Hephaestus knew he was in bad shape. Though he wasn’t actually, physically hurt, his avatar was well below half his maximum health, while Rothmund’s remained above half. He needed to end the engagement quickly, before he was bashed into a pulp. Standing up was difficult, as the combat was taking its toll on him; still, he had another maneuver, a gambit truly, in mind; if it worked, victory would be his. If it didn’t, well, it wouldn’t matter much in the long run. He held his sword in front of him in a medium-guard, looking into Rothmund’s eyes, and though his helmet hid them, he could still see the fire they contained.
Hephaestus took a deep breath. His victory hinged on his ruse working. He placed his left leg forward, assuming a balanced stance; despite his circumstances, and the danger he was about to face, he realized that his mind was calm, and his thoughts focused. He could picture the movement in his mind’s eye. Every muscle, every position he would need to assume was clear to him, as he read Rothmund’s body-language: The bulkier man placed a shoulder in front of him, looking as a bull ready to charge; his stance shifted slightly forward just as he shifted the weight of his weapon. Wait for it, thought Hephaestus, as he saw Rothmund’s weight move; Wait for it, he thought as he took the first step forward; Wait for it, he thought as Rothmund lurched into motion.
Now!
He fell backwards onto his rump and back, lifting his legs as Rothmund closed the distance, overshooting above Hephaestus; the smith rammed his feet on Rothmund’s midriff, uncurling his knees and using his enemy’s mass and inertia to launch him overhead, tumbling backwards together with Rothmund.
As his enemy landed, Hephaestus scrambled to his feet, unwilling to give Rothmund a chance to recover; he turned to face the downed man, lifting his sword above his head, point aiming downwards before pouncing towards a supine Rothmund. Hephaestus screamed as he poured all his strength into a downwards stab, ramming his blade into the slit in Rothmund’s helmet, feeling as it pierced through flesh and bone, hitting the metal backwards, twisting it before he removed it; the blade had embedded itself so tightly into his enemy’s skull that Hephaestus fell backwards when he removed it.
He was breathing heavily as he lay on his back, looking at the sky. The arena was completely silent, moved into absolute, shocked stillness. Hephaestus closed his eyes, turning over, and climbing to his feet. He could feel his pulse, accelerated after his exertion, starting to slow down. He turned back, watching a still Rothmund surrounded by a pool of his own blood.
He had won!
He could hardly believe it. Rothmund was down, killed by his weapon! He wanted to cry out in ecstasy, exult in the moment as he had toppled his foe down—a true David versus Goliath scenario where he, the lower leveled person, had finished off the champion of the arena, thanks to his own skills and knowledge, demonstrating the superiority of truly knowing what he intended to do, rather than trusting in blind luck. “YEAH!” He screamed as he lifted his weapon in a flourish. The crowd’s reaction wasn’t as he expected, however. They weren’t yelling or celebrating, nor cheering over his victory; they were too shocked, he assumed, to realize the importance of the moment.
Still, Hephaestus had won, and he would revel in his victory. Time later, in hindsight, he would reflect on the cost of too much celebration as, had he not been yelling and twirling his weapon, he would have heard the shrill voice of a woman in the crowd crying “WATCH OUT!”
Had he paid attention, he would have heard Rothmund’s armor clanging as he climbed back to his feet, his health nearly completely done, barely a sliver remaining, but enough for him not to be finished. Had Hephaestus been paying attention, he would have turned around, intercepting the thrust aimed at his midsection.
Still, his attention was returned to the combat by the tip of a blade protruding from his chest, followed by an axe head; his attention was focused on the sensation of his feet rising off the ground as the axsword lifted him effortlessly.
His attention then jumped to the way he was flying away, having been thrown as a discarded rag; his senses seemed to register everything in slow-motion, taking in every minuscule detail—details he hadn’t managed to notice before, such as the saturated crimson pouring from his chest, or the similarly colored sand of the arena; he noticed the people, rictuses on their faces, as they enjoyed the carnage. What he noticed, however, was the ground rushing towards him as he completed an arc, falling painfully on his wounded chest, bouncing and tumbling until he ended on his back.
His health still held, somehow, sitting at a measly thirty two points. He struggled back to his feet, slowly, sluggishly as he was stunned by the attack; turning around, he saw the looming figure of Rothmund, his sword at the ready in his hands; it had an interesting bluish hue, he noticed, right before it plunged into his midriff, taking Rothmund closer to him. Though Hephaestus still couldn’t see Rothmund’s eyes, he could see his grinning mouth beneath the man’s helmet, his lips curling when he said “Game over.”
Hephaestus was thrown backwards, seeing his legs topple down, spilling the contents of his body; coiled ropes untangling out of his middle as he flew back, tumbling sideways. When he fell, he landed on his side, seeing only the sand and the far wall of the arena. Rothmund’s plated feet came into view, lumbering towards him; one of his boots lifted off the ground, followed by his gaze, huh, funny, he thought, as he realized there was no pattern in the plated soles—the last thing he saw before it stomped against him. Blackness robbed him of his senses before a message appeared into his view:
YOU DIED.
Chapter VII: The Price of Learning
“Permanent!? Holy crap, no! Imperium Games’ aim is to offer entertaining, long-lived adventures and worlds for people to thrive in, not to create elaborate, virtual torture machines! Of course there are consequences for dying, such as losing items, experience, rank – whatever works. But permanent death is quite discouraged – after all, that’s what real life is for.”
-Jolier Vazquez, in “Virtual Business Practices – Death and Consequences.”
HINT: If you die, you will respawn at the last safe location you visited. Careful! You may lose experience, items or both!
The message was followed by a skull-splitting headache, as his senses slowly returned to their working order. Hearing came first, as the sounds of city life, peddlers, mercenaries, and general people became noticeable, as a dull, muted noise at first, growing into distinctive voices and distinguishable sounds.
Hephaestus opened his eyes; the first thing he saw was an undistinguishable, blurred mass of colors. It took him a few moments until the blurred colors coalesced into recognizable shapes and figures. He was outside of the arena, lying prone on the entrance atrium, stark naked save for his breeches. So, he thought, this is it – I got screwed. The memory of a naked, fuming Vahlistar came to his mind; he chuckled, realizing he was now in the same position the wizard had been in. He saw no point in being irate, however. He had lost, fair and square; he knew what he was getting into, he knew what could happen, and why, and he had chosen to go through with fighting Rothmund, regardless of Altara’s warnings or...
“Damn,” he wheezed, Altara. Damn it, the woman had trusted him! She had placed her bets on the off-chance that he would win, and he almost had! Still, “almost” didn’t mean he had won, and a wager was a wager. Either he won, or he lost. And, well, he was the one naked outside of the arena. Out of curiosity, he checked his inventory: Gone, everything was gone: his crafting materials, his gold, his weapon and armor, he had even less on him than when he had started in the virtual world.
Worse, Altara had tried to warn him, even the old man below the arena had tried, in his own way, to dissuade him from going against Rothmund. Well, he thought, seems like overconfidence got the best off me. It wouldn’t be the first time that his own confidence would bring him to a difficult situation—and an unpleasant ending; it seemed to him that years hadn’t made him wiser, only older, and much more stubborn.
That was a pr
oblem for another moment, however. Right now, he worried about how he would explain what had happened to Altara. She had trusted him to win, and he had failed, how would he—
“There you are, Hephy,” said Altara coming out of the spectators’ entrance, as if summoned by Hephaestus’ thoughts. The smith noticed that she didn’t look angry or livid, not even vexed at the fact she had lost her forging permits, and five thousand gold. Instead, Hephaestus realized, she looked, as she had said earlier, just fine, indifferent even. The realization struck him as a blow to the gut, especially when she smiled softly, saying “See? Should’ve listened when you had the chance,” she shrugged dismissively, “ain’t no goin’ back now though.”
Hephaestus grunted. “Altara, I’m sorry, I—”
She lifted a hand, cutting him off. When she replied, he expected anger, sorrow, disappointment—anything, other than the mild indifference reflected by her features. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Hephaestus. Didn’t bet on you?”
Surprise, and anger tinged by a hint of betrayal coursed through Hephaestus. “You didn’t wager on me? Why, I thought you said—”
“I know what I said, and I tried warnin’ you,” she shrugged, “can’t help it if you didn’t listen, now can I?”
“Didn’t listen to what?”
“To what I had to say! Bloody hell, Hephy, I tried to warn you, you’d get your arse handled to you, and what did you do? Just went on with your business!”
“You told me my gear was fine!”
“And it was! Fuckin’ magnificent even! Except you handled your bonuses all wrong. Any chance you had at winnin’, you squandered!”
Hephaestus blinked rapidly. “What do you mean? I set all my bonuses into ignoring Rothmund’s armor, and reinforcing myself.”
She sighed in exasperation, her patience growing thin. “You don’t get it do you? This simulation, realistic though it may be, is still a game. There needs to be rules in place for people to have a good time! The material you used, well, you used steel, damn it! I thought you would use, I’unno, azurite, vermilium, silverium at the least, instead, you went for the weakest thing you could find.”
“Weakest? I made high-carbon steel, at one percent carbon concentration! Do you understand what that means?”
“Dunno,” she said curtly, “dun’ care. Hephaestus, you need to understand. You can make impressive, magnificent, soddin’ beautiful items even, and that increases their value and bonuses to no end! But if you make steel, even if you make all carbon super graphite ultimate-steel, whatever the hell you said, it’s still steel, and it will have the same base properties!”
Hephaestus could feel a spark of anger flare within him. “That’s bullshit! What’s the point of having spent most my life learning my trade if I can’t use it in this place?”
“Because you can…but within the rules.”
“FUCK THE RULES!”
She shook her head, reining in her own anger. “Look, Hephaestus, out there, you can work metal in any way you want, and guess what? You can, and the things you can make will be unique, unrepeatable... within reason.”
“Meaning?”
“Meanin’ you can’t like, I don’t know, put uranium into steel to make it super strong, it’ll still be, well, steel.”
Anger was starting to retreat, replaced by dull numbness. “Then what’s the point on being able to work metal from the ground up? What’s the point of being able to use coal, and iron to make steel if the combination doesn’t matter?”
“The point,” she replied patiently, “is that you can find out how to make the alloys available to everyone. Make them your own way.”
Hephaestus sat on his haunches, taking his hands to his face. He had believed that his steel was beyond special, since he had made it himself, using the correct proportions of a high-carbon metal. Now, he felt foolish, as he realized he could have just purchased already-made ingots, and the end result would likely have been the same. At least the design was mine, no? he wondered.
“Another thing,” Altara continued, “the bonuses you added... they don’t stack.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me, you wanted to ignore sod all of Rothmund’s armor, yes?”
“Well, yes, that’s just logical.”
“There’s the deal. Only one of those bonuses work, the rest were wasted. They don’t stack.”
Hephaestus grunted, his head ached, as he couldn’t understand what she meant, “You’re trying to say that if I choose twenty plus twenty, I don’t get forty?”
“Now you get it,” she said. Hephaestus felt, rather than saw, her sitting next to him and, he assumed, wrapping her hands around her knees. “You could’ve won, you know?”
Hephaestus lifted his eyes slightly, looking at her askance. He realized her expression was not one of indifference, but something else entirely. Sadness, perhaps? “You think?” asked the smith.
“I do. Partly, if not mostly, my fault though, I admit.”
“Why so?”
She shrugged. “I was cross with you choosin’ to use steel. I should’ve thought ‘bout tellin’ you about metals and the like, considerin’.”
“Considering what?”
She smiled faintly, “That you’re a fuckin’ noob.”
He chuckled mirthlessly; she was right on that fact, he was, as she said, a noob, not knowing how the game worked, and acting solely based on his assumptions and preconceptions. Wouldn’t be the first time he had done that, he admitted to himself, wondering if, as people were prone to saying, wisdom came with old age? Right here, right now, he wasn’t entirely certain.
“Welp,” said Altara, standing up next to him. “No point in wallowin’ over a defeat, humiliatin’ though it was, ey?” When Hephaestus looked at her, he realized she was trying to be humorous, not stringent, a fact demonstrated by her outstretched hand.
Hephaestus took Altara’s hand, feeling her firm grip squeezing his own, climbing back to his feet. “Come on,” he growled, “it wasn’t so bad!”
She shook her head. “No, truth be told, it wasn’t. You fought well, Hephy, I give you that. Only, well,” she shrugged, “eighteen levels apart do make a difference.”
“I guess so.” He paused, thinking. “I’m sorry I wasted your permits.”
She shrugged once more, “Eh, ‘tis a’ight, I can get some more, eventually. My question is, what will you do now?”
He grunted. Not a thought to that, he mused, realizing that his experience hinged on him winning the match. “Honest?” he said, shaking his head, “Dunno.”
“Hmm, well, if you ever wanna—”
“HEY!” a deep voice interrupted her. Both Hephaestus and Altara turned towards the source of the voice, seeing a tall, bulky man dressed in a loose tunic and breeches heading their way. The man waved as he called once again “Hey! You’s the fella from the arena, ain’t you?”
Hephaestus crossed his arms over his chest, saying “The same,” he paused, “only slightly less clad.”
“Aye, I can see that. Sorry ‘bout the beating, hope I didn’t go too overboard with ploughin’ your rear?” he chuckled, “I joke, of course. You put up an awesome fight, dude! Best I’ve had in a long time!”
Hephaestus’ eyes narrowed, “Sorry, but I must ask: Who are you?”
“Ah! Well, you might recognize me better this way.” The man paused for a moment and, in an instant, a full set of heavy armor covered him, together with an axsword in his hands.
The smith’s eyes widened, “Rothmund!”
“Mhm, the same, only,” he said, unequipping his armor, “I prefer looser attire when around the city. You put up quite some battle, Hephaestus! Nearly got me by the end. Was pure luck I survived. Even at your low level, well, those moves, and your gear,” he paused, fishing for words to say something; “hey listen,” said he, assuming a business-like demeanor, “those items of yours, I gotta ask you something about them.”
“Ask away.”
“Did you ah, well, you didn’t hack them into being, did you?”
“Hack them?”
“Yea, you know, using well, trainers, exploits, hacking software?”
“Hm, no idea what are you talking about, so I guess no, I didn’t. Made them myself.”
“You made them yourself, as in with your own hands, yes?” “Mhm.” “So you’s a manual maker?”
Hephaestus nodded, “I am at that, made those things myself. Why?”
“Say, can you make more items like those?”
Hephaestus looked at Altara; the woman rolled her shoulders. Turning back to Rothmund, Hephaestus replied “Well, given the proper materials, and a few permits—”
“Suppose,” interrupted Rothmund, “I get you the materials, and the permits to craft uniques at a forge. Could you make me some custom items, just like yours?”
“I... suppose I could, yes.”
“Name your price then.”
“My price?” he asked, scratching his head.
“Yea! You’re with a guild, no?”
“No, I’m a freelancer, I guess.”
Rothmund’s eyes widened. “Really? Then how’s it that you got so good at crafting?”
Hephaestus saw no reason to be deceitful, replying “I’m an armorer in real life, knowledge carried over to the game.”
“Hmm, so that’s why your items look so cool.”
“Pardon?”
“Ah, nothing. Well... I mean, your stuff, it looks genuine, it looks badass without being all, well, you know, bulky and heavy.”
True Smithing: A Crafting LitRPG Series Page 10
