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The cave air was cool, tinged with the faint metallic tang of the forge's dying embers. I flexed my fingers, still sore from the last few projects, and stared down at the scattered tools and materials on the workbench.
The weight of not knowing gnawed at me
Sure, I could do things – work metal, craft artifacts, even channel Exira when I focused hard enough – but the how and why still eluded me. I hated it. Hated feeling like I was fumbling around in the dark, relying more on instinct than understanding.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “If I’m going to survive this world, I need more than just a knack for figuring things out,” I muttered to myself. “I need answers.”
That was when Aunt Nora walked in, her arms laden with shimmering materials, her expression somewhere between amused and determined. “Well, aren’t you looking all broody today,” she teased, setting her load down with a flourish. “Don’t worry, Lexi. By the time we’re done, you might actually understand what you’re doing.”
I looked up, raising a brow. “Oh, great. Another one of your ‘you’ll thank me later’ lessons?”
She smirked, holding up a chunk of Oretheon. “Absolutely. Sit up, kid. You’re about to get schooled.”
And that was how it began.
.
.
.
The forge was quieter than usual, the lingering warmth of the flames providing a cozy backdrop as I sat at the workbench, fidgeting with a small chunk of Sallowstone. Aunt Nora stood across from me, sorting through a pile of materials with her usual practiced ease.
“You’ve been doing pretty well so far, Lexi,” she said, glancing at me with a smile. “But you’re at the stage where knowing how something works isn’t enough. You need to understand why it works the way it does.”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “Is this one of those ‘life lessons disguised as an explanation’ things? Because I’ve had a long day, Aunt Nora.”
She smirked, holding up a chunk of shimmering Oretheon. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. This is important. We’re talking about the ranking system for enchanted gear and artifacts. It’s foundational knowledge if you want to create anything worth a damn. So sit up and listen.”
I groaned but straightened in my seat. “Fine. Enlighten me.”
“Alright,” she began, setting the Oretheon down and leaning on the workbench, her tone shifting into teacher mode. “There are two key ways we classify enchanted items: Rank and Stars. Rank tells you the maximum limit of what an item can do—how much change it can bring at a physical or metaphysical level. Stars measure the quality and uniqueness of the item’s effects.”
She paused, waiting for me to acknowledge.
I nodded. “Okay, so ranks are about power levels, and stars are about how refined or special the item is?”
“Exactly,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Ranks are pretty straightforward. We’ve got five of them, going from basic to godlike. Let me dumb it down for you.”
She raised her fingers one by one as she listed them off. “First, there’s Mundane. This is your baseline—no real enchantments, just slightly better than regular stuff. Think of it as having minor effects, like keeping a blade sharp longer or keeping your bread warm.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Wow, magical bread warmers. Truly, the pinnacle of enchanting.”
She flicked my forehead lightly. “Focus, Lexi. Next is Mortal. These are practical, everyday-use enchanted items that can make a noticeable difference, like a sword that never dulls or armor that slightly enhances your stamina. It’s where most craftspeople operate.”
“Sounds boring,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead.
Aunt Nora grinned. “Then you’ll love Overmortal. That’s where things get interesting. This rank represents items that can bend or even break the normal rules of reality – and one of the core identities of an overmortal gear is that they would show signs of forming an ego”
I leaned forward, intrigued. “Umm, an Ego …. Like an old man talking”
“Hold your horses,” she said, wagging a finger, “Ego is more like little mental intuitions you get from the item, like in danger it will give you warnings and stuff more like a 6th sense”
“Proper sentient ego is only seen in the top immortal tier or divine tier artifacts”
“After Overmortal comes Immortal. These are the kind of items legends are written about. Weapons that can cut through dimensions, artifacts that can manipulate time, or armor that makes the wearer invincible to certain attacks. At this rank, you’re no longer just affecting the physical world but touching the metaphysical.”
I blinked. “And then there’s Divine, I’m guessing?”
“Correct,” Aunt Nora said, her expression growing more serious. “Divine artifacts are on a whole other level. These are items that fundamentally alter the world around them, capable of rewriting reality itself. They’re so rare that most people won’t even see one in their lifetime.”
“Rewriting reality?” I repeated, incredulous.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But Divine items come with their own risks. Wielding them is as much about understanding their power as it is about surviving their effects. Misuse can destroy the wielder—or worse.”
“Now,” she continued, “let’s talk about stars. These don’t measure power directly but rather the item’s quality, craftsmanship, and uniqueness.”
“So a five-star Mundane item could be better than a one-star Overmortal item?” I asked.
“Exactly,” she said, pleased with my quick understanding. “Think of it this way: a one-star item might be functional but clunky or unstable, while a five-star item is like a masterpiece. Even a mundane five-star sword could outperform a poorly made Overmortal sword in the right circumstances.”
I nodded slowly. “Got it. So stars determine how well something does what it’s supposed to do.”
“And how elegantly it does it,” she added. “The difference between a one-star and a five-star item is like the difference between a rock and a diamond. Both are hard, but only one will catch your eye and endure the test of time.”
“Okay, Lexi, let’s simplify this further for you,” Aunt Nora said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Mundane items? They’re like a helpful neighbor who’ll hold your ladder steady while you work. Mortal items? A friend who’ll lend you a hand when you’re struggling. Overmortal? That’s your buddy who brings a bulldozer to clear the path for you.”
“And Immortal?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Immortal is your childhood hero showing up with a magical army to fight your battles. Divine?” She leaned closer, her grin widening. “That’s the gods themselves deciding to rewrite the rules of the game in your favor.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, that actually makes sense.”
She flicked my forehead again. “It should. I’ve only been teaching this for years.”
As she walked me through the details, Aunt Nora’s teasing never let up. “I’m surprised, Lexi,” she said with mock seriousness. “You’re actually paying attention for once. Usually, you’re too busy daydreaming about saving the world or whatever it is you do.”
“Hey!” I protested though I couldn’t hide my grin. “I’m taking this seriously. Kind of hard not to when you keep whacking me every time I lose focus.”
“Good,” she said, smirking. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
But as the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm, I found myself reflecting on what she’d said. The ranking system wasn’t just a technical framework—it was a reminder of the limitless potential and risks of enchanting.
One day, I’ll craft something that matters, I thought, clenching my fists. Something worthy of those higher ranks.
Aunt Nora’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lexi. Start small, master the basics, and work your way up. You’ll get there.”
I met her gaze, her calm confidence steadying my resolve. “Yeah,” I said. “One step at a time.”
And with that, we returned to the workbench, ready to create something extraordinary.
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