Chapter 3: Vargar (1)

A familiar force seized Blake's body. It felt as if someone were pulling him upward, even though he could still feel the ground beneath his feet. Before he knew it, he had left the character creation room and appeared on a jagged road.

An icy chill slapped him in the face.

He gazed up the uneven path winding toward the snowy mountain. Snowflakes cascaded in abundance, and heavy clumps frequently fell from the surrounding trees. Although the road was somehow spared from deep drifts, Blake's boots—with wooden soles and leather uppers—still sank into the snow blanketing it.

His breath hung in the air, obscuring half his vision, further cluttered by system messages warning of his current debuffs.

If this continued, he would eventually start losing health points.

Just then, someone reached out to him.

"Ye're a player, eh?"

Turning off the system messages with a thought, Blake held his breath and looked down toward the source of the muffled voice.

An old dwarf, no taller than 4'3", stood there, half his face hidden behind a brown scarf, his white Viking beard heavy with snow.

He squinted as he sized up Blake, assessing his potential.

Thanks to the titles Blake had received prior to arriving here, an aura surrounded him that hinted at his capabilities.

The Spiritual Blacksmith title ensured he could grasp concepts more easily and craft items no one else could. The old dwarf, however, was experienced enough to tell that this was external influence, not Blake's own talent.

He harrumphed. "Ye're a brat born with a golden spoon! We'll see if ye're worthy of it. I'm Vargar, the traveling blacksmith. I stumbled upon this zone and was told by the world voice that I'd meet a player on my way here."

"My name's Superbia, and I'm looking forward to working under you," Blake introduced himself using his nickname, choosing his words carefully based on his experience in minimum-wage jobs where bosses liked to exploit their authority.

If there was a chance to leverage their status, most would take it.

The dwarf shook his backpack—nearly as big as he was—by its shoulder straps and turned around. "Ye're not bad. Time will tell how long ye'll keep that attitude. We're heading deeper into the mountain. Hold onto this first."

Just as players wielded the system, Vargar wielded his backpack; it opened on its own and spat out a fur-lined jacket.

Blake reached for it eagerly, like a parched man grasping for water, and bundled up. The brown jacket was a little too big for him, but that suited him just fine. He would have liked to squat down and hug himself, but Vargar harrumphed and started up the mountain path.

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The newly acquired stat eased the biting cold, warming his calves and feet. It was a peculiar sensation unique to the game world; in reality, people would still have cold legs despite wearing a jacket.

Occasional gusts of icy air prickled him, but not enough to hinder his movement. Only the snow posed a challenge as Blake trudged along the path with his minimal stats.

"So players really have returned. Many more now, ye?" Vargar asked, breaking the silence.

Blake replied, "Yeah. Were you expecting their return?"

"It's been the talk these past years. More players mean more sales! I might return home to reopen the business! Haha!" Vargar laughed heartily.

Blake, however, found nothing amusing.

All he had been doing was following the dwarf's backpack. He couldn't open the game system to learn more about his titles and rewards because of the steep, treacherous path.

He hadn't received any weapons or equipment.

Vargar hadn't given him any quests, either.

The old man kept prattling on about his adventures and sales. It was like being forced to listen to a boss's ramblings back on Earth. Blake had endured such talk countless times to keep his job, and a dislike for Vargar was growing within him.

It all came out at the dwarf like an avalanche. "Can't we actually do something?!"

"Aye, ye lasted longer than I thought," Vargar chuckled.

"What the hell do you mean? Do you even know where we are? This is the Lost Kingdom's zone! There must be valuable stuff all around us, buried under the snow! We don't have to climb all the way to the mountain's spire, do we?! It's so boring!" Blake exclaimed.

"Ye don't have to follow me. I know ye hold the keys to this place as a player who's been sent here, but I didn't enter this zone intending to use a player in the first place. Just give me back my jacket before ye go your way," Vargar replied, stretching out his hand.

Blake gritted his teeth. "I'll... stay with you."

"And?"

"And?"

"Don't ye think ye must say something?"

"...I'm sorry," Blake muttered.

"Good brat," Vargar grinned behind his scarf. "I'm not foolish enough to burn bridges with a player whose connections lie in the Lost Kingdom! Ye know nothing about it, though! Do ye know about the Lost King's Crown?"

Blake clenched his fists.

Now that was something he'd like to hear more about!

He shook his head.

Vargar harrumphed. "The Lost King wore his crown like a badge of his achievements, not just a symbol of sovereignty. He forged it himself. Rumor has it that every successor forged their own crown, each piece molded at a significant milestone. The beginning of the Lost King's reign is such a milestone. And since the crown adorns one's head, its first piece must also be hidden at the top of this zone—the mountain's spire!"

Blake's blood surged with excitement.