“How much larger?” he asked.
“I told you, Hephy, it depends! If you face a low-tier goon, it can be the full wager. That would make it five thousand gold. If you fight a renowned rookie, one point five, if you—”
“Is there a champion?” Hephaestus interrupted.
“Well... Ah, yes, there’s a champion, but you ain’t got the level, experience, resources—fuck all to even think about facing him! You’d get screwed before—”
“Return?”
“Pardon?”
“What would the return be?”
“Er... well, odds would be a hundred to one, stacked all against you.”
Hephaestus thought for a moment. That would make the return a gargantuan five hundred thousand gold, more than enough for the damn permit, and to start his own—hopefully well furnished—forge. Well, he thought, I’m already in this mess, may well go full in. “Altara,” he said.
“Yes, Hephy?”
He smiled confidently. “Let’s dethrone the current champion.”
Hephaestus couldn’t help but laugh at Altara’s expression as she said “You crazy son of a gun!”
Chapter V: Prepare for the Worst
“Hacking? Well, it is possible, as with any piece of software. I’ve seen and done it myself, for testing purposes, of course. You can give yourself god-like powers and ruin everyone’s day, but what’s the point of being a god, if you haven’t earned it?”
-Jolier Vazquez, “Virtual Cybersecurity, an interview.”
Observation, knowledge, and preparation were the keys for success, as Hephaestus had learned throughout his years, and planning to face off against someone denominated “Champion of the Arkean Arena” would need quite a bit of preparation. Altara had been accommodating enough once the initial shock of Hephaestus’ intentions had passed and she accepted the fact that, unlikely as it seemed, the man was confident in his own skills. She still decried it at times, however, admonishing not to confuse confidence with stupidity.
Still, her doubts had been somewhat dispelled when he challenged her to a one-on-one friendly duel. No stakes, no gains, no losses, only a sparring match. Hephaestus’ technique, though nowhere near the level of a real-world swordsman, showed Altara that he knew to do more than he had initially let on. The woman’s equipment, though quantitatively superior to Hephaestus, didn’t stop her from getting critically damaged, as the man’s own skills let him hit her in various vital points, while barely getting hurt himself.
“Still,” she said when their spar was over, leading him to a bench to sit down, and recover. “You’ll need more than a good dagger and some rags to put you up against Rothmund.”
“Rothmund?” asked Hephaestus, sitting down next to Altara.
“Arken’s champion. A smug idiot who’s paid to win, basically; he relies on his gear, purchased through sheddin’ a ton of real dosh into craftin’ farms.”
“You can do that?” asked an incredulous Hephaestus.
“Hell yea you can! There’s these... ‘Craftin’ Guilds’ who monopolize craftin’ services, and if you have the coin—real coin, mind you, not gold, they get the materials and craftsmen to get you items up to legendary level.”
“What about uniques?” asked the blacksmith.
“Those are the real deal. Guilds can’t make ‘em, as people ain’t willin’ to really learn their stuff…you know, smeltin’, hammerin’, dunno, all that. It’s a hardlock the game has to prevent exploitin’ the system; still, well, most people only aspire as high as havin’ a legendary item, and that’s about it.”
“I don’t understand, then, why can’t I just use some random forge and make my own damn items to sell them to the world?”
“Well,” she replied, “you handmade your dagger at the startin’ forge, yes?” He nodded. “Notice how it, unlike my amulet, has no bonuses?” He nodded again. “Here’s the catch. That forge, the initial forge, offers no bonuses for craftin’, as it’s the only one you can use manually unless you get either a permanent, or a temporal permit.”
“Why the hell is that implemented?”
“To prevent people from exploiting the system.”
“Truly?” he asked sardonically, “what’s to prevent me from going back to that town, use the forge, make my own stuff?”
“Oh you can do that, sure enough, but here’s the thing. Saw the difference ‘tween my unique and yours?” “Mhm.” “The simulation locks you out of makin’ truly awesome things if you ain’t usin’ a certified forge. Now don’t look at me like that! Gotta keep a semblance of balance, after all, can’t have a large number of manuals just craftin’ epic stuff left and right.”
Hephaestus sighed, “That seems awfully complicated to me.” He felt constrained by the rules, though he understood their purpose. After all, the simulation had to be fun, and making it easy to get the best things all around was a surefire way to make it dull. Grudgingly, he asked “How do I go around gettin’ a temporary permit?”
“Well, Hephy, if you can get some materials, I can get you the permits.”
“How?”
“Does it matter? You’ll get to improve your crappy gear—no offense intended—and get up to speed to maybe, just maybe be able to take Rothmund down.”
“Hmm,” grunted the man, thinking about her proposal. He wasn’t certain whether he could trust Altara. For all he knew, she’d just rob him, take his items, and make a profit off of them. Still, well, she had been attentive enough to explain everything to him. “There’s something I want to do first,” he said.
“And what would that be?”
“I want to watch this Rothmund fight.”
***
“WELCOME ONE, WELCOME ALL TO THIS, YOUR ARKEAN ARENA!” cried the announcer; the chorus of excited yells that followed was deafening. “Today, we have a treat for you! Your Victor, your Chosen, your CHAMPION, ROTHMUND facing off against YET ANOTHER PRETENDER TO HIS THRONE!”
A cacophony of boos and jeers rumbled tangibly across the crowded arena. “Are matches always like this?” asked Hephaestus, wishing he could mute the noise coming to his ears.
“Only Rothmund’s,” came Altara’s barely audible voice. “He draws in quite a crowd. There’s a reason why he makes his livin’ at the arena.”
“Hm.”
The announcer continued by yelling “PEOPLE OF ARKEN, ARE YOU READY TO WELCOME YOUR CHAMPION!?” Another deafening chorus came, voices indistinctly crying out their eagerness. “VERY WELL! YOU ASKED FOR IT, AND HERE HE COMES! LET US HAVE IT FOR CHAMPION ROTHMUND!”
As the crowd cheered, a portcullis at the end of the arena opened. From it came a figure which baffled Hephaestus’ perception—and knowledge—of proper weapon and armor building. The most striking features of Rothmund’s armor were its disproportionate sizes. The pauldrons resting on his shoulders were too large for his body, making the horned helmet—a notorious design flaw, he noted—look hilariously tiny; the vambraces, particularly the couters on the elbows, were bloated to the point of restricting movement, while the gauntlets themselves had useless spikes on their knuckles; the armor’s breastplate and tasset were both single pieces, preventing any flexibility on the torso and hip, respectively; the poleyns on the knees had the same problem as the couters did. It was a wonder to Hephaestus that Rothmund could move at all. Underlying the flaws his keen eye noticed, he saw another weakness in his gear: There was no gambeson or chainmail beneath the larger metal pieces; he made a mental note to remember that fact, as it would prove useful to him.
Rothmund’s weapon wasn’t any better; to him, it looked as the bastard child between an axe and a greatsword, except it had all of the weaknesses of both weapons, without any of the advantages. The overlong handle was too much for Rothmund’s hands to hold properly, as he had to unevenly spread the distance between his strong, and his agile hands; the pommel was tiny, offering no counterbalance to the body of the blade which, though not distended as the original dagger
Hephaestus had made, would be too top-heavy due to its length, and the leverage of a double axe head a few centimeters before the tip; the body of the blade section was too thin for the weight resting at is top, as the axe head was disproportionately wide respective to the blade; furthermore, he noticed, there was no ricasso on the blade. Rothmund had no means to safely half-sword the weapon to compensate for its imbalance.
As the gladiator lifted his weapon, Hephaestus noticed two things. First, a display had appeared above the arena, showing Rothmund’s attributes, equipment, and current status:
NAME
ROTHMUND MORDENFAUST
LEVEL
21
CLASS
CUSTOM - MURDERFIST
RANK
CHAMPION
ATTRIBUTES
STR – 89 (54 + 35)
END – 10 (5 + 5)
FIN - 5
INT - 5
RHE – 5
LUK – 5
HP – 1,400 (400 + 1,000)
MP - 350
EQUIPMENT
Rothmund’s Axsword (greatsword – purple hue)
Rothmund’s Gloryhelm (tophelm – purple hue)
Warmaster’s Locket (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Pauldrons (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Carapace (breastplate – purple hue)
Rothmund’s Gauntlets (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Greaves (purple hue)
Rothmund’s Boots (purple hue)
STATUS
FINE
The second thing Hephaestus noticed was a subtle, blue-white glimmer along the metal. He turned to Altara, asking “What’s with the weapon’s gleam?”
“It’s enchanted, Hephy, with ice.”
“Meaning?”
“It deals bonus ice damage to anything it touches.”
“Hm.” Another mental note to keep track of, he mused.
The announcer cried once more, “AND ON THIS SIDE, THE PRETENDER, THE WOULD-BE USURPER, LET’S HAVE IT FOR VAHLISTAR!” This time, the crowd didn’t cheer, rather, they rained a foul number of insults, expletives, and slurs at the man who came from a point in the arena Hephaestus couldn’t see.
When he finally saw Vahlistar, he was surprised to see that he wore no armor. Instead, he wore a bulky-looking hooded robe, crowned by an ornate shoulder piece; the upper coat fell heavily as far as the man’s feet, its sleeves reaching towards his calves; the lower tunic fit too loosely for his comfort, especially as it ended with a loincloth-styled tabard with odd symbols upon it; the outfit wasn’t helped by a heavy, full-length cloak falling ungracefully from the ends of the shoulder piece. His weapon, Hephaestus realized, was an elongated rod of unshodden wood, tipped by a crystal sphere. A Spartan staff, compared with the lavish robe. Just as with Rothmund, a display with his description appeared next to a large VS to the right of Rothmund’s:
NAME
VAHLISTAR
LEVEL
20
CLASS
CUSTOM – ARCHIMANCER
RANK
CELEBRITY
ATTRIBUTES
STR – 5
END – 5
FIN - 5
INT – 268 (58+210)
RHE – 5
LUK – 5
HP – 290
MP – 12,864
EQUIPMENT
Donnerstafiir (staff - purple hue)
Wiseman’s Shroud (purple hue)
Arcanist’s Robe (purple hue)
Reliquary of the Archmagister (pendant - purple hue)
Magister’s Drape (cape - purple hue)
Loremaster’s Guard (pauldrons - purple hue)
STATUS
FINE
He turned to the woman once more, “What’s with that guy?”
“He’s a spellcaster – and a freakin’ idiot too.”
“Why?”
“ He’s gone full-INT, has a boatload o’ mana points, to cast Mana Shield, no doubt, but Rothmund’s armor is enchanted against magic.”
“But Rothmund is nearly focused on strength alone, how is that different?”
“It’s different because he can deal damage well into the thousands.”
“Hmm. Another question.”
“You’re damn full of them, ain’t you?”
“Altara,” he replied, “Worry if I had no questions to ask, that would mean I’m being overconfident, and suicidally idiotic. The weapon and armor designs, what’s with them?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are they so... grotesque? Disproportionate, useless in reality?”
As a reply, she shrugged, before adding, “The game offers templates to build your items from. Most people go for what they think look the coolest.”
“Are you telling me,” he said baffled, “that’s what people find appealing? Ridiculously oversized armor, impractical weapons, stupid looking garments?” The woman shrugged. “Damn, I don’t get people sometimes.”
“Don’t we all? Now shut it, it’s about to begin!”
So it was, Hephaestus realized, when the announcer cried “COMBATANTS, ARE YOU READY!? LET THE BATTLE BEGIN!”
The moment the starting gong was heard, Vahlistar vanished. The crowd jeered and booed their lungs out, while Hephaestus himself stared confused. “Hell just happened!?” he yelled so Altara could hear him.
“He used an invisibility spell. He’s trying to get the upper hand!”
Rothmund meanwhile swung his... axe-sword? Sword-axe? Hephaestus didn’t know, and didn’t care. The weapon moved ponderously around the man, just as he twisted clumsily in his restrictive armor. He growled in anger as he failed to hit his target, colorfully calling him a cowardly piece of chicken-shit. As Rothmund voiced his displeasure, an odd symbol appeared at the other extreme of the arena—a blast of black-lightning drank away the surrounding ambient light, striking Rothmund’s back, sending him to his knees. His character’s status changed to CURSE, followed by a numeral, 30s.
“Hell’s that mean?” Hephaestus asked.
“Means he can’t swing his axsword. It’s a means for disabling warriors, damn spell works on the weapon, not on Rothmund; watch!”
After the spell was cast, Vahlistar reappeared. He made a movement with his hand, causing a soft lambency to appear around his body. “Told ya, Mana Shield!” cried Altara. Once his shield was up, Vahlistar invoked another spell. This time, a runic circle appeared below Rothmund, adding another change to his status, MDEF-NULL 20s.
“He’s ignoring his magic defense!?” asked Hephaestus over the booing of the crowd.
“You’re clever, Hephy! Yes, he can now hurt Rothmund!”
As if listening to Altara, Vahlistar began his merciless attack. The ball on his staff glowed with magical energy, channeled into a continuous electrical arc, cruising through Rothmund’s body. His health began decreasing at a low, if impressive rate. Every second, fifty points were subtracted from his HP counter, to the dismay of the people on the arena. Still, Hephaestus saw worry reflected in Vahlistar’s face, as if he had expected to cause more damage. Even the occasional critical hit only dealt sixty damage. Meanwhile, the MDEF-NULL status slowly counted down to zero; once it hit zero, Vahlistar’s damage was reduced to a mere five per second. Still, Rothmund’s HP was set at one hundred eighty, and decreasing rapidly. Vahlistar stood a chance to win.
At least until Rothmund threw a grenade from his pocket.
The thing exploded next to Vahlistar, and though it caused a paltry fifty damage—subtracted from his monstrous mana pool—his status changed to NULLMAGIC 15s as the lightning ark was snuffed out. Then, Hephaestus saw abject panic on the man’s features. “He can’t cast any more spells!” shouted Altara
There were still ten seconds left on Rothmund’s CURSE status. Still, the man lurched towards Vahlistar—as Hephaestus s
aw his mana pool decrease, he assumed he used a spell to propel himself—entering within range of his weapon. The arena was silent as the CURSE counter trickled to zero; when it did, there were still five seconds remaining in Vahlistar’s NULLMAGIC status.
Hephaestus needed more than a few minutes to process what had happened in those five seconds.
First, Rothmund’s axsword impacted against Vahlistar, bouncing off his mana shield, dealing five thousand damage; Rothmund used the momentum of his swing to twirl around, striking with his weapon once more, dealing another five thousand points of damage; a final swing clashed against Vahlistar, causing the man to explode into a shower of red mist, pink bits, purple snakes, brown unthinkables, tattered clothes, and other chunky pieces Hephaestus preferred not to think about. The crowd went wild as the announcer praised Rothmund’s victory; the blacksmith himself felt sick in the stomach. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, leaving his seat and heading for the exit, not stopping to see if Altara followed him or not.
***
“I know you were upset, but that was bloody rude!” decried the woman.
“Sorry,” replied Hephaestus, “I’m not used to seeing something so... graphic.”
“Well, best get used to it, man. It’s par for the course ‘round ‘ere.”
“Is he going to be alright?”
“Who?”
“Vahlistar.”
Altara sighed. “Turn around will you?”
Hephaestus did as told, seeing a naked, thin man in his late twenties, fuming and yelling expletives into the air. The blacksmith could make some parts of his discourse, “...son of a bitch cheated me! ... fucking zerolite bomb!... damn epic gear!” He turned towards Altara, “That’s him?”
“Mhm. Told you, he lost everythin’. His loot passed on to Rothmund.”
“Huh, I see. What use is it for him, though?”
Altara shrugged, “Sellin’ fodder, no doubt. Now,” she said, assuming her business-like tone. “Still nutty enough to go through with this?”
True Smithing: A Crafting LitRPG Series Page 6
