Reassignment to Camp B was today. Exill struggled to get up, his tongue felt like dry sandpaper, and the effects of the most atrocious hangover heaved his empty stomach. He dry retched a couple times before looking over at Verill, who wasn’t faring any better. He patted his pockets looking for his coin pouch, blinking blearily as slow panic began to set in. Thankfully he hadn’t lost it, but it was significantly lighter.
‘I have no regrets.’ Exill closed his emerald eyes.
Last night was the last time he could spend freely with Verill. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but both of them needed a pick-me-up, perhaps more so for Verill. The Ranger had simultaneously lost his woman and closest friend, and was leaving to face an uncertain future.
Collecting his belongings, he embraced the similarly hungover Verill one last time, savouring the warmth of their friendship.
“You take care of yourself.” Exill whispered.
“Don’t worry, I’m too good-looking to die.” Verill joked back.
Reluctantly, Exill looked over his shoulders one last time before dragging leaden feet to his new quarters. He felt his brows knit together in a frown as he recognised the stubborn figure pacing in front of his barracks.
“Where were you me lad! You worried me sick when you didn’t come to the forge yesterday! You’re late and we have much work to do!”
The dwarf dragged hungover Exill to the forge while he explained the increased quota and how many arrowheads were expected to be made each day.
Exill reluctantly donned his apron and gloves and began hammering away at the heated metal, wincing as the clang of iron threatened to split his skull. The blazing forge was painful for his parched throat, so he frequently took breaks in defiance of the Dwarf’s watchful glare.
Come mid-afternoon, a lone trumpet resonated through the air, signifying the end of combat classes for militia recruits. Except, classes had been dismissed several days ago. This sound marked the end of their training.
“I’m stepping out.” Exill told the Dwarf.
“Hmph. Don’t take too long.”
He waded through the gathered crowds to witness a column of newly minted soldiers filing out of camp. They were equipped with the best gear produced within these very walls and looked resplendent in them. However, the column soon withdrew from view, and he returned to workshop, feeling an empty hole in his heart where his friend used to be.
***
Two months passed in the blink of an eye.
Exill received a letter from Verill informing him that he had been assigned to the southeastern front near Seaford where he was safe, there was minimal danger as the two sides were deadlocked.
Exill wrote a reply bemoaning the worsening rations and the bastard dwarf with his unreasonable quotas. Training boots that had the [EXP Plus] enchantment had also been acquired during this time. They were brass toe-capped leather boots in decent condition, inconspicuous unlike the Blacksmith’s Apron. This allowed him to wear it at all times. They had cost 300 Denars for the pair and though he had initially winced at the cost, it was a bargain deal, considering a newer pair could cost twice that much.
The intermediate goal was to acquire more training gear. Compressing the time required to train and improve jobs was a worthwhile investment. Not that he could fully exploit it due to the attention it would garner; he estimated it would take two more months of work at the current rate of 8x EXP before [Expert Blacksmith] could be obtained. Speaking of which, he stopped hammering at the arrowhead for a moment to grab Ham’s attention.
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“Master… would I be able to earn more if I progressed to [Expert Blacksmith]?”
Ham stopped counting his coins for a moment, a look of puzzlement crossing his face. It took even the best [Blacksmith] a minimum of two years before they were offered the option to progress, and the Dwarf wondered for a moment if all the training gear the lad had equipped had taken effect. Several other apprentices looked up from their work, amused that the transferred newcomer dared ask such a question.
“Did the Will bless yer with the option to progress?”
“No, nothing like that.” Exill replied hastily to which Ham continued to glare at him.
“Boy, I hope to the Spirit what ye say is true, because otherwise I would kick yer out myself.” Ham spat disgustedly to one side and swept his hand in the direction of the other apprentices who had all stopped their work.
“Yer think these lads hadn’t progressed to [Expert Blacksmith] because they couldn’t? Be thinking yer somehow above them, wearing all that training gear?” Ham snorted in derision, “Let me give yer one piece of advice. Craftsmen value strong fundamentals. I wasn’t joking when I said yer be a [Blacksmith] under me for the next eight years.” He swept his hand in the direction of the inner city.
“Ask anyone else, even that damn Markor wouldn’t accept an [Expert Blacksmith] who hasn’t spent six years as a [Blacksmith]. It shows yer lack the fundamentals lad, it would be a disgrace to all the craftsmen who spilt their hot sweat and tears, slowly mastering their craft.” He puffed out his cheeks in mockery, “Bah! See if anyone would buy a sword crafted by a lad who barely left his mother’s teat, no matter if the Card states he be a [Master Blacksmith]!”
The others in the workshop laughed alongside the owner, throwing cold looks at the newcomer who didn’t know his place. Tradition and hierarchy was highly valued in their culture and the fact that Exill had tried to run, before he could even walk didn’t sit exactly well with them.
Exill lowered his head in contrition, regretting he ever asked the question. It was bad enough that the other apprentices called him a ‘coward’ for transferring out of Camp A. It was obvious his innocent query had won him no favours.
‘It’s alright. The war will not last forever and I need to be prepared to leave this camp when that happens.’ He thought grimly, but a change of plans seemed necessary if blacksmithing wasn’t as viable a job as he first thought.
Exill didn’t doubt the Master Smith’s words. Although he had glossed over it at the time, it perfectly matched what Verill had said about Tier II progressions of [Crafter]. There was little point in marketing himself as a prodigy if no one would buy his wares.
He had thought his knowledge in mechanical engineering would give him an edge, but working under Ham opened his eyes on just how little he knew about material science, or smithing for that matter. Sure, he was familiar with bronze, iron and steel and the variations of their alloys… but mithril or adamantine? The best way to temper them? Some of the things he had learnt about these materials defied logic, and there was no earthly equivalent.
***
The following days were spent revising plans and gathering information in general.
The refugees who had visited Ark before, back when the Kingdom was at peace were a valuable source of intel. He had gathered details on the various ongoings of Ark, the cost of registering at the Mercenary Guild, and even the day-to-day cost of staying and eating at an Inn.
One of the more interesting facts he had learned was the existence of the Royal Library. Talking with Verill and the others, it had readily become apparent that books were a scarce and treasured resources in this world. That might be why the Library required a 1,000 Denar entry deposit for residents.
Ark was an expensive city to live in, many times more what it would cost a villager to live out in the countryside. This was balanced by one crucial detail that still blew his mind to this day.
The Labyrinth Tower of Ark!
Even from outside the city walls he could see a tiered circular monolith reminiscent of the Tower of Babel, reaching for the heavens. It was said that the Labyrinth itself was a simple mound in the dirt with a dimensional portal that split up adventurers unless they were in a party. There was a complex theory that the Tower acted as a seal to compress and limit further expansion of the dungeon.
Exill would need to save up a minimum of 120 Denars to transition into a part-time Mercenary to exploit the Labyrinth. Yet he still needed to purchase more gear!
‘I managed to secretly craft a spearhead of my own, I can attach it to a stave at any time once I leave this place. I just need some armour to protect my torso and legs.’ He was in the process of bribing a leatherworker in Camp C to craft him a set of protective armour. The individual had estimated it would take a few more weeks to collect the scraps necessary to craft it. 80 Denars had already been set aside for the purchase. It was a fantastic deal for the scrap armour set, considering a full leather set could easily cost ten times that amount!
Sighing, he continued pounding at the red-hot incandescent metal against the anvil. He was looking forward to the end of the war. He was tired of gruel and oatmeal, but more importantly, prayed Verill would return safe and sound.