto the floor in slow motion. Without pause, the corpse’s other arm raised. Its skinless hand coiled and drew back for a punch, fractured knuckles popping. Its entire body shifted back in its torpid motion. Exposed muscle flexed.

  Sidestepping again, Rowan transitioned into a High Guard. He fell an executing chop. The corpse’s flesh and bone was softer than mudcake.

  A hairless skull thumped onto the floor, cracking, as a leather-clad body fell forward. Dead. Twice-dead.

  Undead Human Corpse (Level 12)

  Parts Missing: Head, Both arms

  The rush of the kill pumped in Rowan’s blood for dozen ticks of the system clock. He did it. He killed a monstrosity of this world by sword alone—and with training stances. Granted, fighting mindless Undead was nothing akin to dueling a Myrmidon. But he did it. This was the start of legends.

  Rowan did not bother wasting inventory space on torn low-quality leather or rusty steel. He stepped around the reception desk into the corridor, breathing lightly. Dusty mold mixed with a dissipating smell of burnt flesh, not too bad. He walked onward.

  Sealed stone doors lined the corridor on both sides every seven yards. A vertical string of three runes at the center of each waited for unlocking magic, magic which he did not have. Ayla could help here. The corridor split at the end, and Rowan hissed as he nearly walked face-first into another Undead mace-wielder coming from the right. That jaw unhinged with a sickening stretch as though in greeting.

  He jumped backward, dodged a swing. “Cresentia,” he barked, this time with hellfire magic summoned from his heart. A sideways slash released a line of crimson-black.

  Moldy flesh disintegrated on touch, left not a single whiff of foul smoke in the air. The top half of its body fell backward, both forearms falling from erased elbows. The mace thumped onto leather boots. Dead.

  Much, much better.

  Down the right path, Rowan spat a curse when he met a dead end of more rubble. He doubled back with a light jog, leaped over the corpse, and prepared for another mace wielder, mentally and physically. Dark mana in the air thickened in this direction. He could now draw on it to bolster his reserves.

  He rounded a rightward turn with Moonfyre held at Longpoint.

  There, over thirty yards away, an Undead was waiting. It had something in its hands. That something clicked with a tang.

  Sharp pain punched into Rowan’s shoulder under the collar bone, a crossbow bolt sticking out. Blood seeped. His garb was dyed purple in the blue lighting.

  He pushed a hellfire jet from his index finger. It fell short.

  Shit.

  From deep within his chest roared a warcry. He sprinted.

  Click. A bolt punched into his stomach. The pain was oddly bearable.

  “Cresentia!” he shouted, cutting downward.

  Hellfire dispersed yards in front of the Undead.

  A third click and tang, a third bolt pierced a rib, punctured a lung. More pain. More blood.

  “Thrustra,” he coughed and lunged with an upward flick. Twin hellfire lances impaled the Undead through the chest and nose. Its health bar blipped to zero. Legs and arms fumbled onto the floor. Dead beyond reanimation.

  The corridor darkened. Salt and iron gathered in the back of Rowan’s mouth. A trickle of sticky warmth ran down his leg as he shouldered the wall for support, smearing blood against runes that repelled the Demonic influence. The health bar on the floor was draining slowly, now below a fifty percent notch.

  Each breath came with a stab through his right lung. Each step came with a painful clench of his abdomen. He was dying. There was no sugar coating his failure. His embarrassment of a dungeon delve.

  Moonfyre clanged onto the floor, bounced once. He slumped. His cheek pressed into a pool of his own blood. He curled into a broken fetal position—all recorded for his wife to see; she wasn’t going to be happy. A different agony tore into him at the thought. The shame was worse than the pain of his wounds. He could do nothing. He could only watch his health slowly drain.

  What a crap way to die.

  But his health bar was emptying a slowing rate. The wounds were coagulating. Was there hope?

  No. how would he heal? Let alone fight? With three bolts sticking sticking out of his torso! There was no hope.

  Thirty percent.

  Twenty-nine.

  Twenty-eight and a half.

  Come on!

  When it dipped to twenty-four, the chatbox beeped.

  Gabby LeMort: Ya know ya have health potions, right? Tasha bought em for ya! A whole stack!

  “What?!” His voice echoed back at him.

&n
bsp; He reached into his pouch, fumbling, and his fingers wrapped around a corked vial the size of his thumb. He pulled it out. His eyes did not blink at the sight of ruby-pink liquid, at those wisps of minty-emerald magic bubbling to the surface. He swore these were not in there.

  Actually, he never had checked the inventory screen. He had assumed the pouch had been empty on his bed.

  A mental head-butt opened the bag icon at the bottom-right. A rectangle window expanded, filled with two rows of six rounded squares. His eyes skimmed over the contents, the many pixel-art icons. Why pixel-art? The vibe did not mesh well with the glassy interface. But he digressed, focusing on each icon.

  Oxen Leather Pouch

  Small Health Potion (49)

  Woodworker Profession Tome

  Clothworker Profession Tome

  Miner Profession Tome

  Runestone (6)

  Blacksteel (3)

  Unstable Enchantment Stone (48)

  Abyssalnite (10)

  Shaking off amazement, Rowan uncorked the vial and drank bittersweet strawberry syrup in a single gulp. A moment of nothing thumped by. Then calming magic spread outward from his stomach, a flood of healing power. Flesh around his wounds were agitating with an intense itch. He ripped out one bolt from his shoulder The wound closed in such a grotesque stitch and weave of new muscle and skin.

  Forty-two percent health, rising.

  He ripped out the second bolt from his lung painlessly. The star shaped wound closed. Back up to sixty percent health, but the magic was fading.

  Blood-caked fingers stuffed the empty vial into the pouch and exchanged it for a full one. This was one was a lighter hue of red—different potion reagents. He bit off the cork. Sweet, sweet grapefruit and apple flavors ran down his tongue. He grasped the third bolt by the fletchings, the worst one of them all. It was deep, the bolt head inches from his spine. It came out with a spray of blood and some pain.

  The wound knitted together with a flood of numbing magic to his intestines.

  Ninety-percent health. Not good enough.

  He sipped from a third vial, topping up the Health bar, and re-corked it.

  The chatbox beeped.

  Gabby LeMort: Hehehe. Saved ya!

  Yes, even from a different dimension. Somehow.

  Rowan LeMort: How did you know? We’re not in party anymore.

  Gabby LeMort: Been keeping an eye on your entry in my friend list. It changes color when you’re low on health.

  Oh. What a neat mechanic. And speaking of neat mechanics…

  Rowan LeMort: How did she make the pouch hold a stack?

  Gabby LeMort: What do ya mean?

  Rowan LeMort: Isn’t it tied to our secure inventories?

  Ten seconds passed. Rowan stood and picked up Moonfyre, checking the edges for chinks, finding none.

  Her reply came after a minute.

  Gabby LeMort: Secure inventory? I dun think that exists, Row.

  An invisible palm slapped his back, his eyes bulging like a little boyish Demon.

  Rowan LeMort: I read it on the forums.

  Gabby LeMort: Where on the forums?

  Rowan LeMort: Not sure. Maybe a random comment a few down pages into a thread in the Swordsman section.

  Gabby LeMort: I think ya misinterpreted “secure inventory”

  Oops.

  Rowan LeMort: Maybe I did…

  Gabby LeMort: Dummy!

  These pouches weren’t so overpowered after all. And the Elves could use them. It was fair enough. Though none of Jin’tal’s Trolls had carried pouches. Did they lack the skills to craft some?

  Gabby LeMort: We’re missing three profession tomes. I assume ya haven’t seen em?

  His reply was long ready.

  Rowan LeMort: Rowan isn’t here right now. Please leave a message at the smiling face…

  Rowan LeMort: =D

  46

  Luthias said something from across the workshop.

  Gabrielle’s toes wiggled as she said, “Why does he do dumb things?”

  Mister Stabby answered, “Don’t be silly, master. It’s a solo dungeon. Just three hundred and fifty minutes.”

  “Is it because he’s getting bored of me?”

  “You’re a beautiful Demon girl.”

  “Was it because of that cake?”

  “It was quite sweet.”

  Gabrielle winced. “Now he’s diving a dungeon—with three tomes. What if he dies? What if my pretties all die?”

  “They won’t.”

  “What if Faenin spoils?”

  “He’s already headless.”

  That was all too true. Faenin was never coming home. “This is all… someone’s fault.”

  “It could be yours.”

  “Nope. It’s that dummy’s.”

  Something gently brushed her upper arm. Skylar. He said in a weak voice, “Gab, are you in there?”

  She offered a cheery smile. “Course I am. What’s up?”

  He backed away by an inch. “Oh, nothing. Thought your VR pod was malfunctioning. You were staring at the wall.”

  She could’ve sworn she just had a conversation with Mister Stabby. Her imagination was playing up again. “Dun’ be silly. I’m just putting together another recipe for Sortis Yummies.”

  “Got anything yet?”

  “Not yet.” Her eyes skipped to the shaking pot begging for some love. She jumped to her feet. “Lunch is ready!” She carefully removed the lid, steam biting her wrist. “Owie. That’s hotter than I asked for.” That Heat skill needed a patch!

  Aroma of spinach, turnips, mushrooms, and deer meat (thanks, Tasha!) made a pleasant savory introduction. Gabrielle spooned some, blew twice, and sipped. Delight filled her to the tippy top of her head. “Delicious! Help yourself, Sky.”

  His Elf eyes hopped upward. “You’re not having a bowl?”

  “Nope. Had too much cake. Hehehe.” She cut a glance toward the smokeless Forging Station. “Want some stew, Luthias?”

  “I do, thank you, but I was asking for your attention.” He was holding a sheathed sword. He tapped the shiny club-shaped pommel with his index finger.

  Skylar choked on stew. He coughed thrice. “Faaaar out.”

  Joybringer was done!

  Maybe with Mister Stabby and Joybringer, she wouldn’t even need a certain dummy who wasn’t going to be named for the next five hours and a bit. Her legs took her on a skipping journey across the room, which wasn’t a long journey per-say, but a fun journey no doubt.

  She beamed at the taller Sun Elf. A few wrinkles by those widely-spaced eyes gave Luthias a look of wisdom.

  He said, “Is this to your liking?”

  “Huh?”

  “The quality.”

  Oh. That. She had thought this was going to be some kind of fancy knighting ceremony. She focused on the hilt and kindly asked the world’s magic for some knowledge.

  The world kindly responded, a box enlarging between her two transparent noses.

  Joybringer : Steel-Blacksteel Bastard Sword

  Type: Melee weapon (one or two handed)

  Quality: 872 (Greater Masterwork)

  Damage: 88

  Gabrielle’s tongue popped. “Greater Masterwork. Moonfyre was only like… excellent, right?” She hopped on the spot. “I win!”

  “Indeed.” Luthias nodded. “Because you have shown us nothing but pure kindness, I applied everything I know of forging. The blade is pattern-welded from soft steel and hardened blacksteel, more of the latter, magically tempered to a resistant finish. The edge should withstand the mightiest of blows, but the blade will not shatter as though it were forged with dragonsteel.”

  A few details of that were lost to Gabrielle’s ears…

  But understanding promptly pieced together in her brain when she grabbed the super soft scabbard then unsheathed Joybringer. The double-edged blade had twisty, jumbled light and dark patterns like oil floating on water frozen in time. Two ridges, on both sides, ran down the length and tapered to an
arch-point. And the guard and pommel were nice too, plated with what looked like a mix of steel and gold. Stitchings on its leather grip criss-crossed prettily. The attention to detail, the craftsmanship, was that of an old master, which Luthias technically was.

  It was the prettiest sword she had ever seen, and she had seen maybe a few swords up close in her life. “I love it!” She giggled, sheathing it and tying a metal loop to the top of her linen pants. “But… does this mean ya made Row a worse sword on purpose? Cus ya don’t like him?”

  Luthias’ chin tucked. “As with the arrowheads, he requested his to be done briskly at the cost of quality.”

  “Huh? why?”

  “In his words: exponential costs for marginal gains.”

  “Sounds like him. Hehe.” Gabrielle’s tongue clicked loudly. “So does this mean ya have your memories back?”

  “Glimpses and flashes return to me every other hour. Recent events are clear.”

  “So… No.” How sad. “Well, hang in there. I’m sure there’s a special magic that could help ya.”

  “I hope there is, for none have ascended past Shaman or Priest.”

  That was news, and she couldn’t be bothered digging through the forums. People were still complaining about this and that in every section. “Ya sure?”

  “More than positive. It is commonly known.” Luthias walked across the room with tired steps. He picked up the steel ladle, scooped twice. His eyes brightened as he drank. No criticisms of her cooking. Good Elf.

  Skylar set his empty bowl in the Cooking Bench’s sink. He didn’t wash it. Naughty boy! “A group of adventurers are planning to build a Minstrel Sanctuary.”

  “Where?”

  “Ah… the eastern Human kingdom.”

  Luthias’ eyes slightly narrowed. “That is ambitious.”

  Gabrielle couldn’t help but ask like a dummy: “And why is that ambitious?”

  “Excuse me. I keep forgetting you are new to this world.” Luthias chugged the rest of his bowl, wiped his lips on the back of his arm very boyishly. “The monuments for each advanced class requires a godly amount of rare metals, woods, and gems. When it is activated, the sheer outpour of magic can be felt worldwide. Usually, many take it as a beating drum of war.”

  Godly. Funny word choice.

  A grunt came from Skylar. His fingers were woven behind his head. “But Light’s Justice has thousands of adventurers. They have eight sub-guilds now.”

 

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