First Craft

There was a familiarity to the weight in his hand and yet, for the first time in years, it was subtly different. Renewal to his sense of purpose again. The System screen flickered at the edge of his vision, its soft crimson glow filling the small workshop as dusk deepened around him.

Again he lifted the hammer up and brought it down, crashing onto the fresh piece of metal laid on the anvil.

Bang!

The clanging of metal against metal echoed in the room, this time firm and sure. Rivyn worked instinctively now, the hammer strikes falling into a consistent tempo. With each strike it was as if life was breathed into the blade. He could feel it-smooth, with no wobbles, no uneven edges. And with each strike of the hammer, the metal changed; morphed into something much more than what it once had been-a potential longing to be satisfied.

There was a soft chime as the System spoke, but Rivyn didn't stop. He stayed intent on the sword in front of him, swinging once again to shape the blade and get those imperfections right that plagued his previous attempts.

The soft glow from the furnace played leaping games across the walls, stretching shadows that writhed with every twitch of his arm. Rivyn was not worried about the sweat beading on his forehead. This time he could feel it; he was so close. This was to be no ordinary sword.

At last he stepped back, laying the hammer down with shaking hands. Upon the anvil the sword shone, its edge keen, its form perfect. Rivyn stared upon it, scarce daring believe the truth.

His heart was in his throat; his mind raced with excitement and disbelief. For the first time in so long, he hadn't failed.

Bing!

A chime chimed, and Rivyn's gaze was captured by the glow of the screen again. New text, in soft, glowing characters, appeared before him.

[Task Done: Build Weapon Complete]

[System Points Earned: 1]

Rivyn blew out a contemplative breath, weighing the single point he had forged in his favour. It wasn't great, but it was better-a step in the right direction. He looked back at the sword. Certainly not a work of art, it was decidedly serviceable and that, at least, was more than he had managed on anything to date.

Reaching out and picking it up, it settled comfortably in his hand, just the right weight. The balance was good; the edge gleamed with sharpness. It might not have been the best edge in town, but it belonged to him. A small smile played at the corner of his lips.

"I did it," he mouthed to himself. "Finally."

Yet, his very short-lived consolation was brought down by the jarring knock at the door. The smile disappeared, and the unpleasant realization now dawned on him-it was the debt collector.

"Rivyn! Open up! "

It was the same voice, laced with irritation and a subtle threat. He would have to come up with something soon; the end of the week approached, and the coppers left in his pocket wouldn't hardly placate the requisitions of the collector. His gaze strayed back to the sword in his hand; it was his only hope.".

He took a great breath, Rivyn reached for the door, wrenching it open. On the other side was the burly man from earlier, arms crossed, his expression unyielding.

"Your time's out, blacksmith. You got the dough? Rivyn shook his head slowly, keeping his gaze level. "Not yet. But I've made something. A sword. If you'll let me—"

"A sword?" he sneered, cutting the merchant off. "What's the use in showing me one more of your failures? Nobody in this city has any use for your trash."

"This one's different," Rivyn insisted, raising the blade for emphasis. "It's good. Test it yourself.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sword; his lip curling into an ugly sneer. "And you expect me to believe you've finally found out how to make something worthwhile?"

Rivyn didn't even flinch. "Try it.

"Silence," he ordered when the debt collector stared him down. The man growled low in his throat, then snatched the sword from Rivyn's hand in a guttural growl of resolve. He scanned it briefly, brow furrowed in concentration, peering at the blade. In silence, he whipped through the air several times, testing its balance.

His heart was racing in his chest. If the sword did not meet the man's expectations, if it was found lacking, he could lose everything. His future, his shop hung in the balance of this critical moment.

The collector stopped the sword from swinging, looking back at Rivyn with an unreadable expression. "Not bad," he finally admitted, still in a very begrudging manner.

Rivyn released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"But," continued the man, "thou dost want a purse of money;

In that moment, a heavy weight fell onto Rivyn's stomach. Of course, one sword could never pay off his debt. He needed more time.

"I'll make more," Rivyn said hastily. "Just give me a little while longer, and I can earn enough to settle the debt." Rivyn's words stopped the collector short with a soft, considerate click of the flat blade into his palm. "You've had plenty of time in the past. Why now am I supposed to think you can do it?"

Rivyn fisted his hands. He couldn't very well tell him about the System; no one would ever believe him. He had to convince him some other way.

"For I will not leave you," Rivyn said, level and firm his voice. "I have started it. Just give me a week more, and I shall pay your money back to you." He swore by it.

The debt collector watched him for a few seconds, then expelled all his air in one heavy sigh. "One week, Rivyn. Only one week. If you haven't got the money by then, you won't just lose your shop; you'll lose everything. Got that?

Rivyn nodded, "Understood".

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Rivyn standing in the doorway with his sword still in hand. As the collector vanished into the distance, Rivyn's shoulders began to sag in a gigantic release of pent-up tension. He had bought himself a little time. But now, the real work should get underway.

Glancing back to the System screen, it was still floating in his vision. For forging the sword, he'd gained one point, but that was barely an improvement. It was 100 points to upgrade his Basic Crafter Skill, and now it would take an eternity before he could get a lot of them.

Then another prompt appeared on the System screen

. [New Quest Available: Craft a set of armor (0/1) Rivyn frowned. Armor? He had, to date, never been able to make a proper set of armor. His previous tries ended in disaster-ill-fitting, lopsided, and utterly uncomfortable to wear. Still, if the System was presenting it as a task then perhaps.

His fists closed, and a wave of determination abruptly washed anew into his chest. He couldn't afford to be doubting himself now. The System had given him an opportunity, and he wasn't going to throw it away.

He moved around swiftly, getting the material from his messy workshop shelves. Before him lay pieces of metal, leftovers of leather, rivets, and all types of tools. The mind was race-ready with ideas as designs took form while working.

It was as if something had been unleashed inside of him. The System's presence was subtle, not quite obvious, yet impossible to miss-a steady beat guiding his thoughts and making creation easier, instinctive. His hands now danced across metal as he hammered, shaped, and polished with a confidence he had never had before. The hours swam together in a haze, until at last, when Rivyn stepped back from his work, the first bits of armor were affixed to his workbench: a shining breastplate, polished to a brilliant gleam, was followed by bracers that comfortably wrapped the arms tight enough not to allow for chafing. He looked at them in total disbelief. He had done it. Ding! The chime went off once more, and Rivyn turned to the screen showing the System.

[Task Completed: Craft a Set of Armor]

Rivyn smiled, feeling the weight of five points. It was a modest step, yet undeniably progress. With each task he completed and every new item he crafted, he edged closer to the day when he would pay off his debt and master the System. His hand came out, and his fingers danced across the polished surface of the chestplate. The weight from all his failures lifted a little now with every success, part of a burden that had for too long been carried. "One week," Rivyn murmured under his breath, "I'll make it." He was not only alive then; he was living.