Chapter 1: Hammerson
There are many stories told about heroes and villains in the early days of the world, when many Paths were yet untrodden and the gods still believed their place was above all others. Just like in any great era, legends abounded, though most of their stories have been lost and their Paths long since ended.
Most, but not all.
This story begins on a morning much like any other, with a sunrise and tired feet slinking out of bed. With the dawn of this new day, one person truly believed that it might be the start of something grander.
His name was Tristan Hammerson.
- - - - -
TRISTAN
Tristan rose that morning with a clarity that gave his every movement purpose.
Today I will Awaken.
It was more than any mere feeling. It was a certainty, something felt deeper down than even his bones. It was a brightness that lightened his breaths and made him feel stronger than he’d ever been before. It was like his whole body was priming him to become more. But more what, he couldn’t be sure until he Awakened. Only that he’d be more of whatever he was meant to be.
He hopped out of bed well before his mother rapped on the door, and stretched before putting on some of his best working clothes. His plan was to spend at least twelve hours in the forge, even up to sixteen if he had to. He would Awaken today, no matter what. And then his Path would finally begin.
Tristan surprised his mother by opening the door before she even laid her hand to it. He wrapped her up in a huge hug, and swung her out of his way, before practically flying down the hall to the kitchen where he shoveled food into his face as quickly as possible.
He needed the energy, he knew that. He had a big day ahead of himself. But he also knew that the sooner the meal was finished, the sooner his life could begin.
Tristan wasn’t certain he’d get blacksmith as his first Class. No one could ever be 100% certain about their Awakening--other than what all the guides (and his father) said:
“You will be given a choice for your first Class, and the options always align with the type of life you’ve led.”
Tristan had taken those guides to heart and determined that the best way to get the Class he wanted was through sheer force of will and repetition. He had worked hard and put in long hours in his father’s forge. It had always been a part of his life and was where his father spent most of his days. Tristan had fallen asleep to the rhythm of his father’s hammer on the anvil more nights than he could count.
Now he had nearly perfected his own rhythm.
If there’s any justice in the world, my Path will start with the blacksmith Class. There should be no chance of getting something obnoxious like bard or alchemist. Although, if he was totally honest with himself, he did hope to someday push himself into a role beyond the forge as well.
Tristan had originally started his current project days ago with his Awakening in mind, and now it was almost done. He understood that he needed to truly prove himself. He had to show his life where he was and where it would go. He had to open himself up for the whole realm to see.
That was how he had chosen the perfect project. It had to be something challenging enough that he would have to focus on it with all his being, something that would use all the techniques he’d managed to learn, from his father and from his own experimentation, and something that would be useful along his Path.
Basically, it was the most important project of his young life, and he wanted it to be his best. And now it was down to the final steps.
He would finally finish his first real hammer.
For hours, Tristan pounded the metal on the anvil, desperately trying to keep his excitement from ruining his technique. His rhythm was steady; his arm rose and fell exactly as his father had taught him. He even hummed the same tune.
Strike, strike, strike, turn.
He’d learned so much from his father over the years, even before he’d been officially taken on as an apprentice. He’d come a long way from imitating the man using blankets and sticks. By ten he had learned to hold a hammer properly, though back then his arms could barely swing it at all. By twelve he’d been able to recognize proper heating by color. Now at seventeen he could complete most projects, from plan to polish, all on his own.
Smithing was in his blood, passed down for generations. It was why their name was Hammerson. What better project was there than a hammer to bring about his Awakening?
Tristan stood a head taller than both his parents, with unkempt dirty blond hair that always seemed a bit too long on the sides. It gave him a childish look that he didn’t love, but he also didn’t care enough to change it. As long as it stayed out of his eyes while he worked, it was fine enough. Physically, he was imposing. He had grown wide over the years, especially in his shoulders and arms. Though both felt like nothing when compared to his father’s. Perhaps that was why Tristan still felt overlooked whenever he went about town. Woodsedge was small, and he was always “Marrik’s boy,” or “Young Hammerson.”
Tristan knew that he lived in his father’s shadow, and that would never change until he could make his own progress. It was clearest when he put on his apron, which was just his father’s old apron. He just didn’t fill it as well. Yet.
Strike, strike, strike, turn.
Marrik Hammerson was the kind of powerful few could ever reach. The man was in tier 4, after all, which put his level between 40 and 80. Of course, he was also too principled to ever reveal his actual level to someone lower tiered, just like he always suppressed his aura. He’d told Tristan once it was because, “I don’t want to make others feel smaller.”
But everyone was small next to Marrik Hammerson.
The one time Tristan had asked his mother about his father’s level, she’d smiled and said, “High enough that you shouldn’t worry about it, sweetie.” Just as loving and flippant as that. Of course, she’d never risen above tier 2, so she might have legitimately believed her advice was good.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Tristan disagreed.
In all likelihood, his father held the highest level in town. It could have been such an easy point of pride. But the man never spoke of it; he said his work spoke for itself. While noble and fine for everyone else, that wasn’t enough for Tristan.
The man wouldn’t even share his actual class! No doubt some Super Smith of Unscratchable Armor or something, Tristan mused. He doesn’t even use tongs anymore, just his bare hands!
As an armorsmith, Marrik Hammerson was so renowned that even Tristan’s hero, the legendary Hesden Brightshield, had entrusted him personally with the repairs to his blessed armor. Even now the magnificent work lay on his father’s bench, hidden from view by a dull blanket. Tristan didn’t let himself look. He didn’t need the distraction of the pearlescent breastplate, and he’d see it when his father finished mending it in a few days.
For now, Tristan had to focus. You can’t get to level 80 without reaching level 1. Awaken first. Then live up to your father’s legacy.
Strike, strike, strike, turn.
Lately, Tristan had begun to feel the pressure, as some of his friends had already Awakened. It was practically all they talked about anymore. Getting out of Woodsedge, exploring the world, even planning dungeon runs. Honestly, Tristan couldn’t blame them. He knew he wouldn’t be any different in that regard. The world was so big, and he’d barely seen any of it.
It also bothered him that someone like Aaric Longbloom, who had never had an original thought in his entire blessed life, had Awakened before him. If Tristan hadn’t known better, he’d have thought Aaric had bought his Awakening. But that was impossible. All Awakenings were earned through effort. Except merchants, Tristan thought offhandedly, though I guess they earn it through others’ effort? So maybe that still counts. That Aaric and all his money had gotten there first bothered Tristan. He was determined not to fall behind.
Tristan was a Hammerson, and Hammersons were as determined as they came. A Hammerson’s job was only “finished” when it was the best they could possibly make it.
This hammer would be no different.
Tristan had squared each side now, working his way around what would become the head of the hammer. All of his father’s previous critiques, now lessons learned, had helped him get to this point. They’d been getting more nit-picky of late, only reinforcing how close Tristan was. Which was no doubt why he’d been allowed to work alone in the forge today for the first time.
“If you think you're ready, then you’re ready,” his father had said.
It was a vote of confidence. It was recognition. Tristan would reward his father’s faith and show that his lessons hadn’t been wasted.
Tristan wiped his brow on his shirt while keeping his rhythm. He wouldn’t let the steel taste a single salty droplet ever again. Another lesson he’d already learned.
Each day I work I’m better. Like tempering. Getting stronger!
Strike, strike, strike, turn. The hammer strokes emphasized each word, forcing the metal into agreement. Repeated and repeated, forging his hammer by feel as much as plan. When completed, it would be massive. Strong. Dwarfing even his father’s fist. And crafted from higher-level materials, so Tristan could use it for years to come. He hadn’t designed any simple shape either. He'd added some complexity, some flair. A hammer not only to craft simple plates, but more sophisticated projects. Real armor. Shields.
Swords, a part of him whispered.
If this hammer was to start him on his Path, he wanted to point it in the right direction.
Once I Awaken into my primary Class I’ll get my stats, skills, and most importantly my Core. There is no Path until then.
The Core was said to be the person’s center, their ultimate truth, which would lead them down their Path. It all came back to that one, defining moment.
Tristan continued to work the metal. Two more turns. He lifted it with a grin and evaluated the shape and symmetry. Not bad at all. Dad could do better, but this isn’t his. It’s mine. Focus on myself. My skill. My task.
Another turn, and it was time to punch the eye that would eventually take the handle. The punch had to be perfect: straight through the head, without any angles. Just a few precise strikes.
Tristan exhaled. You can do this. Focus, and strike true.
This would be his hammer. His work. Truly and only his, from first to final stroke.
For a moment, he could feel his Path subtly guiding his arm, helping his creation come to be. This was it! His journey was about to begin.
Tristan considered the temperature of the red-pink metal before him. It was cooling, but it didn’t need another heat yet. It was still hot enough if he punched it cleanly. Then maybe one more heat should be enough to finish. The last steps of the craft; the first steps on his Path.
His blow cleared straight through the metal’s center. It was as close to perfect as he could have hoped. Granted, he’d need a few more strokes to flatten the sides again, but--
“A little big, but not bad at all,” his father said in a low voice, just behind him.
Tristan hadn’t heard the man enter, but he could now almost feel the nodding behind him. “Just finishing the sides again,” he replied.
His father grunted his approval.
Tristan chose to ignore the audience. The final steps weren’t easy, and both men knew what was at stake.
First, he chamfered the hammer’s head: removing the right angles to ease some of the strain on the metal from future strikes. Then he shaped one end into a dome, as a gently rounded face could more easily concentrate force where he wanted it. The traditional flat face followed on the end opposite the dome, since it gave greater control when working metal.
It was finally time to fit the handle, and what a beauty it was. The best of many prized attempts. Shaped lovingly from sturdy hickory, and sanded for hours until the grip and taper were as smooth as his mother's best dress. Tristan hadn’t loved working with wood, but for this project, he’d given it his absolute all.
Now he could feel his Path practically forcing the head and handle together. He once again checked that the handle would fit into the eye. He’d gauged it before, but there was nothing lost in being certain.
He wouldn’t rush any steps. This was the final stretch.
The head slid on squarely, and the fit seemed perfect. A few taps on the anvil was all it needed to settle the head fully into position.
Then came the wood wedge, already saturated in oil. It went into the handle, against the grain, slightly spreading the wood and locking it in place.
He drove it in slowly. Centered. Steady. With patience, he avoided breaking it. Once it was set, he flipped the whole hammer--for that was what it finally resembled--over and gave a few more blows to let the anvil drive the wedge the last bit home.
That left the final details--no less important, though far less difficult. A bit of sanding to remove excess, and a second, steel wedge driven crosswise to the first, locking everything together.
With the final tap, he leaned back, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. He could feel the energy in the room begin to spike. He looked down at the completed hammer--his hammer--on the anvil before him, and a huge smile split his face.
I’ve done it!
Without warning, a burst of golden light swirled around him, flooding him with energy, as the darkness receded in fear from the sudden onslaught. His heartbeat rang out louder than any anvil ever struck, thrumming with a tune that connected him to the rest of the world. It flowed from above his head down to his toes. It--no, he--felt electric.
Then a sound filled him. It reminded him of the purest strike he’d ever heard his father make. Almost like a... ding!
Something popped up in the corner of his vision, completely startling him. He quickly realized it must be a notification.
Congratulations! You have reached LEVEL 1!
Then everything went black.