Chapter 305: Battle Mage Farmer
I’d been struck by some Smithing inspiration and had an idea for creating armor inserts for the new versions of the Zng armor that Vaulty and crew were developing. While the base set would be designed with non-magical protections and intended for use by a mundane human, we also planned on handing these out to Delver candidates heading into our Creation Delve. Once they came out the other side, they would be in need of some upgrades, and having ready-made modular plating that could be dropped into their existing Zng suit seemed perfect to me.
This also let me create the plates with effects geared towards different attributes without dedicating an entire suit of armor to, say, an Agility fighter. They could be added in and easily removed, allowing for efficient use of the base armor and greater flexibility for Delvers in their early levels, who might not yet know how their build would settle. I wanted to develop a stockpile for all the basic defensive weaves, which included DR for every individual school of damage, dodge bonuses, and buffs to health, stamina, and mana regeneration.
Figuring out the best way to do this without leaving gaps in the underlying Zng design was tricky. I consulted with the legendary draconic smith, Hep, then combined my smithy with Nuralie’s alchemy lab. I worked on the problem while existing in a liminal state between life and death as Nuralie’s Spectral poisons sought to annihilate the connection between my spiritual essence and my corporeal form, as my health regeneration just barely kept up. And it only kept up because I was also knocking back Nuralie’s best healing potions the whole time.
Zero out of ten, terrible vacation.
Then again, I had to continue with my kingly duties, so it wasn’t a vacation at all. Just a shit couple of months, but it led to some solid progress. Each new torturous poison Nuralie designed and deployed got me a new buff to the achievement. By the end of the two months, both Spectral and Poison climbed to a full 50% resistance, which was the soft cap for System-issued resistance skills. After that, the next step was total immunity, but the achievement wouldn’t take me that far.
I wasn’t the only person shooting for efficient multitasking here, either. The second day beneath the shadow of Nuralie’s aerosolized war crimes, we were interrupted by a pair of golems hauling in wagon-sized carts of fertilized soil. They dumped the dirt all over an unused section of the room until it was two feet deep, building up a retaining wall as they went.
A third golem arrived with shredded plant matter to distribute over top of the soil, and a fourth lumbered over to Nuralie’s space, grabbed her sealed toxic waste container, and carefully poured it out over the plants, making sure that it was evenly distributed. Finally, the initial pair of golems began stuffing shards of poison essences into the ground, the lower half of each fist-sized crystal wrapped up in a bulbous sack of some sort.
Grotto appeared to review the work, then disappeared without a word. A few days later, little baby poison essences began to grow. My Bonded Familiar had realized we were creating the perfect environment for some poison essence farming, and took advantage. The Core was getting back to his roots, I was glad to see we were replenishing our dwindling supply of poison essences, and Nuralie was happy she didn’t have to waste time and mana transmuting all the dangerous waste chemicals her work generated. Wins all around, even if the surprise farm did make things a little cramped.
Also, my Smithing went up!
Your Smithing skill has increased from level 24 to level 30!The skill was helped along when I accepted the Ravvenblaqs’ invitation to meet with Varrin’s grandpa, Papa Junior. A couple of weeks before the world summit, I grabbed Gracorvus, then headed to Hiward alongside Varrin to[STOP TEXT]
[REROUTING]
*****
SYSTEM ADDENDUM ADDED BY USER NAME: [BIG PAPA]
ADDENDUM NOTE: 300 days since the Patriarch brought me that leviathan corpse. It’s the ultimate ingredient for what I’m trying to craft, but I’m still not ready. My impatience grows, but I can feel a breakthrough coming. Any day now, and I’ll have it.
*****
Strike. Strike. Strike.
Lift. Turn.
Strike. Strike.
Lift.
Ealdric Ravvenblaq Junior examined the edges carefully. The carbon chains were perfect.
He held the metal up to his nose, the fine heat enlivening his delicate senses into an excitement he had but long since felt. He closed his eyes and touched the molecular matrix, snapped into precise crystalline structure.
As he lowered the searing metal, he took one practice thrust. It felt good. He took another, then another. This would be a most fine instrument indeed, worthy of the champion the world so desperately needed.
"Now, no one can beat me," he said, holding the glistening spatula high over the 'Grillmaster' embroidered into his apron. He flipped it a few times in his hand before a wide smile crept across his greyed face.
"You gotta go down sometime, Larry," said Ealdric. "This year, that first-place ribbon is mine."
Ealdric brought the instrument to his testing bench.
“Big Six,” he said.
“Yes?” said a ghostly voice that resonated around the smithy.
“Run the tensile test.” Ealdric set the spatula down and pulled a journal from his apron pocket.
“That is the most likely failure point given your previous trials,” said the ghost. “The data collection might be limited.”
“Either it works or it doesn’t,” said Ealdric. He flipped the journal open and consulted a few hand-drawn charts. He made a mark inside it with a pencil. “Let’s not waste time.”
“Very well.”
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Long strands of compressed space flitted up from the bench and connected to the spatula, encasing it in a sea of gravitons.
“Starting at one hundred psi,” said Big Six. There was no discernible difference. Ealdric watched the process, enraptured, pencil held hovering over his journal.
“Now at one thousand. Now ten thousand, now ten to the sixth . . . seventh . . .”
Ealdric caught a familiar glimpse of something in the metal and quickly dropped to the ground, covering his head. The spatula exploded in a brilliant flash of plasma as all the energy was released at once, sending shards of searing neutrons across the smithy and blasting inch-deep holes in the dark iron walls.
Ealdric coughed and slowly stood, looking around the smoke-filled chamber. He sniffed the air and realized something else was burning.
“Hells!” he swore as he rushed over to the water barrel and dunked his head, hearing a fine hiss under the surface as the flames in his hair were quenched. He rose out of the water and gasped a deep breath, still choking on the lingering disaster.
The testing bench performed admirably, but was still half-melted. The dimensional runes were shattered, and the mana chips broken and diffused.
“Dammit!” Ealdric yelled, tossing his newly-burned journal into the wall.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Big Six. “The failure was around fifty million psi.”
“That’s no better than before,” said Ealdric, burying his head in his hands.
“Correct,” said Big Six. “The results are within the margin of error from the previous trial.”
“The material was perfect,” said Ealdric. “I mean, perfect. A breakthrough, a nigh-infinite improvement in lattice structure over the last batch.” Ealdric sat down and slumped in his stool. “And no difference. There’s nowhere else to go with that design. That was as good as it gets.”
“There are other potential materials,” said Big Six.
“No,” said Ealdric, “there’s nothin’ else.” He tried to run his hand through his hair before remembering it was gone, along with his testing bench. “Dammit, I can’t even strike an exasperated pose properly!” He kicked a bucket that had grown many fresh new holes.
Before he could find some other way to flail in his frustration, three firm and polite knocks came at the door.
“Yeah,” said Ealdric, taking a breath. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Varrin’s head peeked around the door frame. He looked over the room, which still contained a cloud of unpleasant smoke and many destroyed pieces of equipment, though the room itself was fine, and Ealdric Junior was certainly tougher than that.
“Is there a reason you wouldn’t be fine?” Ealdric’s grandson asked.
“Oh, hey lad!” said Ealdric. “I thought you were, uh,” he trailed off, thinking about the many times another young man had stumbled into his smithy after hearing some cacophonous disaster. “Sorry, never mind.” Ealdric sat with the nostalgic feeling for a moment as Varrin made his way deeper into the workshop. The way the lad looked around, his prim and proper stance betrayed by his befuddlement over Ealdric’s mishap. It was utterly familiar. “You know, you take after your father in a lot of ways.”
The younger Ravvenblaq stood slightly straighter at that. “Thank you, Papa Junior,” he said.
“Yep,” said Junior. “You certainly have his overly formal entrance down pat.”
Varrin smiled, but it faded quickly. “Father prided himself on his etiquette,” said the lad.
“He certainly invested more in Diplomacy and Charisma than either I or his grandad,” said Papa Junior. Varrin’s gaze drifted further downward. “But I don’t think you came to talk about him yet. What can I do for you?”
Varrin blinked a time or two to clear his eyes–there was still some smoke in the air–and drew Kazandak from its sheath in its conventional shortened form, examined it closely, then walked over to an unmelted table. As he set it down, a sudden sheen flickered over the work surface, leaving it spotless against the otherwise charred environment.
“Thank you, Big Six,” said Varrin.
“Of course, sir,” said the ghostly voice.
Varrin’s gentle touch was impressive, given his massive frame and deceptively low level. The blade made no sound as it was laid atop the bare stone.
“I am in need of smithing advice,” he said. Varrin had only been home for a few days, and his tales already stretched the imagination. It would be too much if not for the clear evidence, namely his astonishing advancement in Smithing, outpacing even Ealdric himself at that age.
“I knew your fancy Dragon friend couldn’t hold up to Ravvenblaq standards,” said Papa Jr. with a wide grin, clapping Varrin on the shoulder.
The lad smiled again. “You mean your standards.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, in one particular regard, that is undoubtedly true,” said Varrin. Junior had no idea who the Dragons really were, but it sure sounded damn impressive to be compared to one.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Papa Junior, rubbing his calloused hands together. “Give me a challenge.”
“I want to improve Kazandak.”
Ealdric paused his rubbing and frowned. “This blade is immutable, lad. It can’t be improved, or changed at all for that matter.”
“You said you wanted a challenge,” said Varrin. Papa Jr. smiled.
“Okay, fair enough,” said the older smith. “I can show you how I did it, but only because you’re my apprentice now.”
“Technically, I believe I am Hep’s apprentice,” said Varrin.
“Funny, considering you’re asking me for help.”
“Good point,” said Varrin.
“So let’s start with the material, and we can go over the weave layers from there. You know, I still have the Corvite samples used as proofs for your helmet. Not enough for a full blade, but maybe the crossguard.”
“Actually,” interrupted Varrin, “it is more complicated than that.”
Papa Jr. raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t need a new sword. I need to improve Kazandak itself.”
Junior sighed. “Well, lad, I do love a challenge, but there is no way to change that blade. I devised the immutable property specifically so it could never be changed, even by me, or even the System.”
“Aye,” said Varrin, “but the immutable property only applies to the physical object itself.”
“As opposed to what?” asked Papa Jr.
“The object’s soul.” Before Ealdric could raise his eyebrow any further, a strange glow began to emanate from Kazandak. Varrin closed his eyes and moved his hand in a slow, ceremonial manner, until resting on the hilt. His rest held there for a moment, and he took a deep breath.
When he lifted his hand, he lifted the sword off the table, but the old hunk of metal lay still on the stone slab. He was holding a blade of pure light, incorporeal and beautiful. The dull object left behind paled in the bask of this glorious thing, as though it had shed an old skin. That was certainly not a property Ealdric had conferred onto Kazandak.
“How did you do that?” asked Papa Junior, eyes fixed on the shining blade. As he peered deeper still into the glow, memories of his son began to surface. He felt the wind of the mountains as he taught the young one to recognize distant landmarks. He tasted the smoke of the forge as Ealdric III stood by, watching in amazement as Ealdric II put the final temper on a new spear head. He smelled blood as he wiped it from his son’s brow after the Creation Delve, not daring to let the young man see the tears behind his eyes.
“To be honest,” said Varrin, “it is much more difficult to explain than to do.”
Ealdric examined the blade of light. He closed his eyes and could sense the edge, finer than even he could make out. He walked over to the table and inhaled with a slow, meticulous breath, and the lattice was more intricate than anything he thought possible–webs upon webs, stretching everywhere, into every dimension, forever. It was craftsmanship of something far greater than himself, and he could sense himself within it.
When he opened his eyes, it was as if shrinking to a singular existence from among a great many.
“Oh,” Ealdric whispered, as inspiration took him. He rushed away, further into his workshop, leaving Varrin behind, the lad as baffled as when he’d walked in.