The Tower's Blacksmith

The small workshop reverberated from hammering, the clang of metal striking against metal dancing across soot-stained walls. Rivyn's brow trickled with beads of sweat as his grip tightened around the hammer, the head raised for one more blow to fall upon the half-forged sword laid out on the anvil.

Clang!

The uneven edge of the blade wobbled under the blow, bending where it should have stayed straight. Rivyn cursed under his breath. No matter how hard he tried, the result was always the same: failure.

He set the hammer down, his chest heaving with frustration. He glanced around the workshop, barely lit by dying embers in the furnace. There was little to show for it: a few rusty tools lying about in disarray on a wooden table, the few shelves lined with scraps of metal, and one old rack that should have boasted the weapons he had forged. But the rack was empty. There were no decent weapons to show. Not a single blade, axe, or even a dagger to his name. All he managed to forge was unusable.

A sharp knock on the door yanked him from his reverie.

"Rivyn! You in there?" The voice was gruff, familiar in a way that made his stomach turn. It was the debt collector, the one who'd come last week. "Time's up! If you don't have the coin today, I'm taking the shop!"

Rivyn wiped his hands on his apron, more out of nervous habit than necessity. He hadn't turned a single sale in weeks. Without a miracle, today was the day he lost everything.

He trudged to the door and pulled it open. A tall, heavyset man stood in the frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his thick mustache twitching with impatience.

"Afternoon, Rivyn," the man said with a humourless grin. "You got my money, or are we going to have a problem?"

Rivyn swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I just need a bit more time. I'm close to finishing an order—"

"That is what you said the last time." All his grin was wiped off by a stare of cold indifference. "You have had your chances. The boss isn't gonna wait forever. Either you pay up by the end of the week, or we take the shop. And don't think we'll stop there. We'll take whatever else we can get too."

Rivyn felt his words settle upon him with a weight no lighter than an iron chain. He had nothing left: no money, no reputation, and if he lost the shop… there would be no coming back from it. He nodded, his voice little more than a whisper.

"End of the week."

"Good." The man turned, his boots heavy on the cobblestones outside. "Make sure you don't disappear on us."

Rivyn closed the door behind him, leaning against it as he let out a long breath. End of the week… How was he supposed to fix his failures in just a few days?

He shuffled back to the anvil, staring at the half-finished sword that lay before him. The misshapen blade seemed to mock him, a reflection of his own inadequacy. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many sleepless nights he spent hammering away, the results always managed to be the same.

"Why… can't I get this right?" he muttered to himself as he ran a hand through tangled hair. "Everybody else in the city can make swords in their sleep. But me? I can't even get the basics down."

This wasn't how things were supposed to go. When he finally opened his shop, he had wanted to be the best blacksmith in town: a master craftsman that guild leaders and adventurers alike would come in search of, looking for high quality, customized pieces of equipment-blades, armor, even shields. Reality had been cruel. With each attempt being worse than the last, his reputation tumbled so low not even a beginner would buy from him anymore.

He punched his fist onto the anvil, and the sword clattered on the floor. The keen clang boomed within the silent room-a reminder of how really bereft the shop was now. He was alone, stuck in that circle of failure, with no way out.

As he stood there, the room grew darker yet, and a strange feeling crawled over him. It was as if the air thickened before him, weighing upon his chest. His breath caught, and his vision swam for a moment before—

Ding!

Before him appeared a bright, glowing light, floating in mid-air like a phantom. Rivyn blinked, instinctively stepping back as his heart pounded.

"What… is that?" he whispered.

The light shimmered and coalesced into the shape of a screen. First impressions brought to mind the Blue System that adventurers and craftsmen alike received when they entered the tower. The whole world, if one had any hope to ever be something more-warrior, mage, merchant-had the Blue System to guide them: granting skills, tracking their stats, offering quests to help them grow in power.

But this was different.

Whereas the normal one was blue and had a sober, almost ethereal glow, this one floating before Rivyn was crimson. The letters and symbols which appeared upon the screen pulsed with deep red light, casting long shadows into the walls of his workshop.

[System Activated]

Rivyn's eyes bulged. System? He had never heard of a system like this coming on. Anyone, be they blacksmith, swordsman, or farmer, awakened at the same age to the same Blue System. What was this?

Before more than processing that fact could be done, another line popped into existence.

[Welcome, Basic Crafter Skill unlocked. Points required for next upgrade: 100.]

He stared hard at the words and tried to make some sense of them. The Basic Crafter Skill? The only one he'd ever managed to unlock in the normal Blue System was Basic Blacksmithing, and it got him nowhere. But this… this offered him so much more than that. This was offering him something far broader.

He hesitated for a moment, reaching out and tapping his fingers on the glowing screen. The instant he touched it, the information expanded.

[Basic Crafter Skill: Allows the crafting of weapons, armor, potions, accessories, and skill books. Level: 1.]

He swallowed hard. Potion-making? Accessory creation? The creation of skill books? Things only professional craftsmen knew how to do, men and women who were often the culmination of a few year's hardwork and training. And yet, this System was offering it all to him in one neat package.

A spark of hope flared in his chest. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, he began to see light at the end of the tunnel.

"But how am I supposed to do that." His voice trailed away as another prompt popped up.

[To progress, earn system points using your skills or by completing assigned tasks.]

That was it. He had to use the skill to earn points. Simple in theory, but it wouldn't be easy in practice. Crafting something that would actually succeed… that had always been his downfall.

Yet, this was an opportunity he couldn't afford to pass on. If the System existed-if this skill worked like it said it did-then perhaps he finally could prove himself. Maybe he would finally be able to repair that sword, create items that people actually desired, and pay off his debt.

His eyes hardened into determined slits. He couldn't afford to fail again.

With a new piece of metal in hand, he walked over to the anvil with a fresh burst of energy. He would make it if it killed him to try this new system right now. The feel of the weight of the metal in his grasp was familiar, yet something inside him was different. In the corner of his vision, the screen of the System flickered as he lifted the hammer, casting over his work with a faint, blood-red glow.

His hand didn't tremble as he brought the hammer down.