{Creation (Special): Successfully completed quest.}
{Calculating…}
..
‘Huh…that’s new..’ Apollyon thought as he caressed the whip, patiently awaiting his system’s prompts.
..
{Grade: A}
..
‘Grade A?’, he paused momentarily; ‘What is this, school?’ he suddenly thought with furrowed brows. Apollyon couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the notion of being graded on his quest like a student receiving a report card.
Ding!
{Congratulations! Rewarded + 400 experience points & + 1 Inspiration Point}
..
‘What the hell? So many experience points! And wait, what the fuck is an Inspiration point?’ he pondered with a hidden expression. But before he could; another prompt echoed within his mind.
..
Ding!
‘Now what?...’ he asked with increasing curiosity.
..
{Congratulations!}
{Currency Tab unlocked}
..
‘Jackpot?’ Apollyon exclaimed silently; ‘Currency!’ he called out mentally.
…
He waited for a couple of seconds but there was no response; ‘that’s odd…what gives?’
‘Overview’ he then called out.
Apollo Kraisler Heimarch
Level:
1 {670/1000 (67.0%)}
Age:
6
Race:
Human (Eretrian)
Title:
None
Realm:
Energy Refinement (2nd)
Initiate
Affiliation:
- Eretrian Noble
- Dracir Tiro
Resource:
Health: 74
Stamina: 40.10
Mana: 30.45
Body Energy: 46.30
Stats
Strength: 0.95
Agility: 0.70
Intelligence: 1.56
Constitution: 0.74
Leadership: 0.24
Recovery: 0.32
Martial Techniques
- Heimarch Martial Technique: Lvl 1 (50%)
Martial Skills
None
Magic Technique
- Wim Hof Breathing Technique: Lvl 2 (15%)
Magic Skills
None
Combat Proficiencies
- Basic Swordsmanship: Lvl 2 (68%)
- Basic Archery: Lvl 2 (32%)
Miscellaneous Skills
- Eretian Language: Lvl 10 (Max)
- Promethian Language: Lvl 2 (21%)
Statuses
None
Equipment Stats
None
Currency
- Gold: 0, Silver: 50, Copper: 37
- Inspiration Point: 1
‘So that’s where you are..’ he gazed at the new feature within his ‘Overview’ with awe. ‘It looks like it also shows the amount of money I have stored in the inventory, how interesting’ he thought, finding it convenient.
‘But how come it only unlocked now? I swear I stored money way before this…’, he thought back to the time his mother handed him a sum of money on a previous occasion just before he departed the manor for “emergencies”.
‘No, I guess the question is, what makes this “Inspiration point” so special?’, this new revelation baffled him and he couldn't grasp its purpose or utility.
“What am I supposed to do with it? Is it a form of currency, a means to unlock hidden abilities, or perhaps a key to something greater?”
The confusion swirled within him, but Apollyon was not one to back down from another mystery. He decided that, like everything else in this world, he would need to explore and experiment to uncover the true nature and potential of this newfound resource.
With the croclith whip in hand, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of anticipation. It seemed that this quest had opened a door to more than just designing a weapon; it had ushered him into the realm of unknown possibilities.
Orin's eyes fell upon the croclith whip in Apollyon's hands, and he couldn't help but ask a question. "So, lad, how does it feel to finally see your design come to life?"
Apollyon turned to face Orin, his expression a mix of excitement and curiosity. "It's incredible," he admitted. "To see something, I designed actually crafted... it's a feeling I can't quite describe."
Orin nodded appreciatively, a hint of pride in his eyes as he said, "Aye, it's a fine piece of work, no doubt. But, you know, it's still a prototype. There might be some imperfections we need to iron out."
Apollyon's excitement was momentarily dampened by the mention of imperfections. He understood that crafting such a complex weapon was a challenge, and perfection might be elusive. "Imperfections?" he asked, a touch of concern in his voice. "What kind of imperfections might you be talking about?"
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Orin shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, nothing major, tiro. Just a couple of minor things like balance, weight distribution, those sorts of details. It's a prototype, after all. I'll fine-tune it as we go along."
“Is that so…” Apollyon nodded, realizing that perfection often required iteration. "I understand. Thank you, lead smith” he suddenly thought of something with a frown.
Orin grinned, clapping Apollyon on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart kid; the design is worthy I’ll admit but these things tend to prop up in the production stage.
Orin's words carried a depth of wisdom as he continued to inspect the croclith whip in Apollyon's hands. His eyes, aged and experienced, seemed to penetrate the very essence of the weapon, tracing its curves and contours as if reading a complex map. The smithy's workshop, bathed in the soft glow of smoldering forges, lent an air of ancient craftsmanship to the moment.
"You see, lad," Orin began, his voice a rich baritone, "what's on a piece of parchment is but a shadow, a whisper of the real embodiment. Crafting a weapon, bringing it to life from mere designs, that's a different beast altogether."
Apollyon listened intently, his eyes fixed on Orin's weathered hands, which now caressed the whip with a gentle reverence. It was clear that Orin possessed not just the skills of a blacksmith but an innate understanding of the soul of a weapon.
"Every material has its quirks," Orin continued, "its own character. The iron sings its own song when it meets the anvil, and the croclith material has a rhythm all its own. We forge, we shape, but the material, lad, it tells us what it wants to be."
As Orin spoke, the workshop seemed to come alive. The rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils, the hiss of steam from the quenching tub, and the distant roar of the forge's fire blended into a symphony of creation. Apollyon felt a connection to the ancient craft, a hum in his bones that resonated with Orin's words.
Orin's gaze shifted from the whip to Apollyon's eyes, and there was a hint of a knowing smile on his lips. "Designs, they guide us. But the art of the forge, it's about listening, feeling, and coaxing the material to reveal its true nature. A weapon, lad, it's born in fire and shaped by the hands of those who understand."
Apollyon nodded, a newfound appreciation for the craft swelling within him. He realized that his role in this process extended beyond the initial design. He needed to be the conduit, the bridge between the abstract concept on paper and the tangible reality in Orin's hands.
"Thank you, lead smith," Apollyon said sincerely.
Orin's smile deepened, and he patted Apollyon's back. "You've got the heart for it, lad. Now, let's see what this whip can do in the hands of someone who understands this concept" he remarked as he dangled the whip in front of him.
“Go on, take it” the lead smith offered the whip to Apollyon.
Apollyon hesitated for a heartbeat, his moral compass tugging at his conscience. He knew that he had played a role in the design, but the craftsmanship, the artistry that had breathed life into the weapon, was all Orin's. He couldn't simply accept it for free; it didn't feel right.
“You mean it?” he reluctantly said.
Orin regarded Apollyon with a steady gaze, a mix of understanding and a hint of stubbornness in his eyes. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling like distant thunder within the workshop's cavernous space.
The lead smith sighed, “What? You getting cold feet all of a sudden?” he barked half-heartedly. “Besides, it’s just a prototype” he remarked.
“No, I-I’ll take it”, he stammered with a nod whilst he accepted the croclith whip. His fingers wrapped around the grip with a mix of reverence and gratitude. He found that the weight of it felt right in his hands, and he could sense it’s potential despite being a prototype.
"Thank you, once again," Apollyon said sheepishly.
Orin simply snorted, “Right, I haven’t forgotten about your other reward”, his calloused hand reached into his pocket, retrieving a gleaming object. Its surface caught the light in the workshop, casting a metallic glow that seemed to dance with every movement.
“Here take this too”, with a deft flick of his wrist, Orin sent the silver token spinning through the air. It glided gracefully, reflecting the forge's fiery ambiance in a mesmerizing display, before landing squarely in Apollyon's waiting hand.
Apollyon found it cool to the touch, its weight substantial in his palm. He inspected the curious object with glee after finding out what it was. It was the same anvil token he had received the last few days as he completed the smelting tasks but this time it was silver instead of iron.
"That there's a silver anvil token, lad," the lead smith explained. "It's a bit more special than the usual iron ones. Consider it as thanks for your design” he winked.
With those words, Apollyon quickly tucked the silver anvil token safely away before thanking the man’s hidden generosity once again.
“Now, go about your business kid, we’ve got work to do as you can see”, Orin pointed behind him.
Following Orin's subtle gesture, Apollyon's gaze fell upon a massive heap of broken, bloodied and battered weapons and armour piled up at the far corner of the smithy. The sight was startling, as if a battlefield had been compressed into a single mound of destruction. Swords with shattered blades, dented breastplates, and splintered shields were all tossed together, bearing the scars of fierce combat.
Amid the organized chaos of the smithy, Apollyon's eyes fell upon two familiar faces among the skilled artisans toiling diligently to repair the damaged equipment. It was none other than Helvar and Iana, both fully engrossed in their own tasks.
Helvar was hammering away at a sword with a mangled hilt. He stood tall with his muscular arms deftly wielding the hammer as he expertly reshaped the weapon. His concentration seemed unwavering, and his forehead glistened with sweat due to the searing heat of the forge. ‘Despite his shitty attitude, I guess he’s pretty good with his hands’, Apollyon suddenly thought.
Iana, in stark contrast, was a petite figure with an air of grace. Her delicate hands worked with precision as she meticulously inspected a set of chainmail in silence. With each careful adjustment, she ensured that the intricate links of the armour were properly connected. ‘Still the same quiet cat it seems like.’
The clanging of hammers and the hissing of cooling metal surrounded them, yet they seemed entirely focused on their tasks, attuned to the rhythm of the forge.
Orin leaned in closer, his voice low and filled with a hint of frustration. "Don't know where they all came from, but it seems we've got our work cut out for us. These need reforging, and it's going to be a long job. Probably some recruits got themselves into a bit of a scrap, I reckon."
“Is that so…”, Apollyon murmured. “Well, lead smith, I won't keep you any longer, I'll make myself scarce and let you get back to work." With a final nod of farewell, Apollyon turned to leave the bustling forge, the whip tucked within his arm like a precious treasure. As he walked away, the clamour of the forge faded behind him as his thoughts darkened like a storm cloud looming on the horizon.
‘Scuffle huh…’ he replayed the lead smith’s account over and over again mentally before coming to a conclusion. ‘Yeah right…’
Orin's casual mention of the heap of broken weapons and armour had ignited a chilling realization within him. Could these shattered remnants have any connection to the brutal attack that had unfolded within the medical ward? He felt that this was the likely case.
The possibility gnawed at his conscience like a relentless beast. A sense of unease washed over him, casting a long, ominous shadow over his thoughts. If these broken weapons were indeed related to the injured and the masked attackers, it meant that something was terribly wrong, something much darker than he had initially perceived.
His steps grew heavier as he navigated the camp's pathways, each one leading him deeper into a labyrinth of mysteries and deceit. He couldn't shake the feeling that a shroud of secrecy had descended upon the camp, veiling the truth in darkness.
What disturbed him even more was the fact that Orin, a veteran blacksmith who seemed to know everything happening within the forge, was oblivious to the grim events of the medical ward. It wasn't just a simple cover-up; it was a meticulously orchestrated facade, one that had swallowed the truth whole.
‘Or perhaps the lead smith only mentioned a convincing lie…this too is plausible.’
As Apollyon wandered the camp, he couldn't help but wonder who was behind this elaborate charade if it was the former, and what they stood to gain from concealing the horrors that had unfolded. A sense of foreboding settled over him, and he knew that treading further would endanger himself soon enough.
Apollyon's mind churned with suspicion and doubt as he continued to ponder the enigma surrounding the camp's recent events. Alistair, the head decurion, loomed in his thoughts like a shadowy figure, a prime suspect in the cover-up. It troubled him deeply, for he had always perceived Alistair as a staunch defender of law and order, a man who upheld the rules to the utmost.
‘Just why?’ he thought.
The question that gnawed at him was why Alistair would resort to such an elaborate concealment of the truth. If there were issues or concerns within the camp, Apollyon believed that a more transparent approach would have been the natural course of action. But there had to be something darker, something more insidious lurking beneath the surface.
One possibility that crossed Apollyon's mind was the notion of suppressing instability. What if Alistair had chosen to cover up the events in an attempt to maintain order and prevent panic among the recruits and townsfolk?
Yet, this theory raised more questions than answers. Was the instability so severe that it warranted such drastic measures? And what exactly had transpired within the medical ward that posed such a dire threat to the camp's stability?
A heavy reluctance settled in his chest. The path he was considering treading was fraught with uncertainty and peril, and it had little to do with him directly. Doubts and reservations gnawed at him, urging him to reconsider.
‘Maybe the naïve kid was right, perhaps I’m overthinking things…’
His thoughts then drifted to his butler, Alfred, a decurion within the camp. Perhaps he could seek more information from him. But as this idea took root in his mind, a slew of questions and uncertainties followed. ‘Wait what if Alfred dared to uncover more than he’s expected to do? Given his loyalty, he’d probably dare to barge into dangerous territory in order to uncover the truth…’
Apollyon ruminated over this possibility, ‘he wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?’
It was a conundrum that left him at a crossroads, torn between his innate curiosity and the ominous cloud of danger that hung over the camp.
With a heavy sigh, Apollyon pushed aside the unsettling thoughts that had plagued his mind, at least for the time being. He resolved to continue with his daily tasks, attempting to maintain a semblance of normalcy despite the enigma that surrounded the recent events.
Leaving the smithy behind, he made his way towards the contribution hall, a place where the value of his efforts could be quantified and exchanged for a tangible reward. The sun cast long shadows across the camp, and the sounds of armour clinking and recruits sparring served as a backdrop to his journey.
As he entered the contribution hall, a dimly lit but spacious chamber, his eyes fell upon the bustling activity within. Tiros and soldiers, each bearing their respective tokens, were engaged in exchanges with the stern-faced clerks behind the counters. The hall was filled with a hum of anticipation, as individuals awaited their turn to trade their tokens for precious contribution points.
Apollyon approached one of the counters in the contribution hall, where a middle-aged female clerk stood, her eyes trained on the sea of recruits and soldiers navigating the exchange process. Her face bore a thoughtful expression, as though she was engrossed in the intricate dance of tokens and points.
With a polite but curious tone, she looked up at Apollyon as he presented the silver anvil token. Her eyebrows raised subtly in surprise, and her initial curiosity was evident.
"A silver anvil token," she murmured to herself, her gaze fixed on the precious item in her hand. She turned the token over, examining it from every angle as if to verify its authenticity. It wasn't every day that such a rare token crossed her counter.
After a moment, she met Apollyon's gaze with a more professional demeanor, her expression neutral and poised. She took the token carefully and asked for his personal stamp for confirmation. Her eyes then flicked to a nearby terminal, where she deftly input some information.
"Silver anvil token," she announced to Apollyon, her voice maintaining a calm and businesslike tone. "Worth... three hundred contribution points."
The revelation seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and Apollyon could see a subtle hint of respect in the clerk's eyes. Silver tokens were a rarity, and their considerable value was not lost on her.
With a polite nod of thanks, Apollyon accepted the significant sum of contribution points, which were transferred to him via his stamp. The clerk continued her meticulous work, her professional demeanor seemingly unwavering, but Apollyon couldn't help but notice a newfound curiosity in her gaze. Perhaps his unorthodox presentation had stirred the otherwise routine workings of the contribution hall, leaving behind a small ripple of intrigue in its wake.
Apollyon couldn't contain his excitement as he glanced at the nearby terminal. His heart raced with anticipation as he watched the numbers on the screen. There it was, displayed in bright digital figures: his total contribution points.
"350 points," he whispered to himself, a mix of satisfaction and longing filling his thoughts. It was a respectable sum, no doubt, but he couldn't help but feel it was still insufficient for his ambitions. The idea of acquiring a formidable martial skill had been a persistent goal since he arrived at the military camp.
He pondered how his fellow recruits fared in their endeavors. He knew that most of them received far less in terms of contribution points. The stark reality was that 300 points, the value of his silver token, was equivalent to thirty days of daily smelting tasks. It wasn't lost on him that others had to toil for a considerable amount of time to accumulate such points. This was the advantage of tasks listed under the “Immunes” section and he was guilty of this fact especially when it came to Willard who had no choice but to opt for normal “slave labour” type tasks.
Apollyon couldn't help but wonder about the struggles and challenges faced by the others. Were they satisfied with their progress? Did they harbour similar ambitions, or were their goals more modest? It was a reminder of the diverse backgrounds and aspirations that converged within the camp.